A long, ochre, shape crawled into the Dieselworks entrance that morning. Things had changed for the better, so in retrospect, he had nothing to complain about. Earlier in the month, he had tried to take over the Steamworks, out of jealousy of the steam engines he despised, and was sometimes forced to work with. However, the Dieselworks had just been built, so now when he and his fellow diesels needed help, they could have a place of their own to get it.
As Diesel 10 rolled through the entrance, doors closing behind him in an eerie silence, he began to chant:
"Now all of my fellow diesels' troubles have come to a glorious end, thanks to the Fat Controller. All the clouds that we've t threatened those steamies with have vanished and turned to sunshine. Now we wear the wreaths of victory on our radiators. We've put away our malice and discontent and hung them up on the Dieselworks walls as decorations. Instead of destroying our steam driven enemies, we chuckle together at stations. We get to wear easy smiles on our faces rather than the grim expressions of war. Instead of bumping steam engines off the rails, we smile for visiting tourists of Sodor."
But I was not made to be enchanting, my dear engines. I was badly designed and don't have any of the looks to strut my stuff in front of smiling passengers. I've been cheated of a nice paint job and face, or even normal proportions. I am deformed, topped off with such this disgusting pinching claw, and a body so badly colored ochre that all the trucks laugh at me when I oil by them. I'm left with nothing to do in this weak, idle peacetime, unless I want to look at my monstrous shadow in the Sodor sun and sing about that."