"Really, asshole?" Bash's exasperation is audible. "Fine, chunky salsa rule it is."

The machete is given back over into the shadows, traded for a vantablack sledgehammer, which Bash swings hard into the skull of the severed head.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Bash has swallowed so much anger and hatred, so much bitter black bile, that this is an exercise in catharsis. Like a rage room, but all of his everything is focused on one head, and reducing it to a very fine red pulp.