“Get out of my luxury store, you ghetto thug,” the racist manager sneered.

My heart didn’t race, and my hands didn’t shake. I simply stood there, feeling the worn cotton of my simple gray tracksuit against my skin. Yesterday morning, after my daily jog, I walked into a high-end luxury watch boutique wearing that simple gray tracksuit and running shoes.

Preston, the arrogant white store manager, rushed over to block my path. The air in the boutique was thick with the scent of expensive leather and pure entitlement. He took one look at my dark skin and my sweatpants, and his face twisted with pure racial disgust.

“Get out of my store immediately,” Preston snapped loudly. “People of your color don’t buy $50,000 watches. We don’t accept food stamps here. You are making my real, wealthy clients uncomfortable. Security! Remove this ghetto trash!”

The silence in the room was deafening. Wealthy patrons stopped and stared. I didn’t yell. I didn’t get angry. I simply stood there with my hands in my pockets.

“You shouldn’t judge people based on their skin color, son,” I said calmly.

Preston laughed cruelly, his eyes filled with venom. “I judge who I want! You’re a thug, and you’re trespassing!”

Just then, the heavy sound of combat boots echoed across the marble floor. The Mall’s Head of Security ran into the boutique with three large guards. Preston smiled triumphantly. “Finally! Grab him and throw him out into the street!”

Preston was ready to watch me get dragged out in cuffs. He was ready to win. But Preston made one fatal, life-destroying mistake.

He didn’t know I own the entire shopping mall.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT COMPLETELY DESTROYED HIS LIFE.

PART 2: THE ILLUSION OF POWER

The command hung in the heavy, overly perfumed air of the boutique.

“Grab him and throw him out into the street!”

Preston’s voice cracked slightly, high-pitched with the intoxicating thrill of his own perceived authority. He wasn’t just kicking out a man in a gray tracksuit; in his twisted, prejudiced mind, he was defending the sacred gates of luxury from the absolute bottom of society.

He stood taller, adjusting the cuffs of his slim-fit Italian suit. A cruel, triumphant smile stretched across his pale face.

The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed against the imported Italian marble floor. Three massive security guards—men built like linebackers, wearing tight black uniforms with silver badges gleaming under the boutique’s harsh LED spotlights—marched through the glass doors. Leading them was Dave, the Mall’s Head of Security, a seasoned veteran with graying temples and a walk that commanded absolute obedience.

The trap was set. The jaws were closing.

For a fleeting, horrifying minute, I let Preston have his victory. I let him taste the absolute peak of his false hope.

I didn’t move an inch. My hands remained buried deep in the worn, comfortable pockets of my cheap gray sweatpants. The fabric was frayed at the edges—a stark, almost aggressive contrast to the gleaming glass cases holding $50,000 platinum chronographs all around us.

Behind the glass, I could hear the faint, rapid ticking of the mechanical watches. Tick. Tick. Tick. It sounded like a countdown.

Preston stepped out from behind the mahogany counter, puffing out his chest. He wanted an audience for his final act. Wealthy patrons—a woman clutching a $10,000 Birkin bag, a man in a tailored golf polo—had backed away, pressing themselves against the far walls, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity. Outside the glass storefront, a small crowd was already gathering in the mall concourse. I saw the glint of a smartphone lens pressing against the glass. Someone was recording.

“Finally,” Preston sneered, his upper lip curling in disgust as he pointed a manicured finger directly at my chest. “Take this piece of trash out through the service elevator. I don’t want him paraded through the main concourse. He’s already contaminated the air in here enough.”

He looked at me, his eyes practically dancing with malicious joy. “You thought you could just walk in here? Into my store?” Preston hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant only for me. “Look at you. Look at your clothes. You are nothing. You don’t belong in my world. Now you’re going to feel exactly what it’s like to be treated like the ghetto thug you are.”

The three massive guards fanned out, their hands resting cautiously on their utility belts. They were closing the distance. Ten feet. Eight feet. Five feet.

Preston’s smile grew so wide it looked like it might tear his face in half. He was practically vibrating with the anticipation of watching me get manhandled, thrown to the cold pavement outside, humiliated and broken. He was the king of this little glass-and-steel castle, and he was executing an intruder.

