"I don't guess it matters 'cause I end up the fuckin' damsel in de-fucking-stress everytime."

He droops, ax in hand, nose wrinkled as he stares at the target.

"Fuck, I am the damsel in distress, aren't I? Fuck me." And then he resumes the ax-yeeting position. Both hands on the handle, body a little askew, feet the right amount apart.

Closer to the target this time? But it doesn't stick.

"...Don't worry, if you get tied to the tracks I'll improvise or somethin'. No problem. I got this."