Locker Room Talk

Water runs cold over Jolly Fellow's hands. Meticulously, mechanically, they scrub the sweat of the day off their fur. Alone in the locker room, they stare vacantly into the mirror. A day gone. A game lost. The price of losing undetermined, but shame curls reluctantly in their chest. Last week's victory is a notch of success—now overturned, crushed by tonight's failure. It burrows deep, inflaming the few emotions they're capable of feeling.

With each strand of fur scrubbed clean, they start to pull their hands from the water, and then pause. Someone has entered the room. A cheery whistle echoes from the hall, and the champion of the night walks in.

Beige fur, oversized eyes and a goofy smile on their face, Sporacles ambles over to the sinks. Quickly, Jolly turns their gaze back to the faucet, innocuously turning the knob into red. Still whistling their inane little tune, Sporacles turns on the tap to wash their hands.

Jolly watches from the corner of their vision. Every casual little movement, from the sloppy way they fumble an attempt to clean themself, to the dopey nod of their head churns something deep inside Jolly. After a few solid seconds of clumsy washing, Sporacles turns off the tap and looks directly at Jolly.

"Heya, Jolly," they grin, "what a night, huh?"
Jolly smiles tightly, lips stretching over gums. "Quite a game."

"Uh huh," Sporacles agrees, leaning against the sink. Apparently incapable of recognizing social cues, they decide to blunder on with small talk. "How's it feel?"

"How does what feel?" Jolly responds with polite, obscured malice.

"Losing," they say, "luck's gotta end somehow, I guess. I mean, y'all were doing so well til we pulverized you. I mean, we absolutely crushed it. Sucks to suck, huh?"

Jolly stares unblinkingly at them. "Luck," they reply, "is farcical. Your belief in cosmic drivel is your downfall. We have skill. You have..."

Their eyes rove over Sporacles' form. "You have accidents. Single opportunities. You will not win again."

Sporacles guffaws. "Aw, Jolly! Yer always so serious. Lighten up, it's okay you lost. It just means... we're better."

Jolly studies Sporacles. The water has begun to steam, fogging the mirrors and air. Condensation sticks to both of their fur. An idea, bright and sharp crystallizes in their mind.

With a smile, pleasant and eponymous, Jolly tilts their head. "Do you know why they call me Jolly?"

A laugh. "Because you're so damn happy?"

"Yes," they laugh, short and sinister. "Because I'm so damn happy."

Sporacles is taller than them, but grabbing their head and slamming it into the sink is effortless. A loud cracks pierces the air, and then a strangled sob. Jolly adjusts themself for better leverage, lifting them by the silly red streak of hair and hitting them again on the edge. Another crack.

Flailing, bloodied and helpless, Sporacles grabs the edge of the sink for a grip but Jolly forms a fist and smashes their fingers. They howl, but the sound cuts off with another brutal crushing. All that's left is a pitiful whimper, body slack on the ground and face beat in.

Scarlet covers the floor, drips down the ceramic and splatters on the mirror. Jolly's hands are coated in it. Apathetically, they clench Sporacles' hair, pulling them close to whisper into the grotesque protrusion of an ear.

"I would have let it go," Jolly whispers, "I almost did. Do you know what convinced me?"

Sporacles moans unintelligibly, blood drooling onto the tile.

"It wasn't the jeering. No, no, not even the name-calling, or that we lost. No."

Jolly breathes heavily into their ear, smiling with satisfaction at their staggered gasping. "It's that you didn't even use soap."

They smash Sporacles' head into the sink, and when Jolly releases them, they don't get up. Jolly steps over the unmoving body, moving back to the steaming water and shoving their hands under. It burns, heat sinking in as Jolly scrubs. Until their hands are clean, meticulous, absolved, and the skin is blistered.

Blissfully, Jolly grins. A true smile, none of the gimmick or plastered joy. To finally feel is the greatest gift—a temporary pleasure, but they'll be thinking of this for weeks. How good it was to mangle, to reduce an enemy to pulpy soup on the locker room floor. Such ecstasy in vengeance, in meaningful carnage. Visceral joy, effervescent peace. There's always a price for losing.

With a whistle—their own little tune—Jolly steps around the body, and knows that this is one they're willing to pay.