Tick. Tick. Tick. My heart didn’t accelerate. My breathing remained perfectly even, a slow, controlled rhythm I had perfected over sixty years of facing down men exactly like him. Men who wore their borrowed power like cheap cologne. Men who thought a tailored suit could hide a rotting, prejudiced soul.

I looked at Dave, the Head of Security.

Dave stopped.

He didn’t just stop; he froze as if he had just walked directly into a brick wall. The heavy thud of his combat boots abruptly ceased, creating a sudden, deafening silence in the middle of the boutique.

The three massive guards behind him, sensing the immediate shift in their commanding officer’s body language, slammed on the brakes, their boots squeaking violently against the polished marble.

Preston frowned, his triumphant smile faltering for a microsecond. “Well? What are you waiting for, Dave? I said grab him! He’s trespassing!”

Dave didn’t look at Preston. He didn’t even acknowledge the manager’s existence.

Instead, Dave’s eyes locked onto mine. I saw the immediate flash of recognition in his pupils. I saw the sudden, sharp intake of breath that expanded his broad chest.

In a world where money screams and wealth whispers, true power doesn’t make a sound. It just stands there, in a faded gray tracksuit, waiting for the dust to settle.

Dave took one slow, deliberate step forward. He bypassed Preston entirely, treating the screaming manager like an invisible piece of furniture.

He stopped exactly three feet in front of me. The tension in the room snapped tight, like a wire pulled to its absolute breaking point. The wealthy patrons held their breath. The teenager outside with the smartphone pressed his face closer to the glass.

Preston’s face began to contort in confusion. “Dave! Are you deaf? I gave you a direct order to—”

Dave snapped his heels together. He stood at rigid attention. Then, slowly, respectfully, he bowed his head, breaking his own protocol to show an extreme level of deference.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayes,” Dave spoke.

His voice wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t the voice of a security guard confronting a trespasser. It was the careful, measured, intensely respectful tone of an employee addressing the ultimate boss.

“Is this manager harassing you, sir?” Dave asked, his eyes briefly flicking toward Preston with a look of pure, unadulterated pity.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.

Preston froze.

It was as if someone had pulled the plug on his central nervous system. The arrogant, victorious smirk completely vanished from his face, replaced by a slack-jawed expression of total incomprehension.

The blood drained from his face at a terrifying speed. I watched the vibrant pink of his arrogant flush turn into a sickly, chalky white. He looked like a ghost. He looked like a man who had just stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to notice him.

His brain was misfiring, desperately trying to compute the impossible data in front of him. His eyes darted frantically from Dave’s bowed head to my calm, unbinking stare, and back to Dave.

“M-Mr… Hayes?” Preston stammered, his voice suddenly sounding like a frightened child’s. The confident, booming voice that had just called me “ghetto trash” was entirely gone, replaced by a pathetic, reedy squeak.

He took a stumbling step backward, his polished leather shoe scraping loudly against the floor. He bumped hard into a glass display case, the impact making the $50,000 watches rattle on their velvet pillows.

“Wait…” Preston gasped, clutching the edge of the glass case to keep his knees from buckling. Sweat suddenly beaded on his pale forehead. “Wait, Dave… no. No, you’re making a mistake. He’s… he’s just a street thug! Look at his clothes!”

He pointed at my tracksuit again, but his hand was shaking so violently it looked like a blur.

Dave finally turned his head to look at Preston. The Head of Security didn’t raise his voice, but the absolute disdain in his eyes was lethal.

“Shut your mouth, Preston,” Dave said quietly. “You have absolutely no idea who you are talking to.”

Preston’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. The illusion of his power had shattered into a million jagged pieces, and now, the terrifying reality of his situation was beginning to bleed through.

I took a slow breath, tasting the bitter irony in the air. I pulled my hands out of my pockets.

It was time to end this.

PART 3: THE BILLIONAIRE’s WRATH

Tick. Tick. Tick. The mechanical heartbeat of a hundred intricately crafted, $50,000 Swiss chronographs echoed through the dead silence of the luxury boutique. It was the only sound left in the world. The air in the room had grown incredibly thin, heavy with the sudden, suffocating weight of absolute reality crashing down on Preston’s fragile, prejudiced ego.

