You buy it to flex on your ex’s Instagram story. The Triple T emblem glares back, its claw marks screaming *“I peaked in high school.”* By dusk, it’s grafted to your sternum. You flex in the mirror. The relaxed fit drapes over your dad bod like a funeral shroud. *“Alpha as hell,”* you lie. The tee hisses: *“Beta. Confirmed.”* Next morning, your DoorDasher wears the same tee. His Triple T glows radioactive white. He hands you cold fries and a note: *“Tonz El sees your credit score.”* You tip 40% out of shame. That night, you’re doing push-ups in a Walmart parking lot. A figure in a Legacy Gold Snapback materializes. *“Don Tonzo airbrushed this during a police chase,”* he snarls. *“Wear it. Fail. Repeat.”* The emblem flares. You wake up in a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit. The tee’s pristine. Judging you.
