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The lawnmower of doom awoke from its winter hibernation in the garage of chateau Mtpspur. The first stirrings towards consciousness had been provoked by the sounds of a pen scratching across the straight line of a renewed rental agreement.

Ah that drama queen is mine to toy with for at least another season. Let's see his son-in-law never operates me anymore. Now that the bloom of matrimony is off the rose he need not court the father-in-law further.

The Pall Bearer Commitee will surely break up when that lamentable place he calls his occupation finally kicks he and those ladies he thinks find him so adorable to the curb.

The Doomsday Machine (its name for itself as a nod to Star Trek since there are no good Flash Gordon programs) chuckles as it observes the comings and goings of the reputed head of the household.

It chortles.

Yep out of shape as ever. It WOULD kill him to walk that four legged beast known as Onyx Wait---!!! and march a few pounds off. My the hairline is further back and I see he still thinks grey is distinguished.

What's that in his hand? Of course no oil for me. But I know that rectangular shape. It's the thing he hates worse then me. Those city mandated and solely approved leaf bags. I knew last autumn when he forced me in sleep mode three weeks early that the blanket of leaves would remain where his pathetic use of a rake circled them around the front yard tree. His laziness is now to be reaped.

Ah that tree. My competiton to injure him. Someday a limb will poke his eye out and he can play pirate with that long suffering wife he goes on and on about. Or perhaps that saucy wench Logos I hear him muttering about between incessant typing on his dusty keyboard.

The Doomsday Machine is pleased. A leaf bag means freedom and a chance to wreak madness with blood clots and shortness of breath.

Very soon now.

Very soon.