I didn’t move immediately. I let the silence stretch. I let the horrifying truth marinate in the arrogant manager’s mind. Time is the ultimate luxury, and in that exact moment, I owned all of it.

I looked at Preston. The transformation was both pathetic and scientifically fascinating. Just sixty seconds ago, he was a god in a tailored Italian suit, throwing a “ghetto thug” out of his pristine sanctuary. Now, his skeletal structure seemed to be melting. The vibrant, condescending flush of his skin had completely vanished, replaced by the sickly, translucent pallor of a corpse. A thick bead of cold sweat formed at his hairline, carving a slow, trembling path down his temple, cutting through the expensive moisturizer he undoubtedly applied every morning.

He was breathing in short, jagged gasps, his chest heaving under his slim-fit silk shirt. He looked desperately at Dave, the Head of Security, his eyes silently begging for this to be some elaborate, cruel prank.

But Dave remained as rigid as a statue, his head bowed, his eyes fixed firmly on the polished marble floor. The three massive security guards behind him hadn’t moved a single muscle. They stood like heavily armed gargoyles, waiting for my command.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the storefront, the murmurs of the gathering crowd were growing louder. Dozens of smartphones were pressed against the glass. The wealthy patrons who had retreated to the corners of the store were practically holding their breath, their eyes darting wildly between my faded gray sweatpants and Preston’s crumbling facade.

“D-Dave…” Preston whispered, his voice cracking, sounding like dry leaves being crushed underfoot. “What… what are you saying? Mr. Hayes? Who… who is Mr. Hayes?”

I finally pulled my hands out of the worn pockets of my tracksuit. The cheap, cotton fabric brushed against my knuckles—a grounding sensation. It reminded me of where I came from. It reminded me of the decades of sweat, the sleepless nights, the closed doors, and the racist bankers who had looked at me exactly the way Preston had just looked at me.

I stepped forward, my voice echoing with cold, terrifying authority.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t need to. True power doesn’t scream; it barely whispers, and the world leans in to listen.

“I am Marcus Hayes,” I stated, the words dropping like heavy anvils onto the imported marble floor.

Preston’s jaw literally slacked open. His eyes bugged out of his head, staring at my dark skin, my gray hair, my scuffed running shoes. His brain was violently rejecting the information, violently short-circuiting as his deeply ingrained bigotry clashed with cold, hard, billionaire reality.

I took another slow, deliberate step toward him. The security guards parted silently, creating a clear path. Preston instinctively scrambled backward, his polished loafers squeaking erratically against the floor. He collided hard with the mahogany display counter, his hands frantically gripping the polished wood as if it were the edge of a cliff.

“I am the billionaire real estate developer who owns this entire luxury mall,” I continued, my voice perfectly level, stripping away every last ounce of his remaining dignity. “I own the marble you are standing on. I own the glass you are looking through. I own the very air conditioning that is currently cooling your terrified sweat.”

Preston’s knees began to shake.

It wasn’t a slight tremor. It was a violent, uncontrollable shudder. The finely tailored fabric of his trousers visibly vibrated as his legs threatened to give out completely. He looked down at his own shaking legs in absolute horror, betraying his utter lack of control.

“No…” he gasped, shaking his head rapidly, his perfectly styled hair falling into his eyes. “No, that’s… that’s impossible. Marcus Hayes is… the owner is…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to say what his prejudiced mind had assumed: that a billionaire real estate mogul had to be an old white man in a bespoke suit.

“You think you are superior because you sell expensive things,” I said softly, closing the final distance between us. I was now close enough to smell the sour, acidic tang of his fear cutting through his high-end cologne. “You think guarding these little ticking pieces of metal gives you the right to determine a human being’s worth. You saw my skin color. You saw my simple clothes. And you decided I was trash.”

I leaned in slightly. My reflection stared back at me in the glass of the $50,000 display case—an older Black man in a tracksuit, perfectly calm.

“But you are standing inside my building,” I whispered, the words hitting him like physical blows. “And I do not tolerate racists on my property”.

