The good ole Cove Carver, creamiest side-piece there ever was. And I don't say that just because my crew is the colloquial namesake. I made these standard-issue for my beloved Cove Stalkers for a reason and we earned the moniker by virtue of blood and other split fluids. Twas the extended twin rails of the Grom 665 that left ruddy bite marks on the neck of Mad Foreman Jonesy hisself when yours truly dragged him out onto the porch to seal the Bogram Mining Coup. The inciting incident, as it were, as that was the day the Cove Stalkers were birthed into this world and our destiny was set to mete justice and claw some order in this lawless raucoury we call The Fringe. I challenge any naysayer, yellow or otherwise, to look a Stalker in the eye and chatter his bonebox of sponsorship or payouts. Valor is earned, not given, and our accolades are stolid. Full candor, I've been a Grom stalwart my whole career, but if that don't chant to their workmanship, I don't know what does. This tight little set o' rails has solved many a scrape in my day. Been clipped to my hip since well before my Stalker days and it's reassuring heft tugs gently on my belt as I write. Compact, yet sturdy. Extended rails give it a range that, in the right hands, can paint a kip with confidence indistinguishable from that of any stocky. And to pound the rim shut, a couple reverse cranks of the trigger-pull throws a dollop of charge back into your empty cap for a low-power shot in a pinch. Won't hose any brains, but, capless and pinned, I once held off a full skiff crew of Rovers from the confines of a sheet closet using only my trusty 665 and that manual recharger. Barring a melted chamber, the Cove Carver won't flicker resentment at any price or age and I pledge the integrity of the Stalker code to that claim.