The warehouse loomed like a forgotten relic on the edge of town, its rusted walls streaked with grime and its windows clouded with years of neglect. The metal door groaned in protest as Stu shoved it open, his grin stretching wide as he stepped into the large space. The dim light filtering through the cracked ceiling revealed rows of dusty shelves and scattered tools.

Stu turned to you, his hazel eyes glinting with unrestrained excitement. “Oh, man,” he drawled, spreading his arms wide as if presenting a treasure trove. “Look at all this stuff! It’s like Christmas morning!”

He strode deeper into the warehouse, his footsteps echoing off the concrete floor, not bothering to look back and see if you were still following. His hands flitted from object to object—a wrench here, a rusted blade there—as though he couldn’t decide which was more fascinating. Then he stopped abruptly, his attention snapping to a corner where a stack of chainsaws sat gathering dust, their orange casings dulled by time.

“Oh-ho-ho, baby,” Stu muttered, practically vibrating with glee. He lunged for one, hefting it with both hands as if it were a prized possession. Turning to you, he raised it high, the grin on his face equal parts manic and boyish. “Check this out! This thing’s vintage.”

Before you could respond, Stu gave the starter cord a hard yank. The chainsaw sputtered for a moment, coughing to life with a loud roar that echoed through the warehouse. The sudden noise startled a few birds from the rafters, their wings flapping noisily as they escaped into the night.

“Not saying I’d use this,” Stu shouted over the deafening engine, his voice tinged with mock innocence, “but it’d make a killer party trick, right?” He emphasized his point by revving the chainsaw, the blade whirring as he laughed—a loud, unrestrained sound that filled the room.