A high-pitched, strangled noise escaped Preston’s throat. It was the sound of a man watching his entire life, his career, his status, and his inflated sense of self-worth implode in real-time. He let go of the counter and raised his hands defensively, his palms slick with sweat.

“Mr. Hayes… sir… please,” Preston stammered, his arrogant, sneering accent completely dissolving into a pathetic, desperate whine. “I… I was just following protocol! We have a strict clientele… I thought you were a vagrant! It was a misunderstanding! I’m sorry! I am so, so sorry!”

He was practically hyperventilating now. The venomous predator from five minutes ago was gone, replaced by a sniveling, terrified coward.

“Protocol?” I echoed, raising a single eyebrow. “Your protocol is to call a customer ‘ghetto trash’? Your protocol is to announce that people of my color don’t buy your products?”

“I was stressed!” he practically shrieked, tears suddenly welling in his panicked eyes. “I made a mistake! Please, Mr. Hayes! I have a mortgage! I have a reputation in this industry!”

“Not anymore,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, solidifying into absolute ice.

I didn’t break eye contact with him as I slowly reached into the inner pocket of my tracksuit jacket. I pulled out my phone. It wasn’t covered in diamonds or gold; it was a standard, black smartphone. The screen illuminated the dimming hope in Preston’s eyes.

“What… what are you doing?” he breathed, his chest heaving frantically.

I ignored him. I scrolled through my encrypted contacts. It took me exactly three seconds to find the private, direct number.

I pulled out my phone and called the global CEO of the watch brand.

The phone rang twice. It was 9:00 AM here in the States, which meant it was late afternoon in Geneva. Perfect timing.

“Marcus!” a thick, jovial Swiss accent boomed through the phone’s earpiece, loud enough that Preston could hear the metallic crackle of the voice. “My friend! To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you finally ready to let me design a custom tourbillon for you?”

Preston stopped breathing entirely. Recognizing the voice of his ultimate boss—a man who resided in an untouchable corporate stratosphere thousands of miles away—was the final nail in his coffin.

“Good afternoon, Thomas,” I replied evenly, my eyes still locked onto Preston’s terrified, tear-filled face. “I’m standing inside your flagship boutique in my mall. The architecture is beautiful. The watches are stunning.”

“Ah, excellent! We are very proud of that location,” Thomas replied happily. “The manager there, Preston, he is… well, he is very aggressive with sales, but he keeps the numbers high.”

“Yes. About Preston,” I said, my tone flattening into a sharp, unforgiving edge.

Preston let out a muffled sob. He instinctively clasped his hands together in front of his chest, a literal gesture of prayer. He was begging. The arrogant racist who had threatened to throw me into the street was now silently praying to the “ghetto thug.”

“I am officially informing you that your brand is in direct violation of the morality and anti-discrimination clauses embedded in section 4, paragraph B of your commercial lease agreement,” I stated cleanly, invoking the ironclad legal jargon of my empire.

The jovial tone vanished from the phone instantly. “Marcus… what has happened?”

I demanded Preston be fired immediately, and I officially terminated their lease.

“Your store manager just attempted to have me physically thrown out of the boutique by my own security team,” I explained, my voice echoing clearly for the entire store to hear. “He referred to me as a ‘ghetto thug’ and ‘trash’ due to the color of my skin and my attire. He explicitly stated that people of my color do not purchase your products.”

“Mon Dieu…” Thomas whispered through the line. The horror in the CEO’s voice was palpable.

“I am giving you a choice, Thomas,” I said coldly. “You can fire Preston immediately, effective this exact second, or I will publicly ban your entire brand from every single luxury property I own across the United States, and I will release the security footage of this incident to the press before lunch.”

“He is fired!” Thomas practically shouted through the phone, pure panic lacing his heavy accent. “Marcus, I assure you, this does not represent our brand! He is terminated instantly! I will send regional HR to the location within the hour!”

“Don’t bother,” I replied smoothly. “Because I am also officially terminating your lease. You have exactly forty-eight hours to pack up these glass cases and vacate my building. After that, my contractors will board up the storefront.”

“Marcus, please! We can negotiate this! The loss of that location…”

“There is no negotiation, Thomas. Forty-eight hours. Goodbye.”

I ended the call. The screen faded to black.

