Jackson didn't just accept victory; he absorbed it into his very DNA. The moment the referee called the final whistle—and Nikolai reluctantly handed over the more than ten grand winning money—Jackson held the cash up toward the sky like it was an Olympic gold medal.
"Look at this! Smell it! That is the sweet, crisp scent of validated athletic superiority!" Jackson announced to the entire staging area, slapping the bill dramatically against his palm before sliding it securely into his wallet.
He leaned back against the staging table, unzipping his vest with an agonizingly slow, exaggerated flourish. The bright paint splattered across his chest was no longer a sign of defeat—in his mind, they were war medals. He wiped off a streak of sweat and painted off his cheek with the back of his hand, slicking his hair back into a ridiculously heroic quiff that belonged to a vintage movie poster.
