No matter how many times Fuchsia had tried to hammer in the point that talking that much while fighting was really unpractical as long as it wasn't done while simultaneously doing something else, Andrew Jackson just continued doing it. The guy was as slow as Stubbs, but then again, he was human, so.
While Andrew talked the talk, Fuchsia prepared himself fully for his next course of action, his fingers clenching the club handle of his Hellzooka so tightly that his massive gauntlets let off numerous metallic clanks and clinks, the sound of joints coming together. He bent his knees, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Andrew Jackson started running towards him, still he waited, Andrew planted his sword into the ground, and vaulted off it. An opening, as big as any. The red swordsman had taught him that. Fuchsia kicked off from the ground, and launched himself into the air at a velocity far greater than what the president could achieve, launching himself at him like a missile, meeting him in mid-air perfectly. He swung his club with massive force upwards vertically, aiming to not only smash him to a bloody pulp, but also launch him the fuck off into the air, even if he were to block the blow. Dodging it was out of the question, lest the man sprouted wings and flew off.
Bullets peppered around Fuchsia during his approach, a few even hit him in the chest and shoulders, bouncing right off him, some leaving a few bruises at most, but that kind of shit was not nearly enough to stop him. Oh no. President Andrew Jackson was about to go to heaven, and not in the afterlife kind of way.