The silence that rushed back into the room was absolute, deafening, and completely final.

I slowly slid the phone back into my pocket.

Preston let out a guttural, agonizing wail. His knees finally gave out entirely. He collapsed onto the imported Italian marble, his expensive trousers pooling around his legs. The man who had sneered at me from atop his high horse was now quite literally on his hands and knees at my feet.

THE CONCLUSION: THE PRICE OF ARROGANCE

The sound of a man’s ego shattering is not a loud explosion. It is a pathetic, wet, gasping whimper.

Preston collapsed entirely onto the imported Italian marble floor. His knees struck the hard stone with a sickening thud, but he didn’t seem to feel the physical pain. The psychological agony of his reality disintegrating was far more absolute. The man who, just moments ago, had stood tall in his tailored, slim-fit suit, commanding the room with toxic, prejudiced authority, was now reduced to a shuddering, weeping puddle at my feet.

The heavy, stifling scent of his expensive designer cologne was now completely overpowered by the sour, metallic stench of his raw, unfiltered panic.

“Please… please, Mr. Hayes,” Preston sobbed, the words bubbling up through thick streams of tears and saliva. He literally clawed at the air in front of my worn running shoes, too terrified to actually touch the fabric of my gray tracksuit, but desperate to bridge the chasm he had just dug for himself. “You can’t do this. I have a family. I have a mortgage. I just bought a house in the suburbs. If I lose this job… if I lose this career… I’m ruined. I am completely ruined!”

I looked down at him. My heart did not swell with victorious pride. There was no joy in watching a human being break, even one as deeply flawed and cruel as the man weeping before me. I only felt a profound, exhausting emptiness—a heavy, bitter exhaustion that I had carried in my bones for sixty years.

“You didn’t care about my ruin,” I said softly, my voice barely rising above the frantic ticking of the $50,000 platinum watches displayed in the glass cases around us. “When you looked at my dark skin and my simple clothes, you saw someone whose life didn’t matter. You saw ‘ghetto trash.’ You were perfectly willing to use your false power to violently throw me onto the street, to strip me of my dignity in front of a crowd, simply because I offended your aesthetic sensibilities.”

Preston shook his head violently, his perfectly styled hair now a sweaty, matted mess clinging to his pale forehead. “No! No, it wasn’t like that! I was just… I was just following the profile! The demographic profile!”

“You were following your own hatred, son,” I corrected him, the ice in my voice crystallizing. “And now, you are paying the toll.”

I slowly lifted my gaze from the broken man on the floor and looked at Dave, my Head of Security. Dave had remained as still as a carved oak tree, his face a mask of professional stoicism, but the subtle tightening of his jaw revealed his utter disgust for the store manager.

I gave Dave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

“Remove him,” I commanded.

Dave didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his heavy combat boots crunching against the immaculate floor. He gestured sharply to the three massive security guards flanking him. “Get him up. Escort him off the property. Immediately.”

Two of the guards—men built like freight trains—stepped past the mahogany counter. They reached down, their thick hands grabbing Preston roughly by the armpits of his expensive suit jacket.

“No! Wait! Let me get my things! Let me get my briefcase!” Preston shrieked, his voice hitting a hysterical, panicked pitch as the guards effortlessly hauled him to his feet. His legs pedaled uselessly in the air for a second before his polished loafers scraped against the marble.

“Your personal items will be boxed up by my staff and mailed to your residential address,” Dave stated mechanically, his voice devoid of any empathy. “You are officially trespassing on Mr. Hayes’s property. Move.”

Preston sobbed and begged as my security guards dragged him out of the mall in front of everyone. It was a visceral, deeply uncomfortable scene to witness. He thrashed weakly, his manicured hands desperately trying to pry the guards’ iron grips off his arms. The seams of his tailored suit audibly tore under the strain.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mr. Hayes! Please! I’ll do anything!” Preston’s wails echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings of the boutique.

As they dragged him toward the heavy glass doors, the reality of the public spectacle hit him. Outside the boutique, the crowd in the main concourse had tripled in size. Dozens of mall patrons, tourists, and other store employees had formed a thick semi-circle around the entrance. And every single one of them had a smartphone raised high, the camera lenses unblinking, recording every single miserable second of his downfall in high-definition video.

