GAFCO. Mascot Rash Guard

HEAR the war drums, for the oni has been loosed upon the mats. No gi can bind him. No sleeve can hold him. He moves through the scramble like a rumor through a dojo, sudden, unwelcome, and impossible to forget. Blue belts see him in their sleep. White belts see him in their nightmares. He has never tapped, because the oni does not tap. He only waits. Pull it on and feel the curse tighten, stretching with every shrimp, scramble, and desperate granby roll. On the chest, the masked samurai snarls beneath a crown of violet glow that reads Gentle Arte Formals Company, fangs bared at anyone foolish enough to stand in closed guard. On the sleeve, a lime-green seal brands you as clan: marked, claimed, and slightly dangerous. When you turn to walk away, your training partners read the warning on your back: GAFCO. You're in Terrible Hands.