Boris slammed his meaty green fist on the wooden post, making it wobble in the soft mud. The post marked the center of his dream—the swamplands' most feared mud-wrestling arena. He'd picked this spot in Puddlewick because the ground was perfect. Thick, sticky mud that would hold a wrestler but never let them move easy. He grinned, showing all his crooked teeth. One day, fighters would come from every corner of the swamp to test themselves here. He started building the next morning. Boris dragged old wooden planks from the swamp and stacked them into walls. He found bones and skulls scattered in the murky water and hammered them onto the posts. The skulls would make fighters nervous, which was exactly what he wanted. By sunset, the frame stood tall around the massive mud pit. Boris stepped back and looked at his arena. The Voodoo Mud Wrestling Stadium was taking shape. Soon, everyone in the swamplands would know his name. But the natural mud wasn't enough. Boris needed the perfect mixture—thick and slippery at the same time. He built a clunky wooden tumbler near the pit's edge. The contraption had a barrel that turned when he cranked a rusty handle. He scooped dirt from the banks and dumped it in. Then he added handfuls of animal droppings from the swamp floor. The barrel groaned as it mixed everything into a brown, churning mess. Boris tested it with his claw and nodded. This slurry would make wrestlers slip and slide exactly how he wanted. His arena would be ready soon, and then the real fights could begin. The stadium needed one more thing—a way for fighters to find it. Boris grabbed decaying planks and carved words into the wood with his claws. He painted the letters with mud and swamp juice until they stood out dark and clear. The sign read "MUD WRESTLING" in jagged letters that looked like they might fall apart. He carried it through the shallow water and jammed it into the soft ground where the path split. Now anyone who wandered this way would know where to go. Boris wiped his claws on his belly and looked back at his stadium. The arena stood waiting, its skulls grinning in the fading light. His dream was real now, built from nothing but swamp scraps and his own two claws.