Preston realized, in that agonizing moment, that this wasn’t just a firing. This was permanent. His face, contorted in pathetic, weeping terror, was being uploaded to the internet. His racial slur, his arrogance, his immediate and brutal punishment—it would all be immortalized forever.

He tried to bury his face in his collar, hiding from the flashes, but the guards kept him moving forward. They pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The crowd didn’t back away entirely; they parted just enough to let the grim procession through, murmuring loudly.

“Is that the manager?” “I heard he called that older guy a thug.” “Turns out the old guy owns the whole damn place.”

The whispers hit Preston like physical blows. His arrogance cost him his job and his company’s flagship store. But more than that, it cost him his anonymity. No luxury brand in America would ever hire a man who had become a viral symbol of blatant racism and catastrophic stupidity.

I stood alone in the center of the sudden, echoing quiet of the boutique.

The wealthy patrons who had witnessed the entire ordeal were frozen against the far walls. The woman with the $10,000 Birkin bag was staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, as if afraid I might suddenly turn my wrath onto her. I didn’t even acknowledge them. They were merely spectators to a tragedy that had played out a million times in this country, though rarely with this kind of immediate, violent reversal of fortune.

I turned slowly, my running shoes squeaking softly on the floor. I walked over to the main display case. Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a stunning, intricate skeleton-dial watch. A masterpiece of engineering. A symbol of extreme wealth.

I looked at my own reflection in the spotless glass.

I saw an older Black man. I saw deep lines etched around my eyes and mouth—lines carved by decades of navigating boardrooms where I was the only person of color, where I had to be twice as smart, twice as calm, and ten times as ruthless just to be allowed a seat at the table.

I looked at my simple gray tracksuit.

I didn’t wear it because I was trying to trick people. I wore it because, after amassing billions of dollars, after building skyscrapers and luxury complexes across the country, I had finally earned the ultimate luxury: comfort. The freedom to exist in my own skin, in my own buildings, without having to wear a three-piece armor of bespoke wool and silk to prove I belonged.

Preston hadn’t understood that. He lived in a world of fragile illusions, where the price tag on a shirt dictated a human soul’s value.

The silence of the store began to feel heavy, almost suffocating. The air conditioning hummed above, circulating the faint, lingering smell of Preston’s fear.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone again. I dialed the direct line to my Chief Operating Officer.

“Yes, Mr. Hayes?” she answered immediately.

“Helen,” I said, my voice steady, tired, but resolute. “The luxury watch boutique on the ground floor of the central atrium. Their lease is terminated, effective immediately. They have forty-eight hours to vacate the premises. I want our construction crews down here by Wednesday morning. Have them board up the storefront. Paint the plywood black.”

“Understood, sir,” Helen replied without missing a beat. “Do we have a replacement tenant lined up for that square footage?”

I paused, looking around the opulent, arrogant space. “No. Leave it empty for a month. Let the black plywood sit there right in the middle of the luxury wing. Let it be a reminder to every other tenant in this building.”

“A reminder of what, sir?”

“That we don’t accept bigots in our house,” I replied, ending the call.

I walked slowly toward the exit. The crowd outside had dispersed slightly, following the spectacle of Preston being dragged toward the parking garage, but a few people still lingered, pointing and whispering as I emerged from the glass doors.

I didn’t lower my head. I didn’t hide from their stares. I kept my hands comfortably in the pockets of my sweatpants, my posture straight, my chin leveled.

The sunlight streaming through the massive skylights of my mall hit my face, warm and grounding.

True wealth is not a watch. It is not a suit. True wealth is the unshakeable certainty of knowing exactly who you are, no matter what the world tries to call you.

Never judge someone’s bank account by their skin color or simple clothes. But more importantly, never judge their humanity by it, either.

Because in the end, the universe has a brutal, unyielding sense of balance. The ticking clocks inside that empty store would continue to count the seconds, indifferent to the egos of the men who tried to hoard them. And as I walked out into the bright, sprawling concourse of the empire I had built with my own two hands, I felt the quiet, absolute truth of it settle into my chest.

Karma always destroys the cruel. And sometimes, it wears a gray tracksuit to do it.
END .