You find it in the ruins of a city that forgot its name. The air tastes like battery acid and lies. The streets? Paved with broken iPhones and vertebrae. The tee hangs from a lamppost, black as event horizons, the Tonzobeast logo slashed across it like claw marks. You tell yourself it’s just fabric. *Idiot.*  
First night, the logo glows. Second night, it *breathes*. By the third, you dream in his voice—Don Tonzo, the god who eats galaxies for breakfast and shits supernovas.  
*“1986,”* he growls inside your skull. *“Bucharest. I fought a war against gravity itself. Won. Lost. Doesn’t matter. The blood stained my shirt. I tore it off, wiped the sky clean. This?”* The tee tightens around your ribs. *“This is what’s left.”*  
You wake up on the roof of a burning CVS. The tee’s pristine. Your hands? Charcoal.  
---  
**THE LEGEND OF THE MARK I**  
Before time had a name, Tonzo wandered the void. Boredom birthed universes. Rage birthed black holes. One day, he skinned a star, wove its core into thread. *“Clothes,”* he spat. *“Mortals love that shit.”*  
The first stitch tore a hole in reality. The second birthed capitalism. By the third, the shirt gained sentience.  
It’s not fabric. It’s a *wound*. The logo? His signature on the cosmos.  
---  
**MODERN DAY**  
You wear it to a dive bar. The bartender freezes. *“Take it off. Now.”*  
You laugh. The logo peels off the fabric, floats in the air like neon static. Patrons scream. The walls bleed rust. Don Tonzo materializes, sipping a beer that wasn’t there. *“Cute,”* he says. *“You thought you *owned* it?”*  
He snaps his fingers. The tee liquefies, crawls down your throat. You wake up in Iowa. The tee’s back. The tag says *“PROPERTY OF DON TONZO. RENT DUE: 1 SOUL.”*  
---  
**THE CHOICE**  
They come at dawn—men in suits that hum like reactors. *“He wants it back,”* they say. *“Or he’ll take you instead.”*  
You run. The tee guides you to a cliff. The logo glows, etching itself into your chest. Below, the ocean boils.  
Don Tonzo waits on the waves, hammer in hand. *“Final offer. Wear it forever, or become part of it.”*  
The tee whispers: *“YES.”*