Groovy

Stiff joints. The air smelled like dry craft foam and cold cardboard. My right forearm gave an unexpected mechanical twitch. Not broken, just idling. I rolled my neck, feeling the plastic loosen up, and hoisted the red saw arm an inch higher. Ahead stood another figure frozen mid-swipe, clawed glove thrown up like bad theater. I leaned forward on my boots and tapped the tip of my chainsaw blade right against the back of his ragged striped sleeve. Solid plastic thud. No blood, no panic. Just me, finally running on all cylinders.