The air vibrates. Working feverishly. I am trying, but the sound is softening. The rumbling ceases. I begin to hesitate. I look forward. There she is. The monolithic stag. The crowd parts. Swaying hips and toned biceps. Walking towards me. Sweating bullets. So gray, so alien, so Canadian. The stage can’t protect me. My podium is balsa. My mask is a farce. The axe is raised.

Come then, axe maiden. Chop me down to size.