"So I can put it back on you and saw it off again," Spinister snipes spitefully over one shoulder.

He stops after that, cycle air into his vents and very, very carefully and deliberately sets the table he was gripping far too hard down. Before he could give in to the urge to throw it at something. Or someone.

"Why aren't you fixing it?" he grouses. "There's plenty of stuff here to work with."