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The underground wrestling venue reeked of failure—sweat, spilled beer, and the ghosts of forgotten fights clinging to its walls. The air was thick with the metallic bite of rusted steel and something sour—stale popcorn drowned in cheap cologne. Flickering neon lights buzzed overhead, throwing jagged shadows across stained concrete.
Jack Halloway, better known as Happy Jack, hunched over a cracked mirror, breath fogging up the glass. His grin stretched wide—not human, not warm, but something carved deep, like a wound that never healed. The red paint smeared across his mouth had begun to crack, breaking apart like dry earth under the weight of his expression. He didn’t fix it. He never did.
The barbed-wire baseball bat leaned against the bench beside him, its twisted metal glinting under the sickly light. He ran a finger over the sharp coils and sighed in mock reverence. This wasn’t part of tonight’s show. But Jack wasn’t much for scripts.
Outside, the makeshift PA system groaned to life, the static fizzing before melting into a distorted circus tune. The melody slithered through the cracks in the walls, a ghostly lullaby beckoning him to the ring. Jack tilted his head, listening, and let out a soft giggle.
Time to paint.
The crowd inside was a writhing mass of sweat-streaked bodies, their shouts and jeers merging into an almost rhythmic chant. Some were here for the sport, others for the spectacle. And then there were those who came for men like Jack—the ones who turned wrestling into something raw, something ugly.
Rick "The Hammer" Harkins stood in the ring, rolling his shoulders. A grizzled brawler with fists like cinder blocks, he was the kind of guy promoters liked. Reliable. Strong. Predictable. The crowd respected him. They were supposed to watch him win tonight, feel-good style.
Jack had other ideas.
The bell rang, and Jack exploded forward, erratic and unpredictable, his movements a grotesque parody of showmanship. Rick swung—Jack took the hit like it was an embrace, stumbling back with a giddy shudder.
Another strike. Then another. Rick’s fists were heavy, but Jack just kept smiling.
Then, the moment he’d been waiting for.
Jack slipped out of the ring, rolling under the bottom rope like a marionette with its strings cut. The crowd rumbled in anticipation. He yanked up the apron.
They wanted blood. He’d give them an ocean.
When he stood, the barbed-wire bat was in his hands.
The atmosphere shifted. Cheers turned uncertain. Murmurs spread like a virus.
What the hell is he doing? That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Rick stood in the center of the ring, eyes narrowing. He exhaled through his nose.
“Jack,” Rick growled under his breath as they locked up, his voice low enough for only Jack to hear. “Not the plan.”
Jack leaned in, close enough that Rick could smell the sweat and paint on his breath.
“Plans are boring,” he whispered, then licked his lips. “I like surprises.”
Before Rick could react—before anyone could stop it—the bat whipped through the air, biting deep. A wet, meaty thwack sent Rick stumbling, his eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. Then came the slow, awful realization.
The pain. The blood.
The moment everything changed.
The referee waved for the bell, frantically calling for the match to end. Jack turned slowly as the promoter stormed down the ramp, rage bleeding off him like heat from asphalt.
“You stupid, reckless son of a bitch,” the promoter spat, jabbing a finger into Jack’s chest.
“What the hell was that? You just cost me my main event.”
Jack blinked, feigning innocence.
Then came the grin.
Then the giggle.
Then the laugh—high-pitched, sharp, manic, tearing through the chaos like a siren.
Outside, under the flickering NORTHWEST CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING ARENA sign, Jack stopped. The cold gnawed at his skin, but the warmth of fresh blood clung to him like a second layer. He filled his lungs, let the night seep in—then exhaled, slow, satisfied.
The city stretched ahead, wide open, waiting.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he'd find another canvas.
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