The Last Man Standing Rolling Shorts

HARK! The battle is over, the dust has settled, and the open mat lies silent beneath a sky the color of a bruise. Everywhere you look: skulls. Grinning white skulls, stacked on a sea of black, each one belonging to a guy who said "just a light roll, bro." Their crossbones are arranged neatly, because even in death they respect the gym's cleaning policy. A raven lands, takes one look, and quietly signs up for the beginner program. The ghost of a referee floats by, still counting to three. Somewhere a pirate captain weeps into his parrot because his flag was never this cool. And there, alone on the mats, drawstring cinched, thighs glistening like the last torch in a crypt, stands you. Undefeated. Unbothered. Slightly sweaty. The skulls whisper your name with respect. You're in Terrible Hands.