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Shane paused mid-handout. He nodded at Danny to pack up the rest of the medals.
The crowd parted as he walked straight out of the warehouse, stopping right in front of Jack and his flashy truck. He gave the guy a slow once-over, eyes finally landing on those tight little fitness shorts.
"I was wondering who was out here dropping such a big fart getting out of the car," Shane said loud enough for everyone to hear. "What's the matter—your yoga pants only come in half sizes now?"
For a second the whole place went dead quiet.
Then the laughter exploded.
"HAHAHA! Look at those shorts—he ain't lying!"
"That shit looks like it came straight out of a yoga studio!"
"South Side don't do yoga pants, big boy! Take 'em off before you come in here!"
"Hey, Hulk—those shorts cutting off circulation to your balls or what?"
The noise carried straight through the Alibi Room walls. The drunks and dart players inside grabbed their beers and poured out into the alley, quickly boxing in the back lot. Everyone wanted front-row seats to a South Side native tearing apart a Northwest Side Instagram pretty boy.
Jack stood there, face turning bright red, neck veins popping so hard they looked ready to burst. He'd brought six meathead buddies in matching World Gym polos, all of them ready to film the moment Jack humiliated Shane online and rode the clout wave.
Instead, they hadn't even stepped inside yet and Shane had already landed the first hit.
"You—!" Jack jabbed a finger at him, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The roid rage was right there, bubbling up, but he forced himself to breathe through it.
Behind Shane, Karen had her phone up, camera locked on Jack's twitching face, recording every second.
Jack finally got his breathing under control. He took a deep breath, forced a cold laugh, and pointed at the bald, jacked guy next to him.
"Don't think a couple cheap shots are gonna win you anything, Shane. This is a real competition. We brought rules." He raised his voice so the whole crowd could hear. "This is Tom Hardy—one of the board members from the Illinois Natural Bodybuilding Association. Certified judge. He's our official witness and head referee today."
The bald guy stepped forward, muscles bulging under his shirt. He gave Shane a short nod, but the look in his eyes said he wasn't impressed.
"Pleasure," Tom said, voice deep.
Shane raised an eyebrow at the guy, almost smiling.
"INBA? Natural bodybuilding?" He glanced at the guy's shiny bald head and the way his traps sat like two slabs of meat. "Yeah… sure."
He turned and waved someone forward from inside the warehouse.
"Perfect. You brought a judge, I brought my medical consultant. Dr. Steven!"
Jimmy stepped out wearing a white coat, stethoscope around his neck, carrying the big medical kit. He walked straight up and popped it open right there—test strips, sample cups, blood-draw stuff, the whole intimidating setup on display.
"This is Dr. Steven," Shane said. "He works out of Northwestern Memorial. Specializes in acute failures from performance-enhancing drugs."
A few people in the crowd actually whistled at the hospital name.
Jimmy looked Jack up and down, eyes stopping on those overdeveloped traps.
"Mr. Jack, these are the newest multi-steroid test strips we've got. For fairness, we can either have both of you piss in a cup right now… or—"
"Fuck that," Jack snapped, cutting him off. His voice was too loud, too quick. "I came here to compete, not be your fucking lab rat."
He glared at Shane.
"We do the lifts first. Winner takes it on strength. I'm not giving you a chance to fuck with my sample or stall until my body cools down. We compete, then we test. If I lose, you can test me all you want."
The excuse was paper-thin, but it sounded reasonable enough to the people who didn't know shit about gear.
Shane just shrugged, wearing that easy "I knew you'd say that" smile.
"Fine by me. Wouldn't want to mess with your 'natural' performance." He looked at Jimmy and gave a small nod.
Jimmy closed the kit but stayed right where Jack could see him, staring at him like he was already waiting for the heart attack.
Shane clapped his hands once and turned back to the crowd.
"Alright, everybody make some space! Let the big natural bodybuilding god through!"
The crowd surged back, clearing a six-meter circle in the middle of the warehouse. The squat rack and barbell sat dead center like they were waiting for blood.
Up on the second floor of the Alibi Room, Lip sat at the laptop, fingers flying. The live stream went green. Chat was already at three hundred people and climbing fast.
The slightly blurry feed showed Shane and Jack staring each other down.
Lip typed in the admin box:
[Lip—Admin]: Full exclusive stream. Betting link in the pinned comment. Last three minutes to lock in your bets.