around the ring perimeter.
He called for his specialized, brightly colored electrolyte drink. A nervous
intern rushed over, handing him the bottle. Marcus took a massive gulp,
squeezed the bottle too hard, and sent a sticky, blue spray cascading across
the floor, right into the path where Arthur was currently mopping.
Arthur stopped, leaning on his mop handle, and looked down at the mess. He
let out a soft sigh, not of anger, but of weary resignation. He began to
maneuver his mop to clean up the spilled liquid.
Marcus, however, was looking for a target for his residual aggression. He
noticed Arthur, the slow, deliberate movements offending his hyper-active
state.
"Hey! Old man!" Marcus barked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise
of the gym. The heavy bags stopped swinging. The speed bags went silent.
Everyone turned to look.
Arthur paused, slowly raising his head to meet Marcus's gaze. "Yes, Mr.
Vance?" he replied, his voice raspy but surprisingly steady.
"Watch where you're pushing that dirty water, grandpa," Marcus sneered,
stepping closer, towering over the stooped figure. "You almost got it on my
custom boots. Do you know how much these cost? More than you make in a
decade."
A few sycophants in the entourage chuckled, eager to appease their meal
ticket.
Arthur looked at the boots, then back at Marcus. "I apologize," he said simply.
"I will clean it up."
But an apology wasn't what Marcus wanted. He wanted dominance. "You're
too slow," Marcus mocked, snatching the mop from Arthur's hands with
sudden violence. He threw it across the room; it clattered loudly against a
row of lockers. "You're useless. Just a washed-up nobody wiping up the sweat