He feels neither relief nor satisfaction when he crosses the finish line, leaving the crashed go-carts behind. In fact, it's all he can do to keep from just turning around and walking in the other direction, dragging his limp and his blood-wetted red hair with him. If Dave hadn't given him an outright command to finish this, Punchy wouldn't have bothered making even the feeblest gestures towards victory.

His toadstool hat has long been lost to the Arena. The open vest reveals a nasty slash across his stomach, and blood is coagulated over the pale blonde hairs diving down his abdomen. There's an acid burn across his shoulder and red and purple welts on his forehead from paintballs. He looks a mess. But the alternative to helping people across is to get in their way (unacceptable) or to just sit here like a pink-flushed lump (almost as bad). So he gets to his feet and holds out a hand to help pull the next person across the line.

And hey, it's a cute chick, at least. Granted, not one that likes him, but he doesn't wish Fee any ill (how could he? girl got a body like double-yew oh double-yew).

"Come on, shawty! This way!"