Hand Jobbers - Marks

In the parking lot, Leo tried to hand him an envelope. “Keep it,” Dale said. “Buy a knee brace. And next time you shake a vet’s hand, don’t crush the fingers. That’s all we got left.”

Dale laughed. “Kid, I’m gonna make you a star. Just don’t forget me when you’re on TV.”

For now, here's a brief, clean narrative based on that interpretation:

Dale "The Mark" Hennessey had shaken ten thousand hands. Most belonged to boys who’d never learn to work a crowd, rookies sent to him because he’d do the job clean, make them look like heroes, then collect his two hundred bucks and drive home to his camper behind the VFW hall.

The bell rang. Dale sold every punch like a gunshot, bled from a blunted blade, and at the finish, let Leo pin him with a sloppy press. The crowd roared for the new lion. Dale crawled to the apron, wiped blood on his tights, and smiled.

Tonight’s boy was Leo, all muscle and no miles, with a tiger tattoo and deer-in-headlights eyes. “Don’t hurt me,” Leo whispered in the locker room.