The Hellish Grind of Cursed Labor
The first round of cursed manual labor is a fucking nightmare.
You'd think everyone knows better, but every now and then, you run into idiots who look down on it.
'Manual labor? That's just exercise, right? Getting paid to work out? Sounds like a sweet deal.'
Of course, that's bullshit from someone who's never done it. And sure, I'm not just talking about the physical strain. Hauling bricks, lugging massive steel plates up stairs—it's brutal, but if that was all, you could grit your teeth and bear it. When you're a rootless fresh-faced kid in society chasing big daily wages, what else is there?
But crank up the difficulty when your site foreman shows up drunk every day, speaks more Chinese than Korean, and has zero anger management. That's when manual labor turns into hell on earth.
Not just body-breaking work, but soul-crushing bullshit too.
"You fookin'! What I say earlia!"
"Uh, I ate lunch earlier."
"Fookin!! I say no bullshit!!"
The guy turning beet red and screaming in my face is the foreman I was talking about. Looks pissed, but nah, I didn't do shit. He's just perpetually wasted from pounding booze before work—face always looks like a ripe tomato.
Beats me how he doesn't get fired, showing up sloshed every damn day.
Today felt extra nasty, though. Not that there's ever a calm day, but his tantrum was dialed up. His mangled Korean stabbed into my ears like knives.
"I say make coffee earlia!! You fookin' punk, you ignore me?"
"I made it for you earlier."
"You punk-ass! Backtalkin' me?!"
Un-fucking-believable. I watched him guzzle the perfectly mixed coffee I brewed, right in front of my eyes. And now he's barging in during work hours—not break time—to bitch?
"You wanna get kicked out?! Talkin' back to me now?!"
"Haha, no way. Need more coffee right now? I can grab some."
"Fuck off! You fookin'! Think I can't dock your pay? You caught now!"
Listening to the red-faced foreign laborer's meltdown, it started clicking why he was riding me so hard.
"Hahaha. Remember that offer you made last time? I've been saving up—think I can help out now."
"Offer?! What offer?"
"Y'know, lend you money, you double it gambling and pay me back."
"Gambling?! Investment! Investment! I got killer stock tip!"
Bingo, just testing. He was extra pissy 'cause I politely turned down his loan request last time.
"So when you givin' it?"
The foreman dropped the yelling, acting all smug like I'd already handed over the cash. I forced a smile.
"Probably next next week."
Like hell I'm lending him shit. But I played along to calm him down for now. Guy could slash my daily wage if he wanted.
Labor board? Look at the dude in front of me. Foreign worker running the site—no one's giving a damn what regulators say.
So to get paid properly, gotta play nice.
"Tsk tsk. Shoulda saved up yourself."
Mission accomplished, he grumbled and wandered off with a sour face.
"Haaah…."
Alone at the site, I let out a quiet sigh. Whoever said manual labor's easy can eat shit. I hated myself for falling for that crap and ending up here.
If only time would fly…
Next next week, this job's done. No more dealing with that asshole foreman.
And yeah, no way I'm lending that gambling-addict boozehound a dime. No chance he'd win big, and even if he did, deep down I knew he'd never pay me back.
Just gotta grab my pay and bounce.
Slumping my shoulders, I went back to work—then someone sauntered up, swaggering.
"Yo, you just got reamed hard."
Blond-dyed hair, flashy accessories, ear piercings. Cocky voice and strut screamed lowlife thug.
"Why's that chink always hasslin' you?"
"Wanted a loan."
This guy's Gusechan. Looks the part, but surprisingly diligent. Bit of a weirdo with his occult obsession, but same age as me, only buddy here.
"Ha, that psycho. Still hasn't learned. You ain't dumb enough to lend, right?"
"Hell no."
"Good call. Those types borrow and never plan to repay. Smart thinking."
Rough exterior, but looks out for folks. Gusechan clocked my shitty mood, grinned, and clapped my back.
"Alright! Back to it?"
"Yeah."
We shared grins, hoisted cement bags from the floor, and climbed stairs. Drop 'em on 4, head down, grab more, deliver to 5. Not one spot—scattered everywhere. That's the bitch part.
"Fuck, why we haulin' to every damn floor?"
Gusechan griped, grabbing a bag. Beast strength—40kg bags in each hand, no sweat. Me? One on my back, drenched already.
"Isn't that how manual labor works?"
"What kinda grind makes you do just this shit?"
"Every site I worked was like this."
"Haa… You got the shittiest luck."
He eyed me like a tragic puppy. No need—high-paying gigs, tough but fair pay. I was good with it.
Though this site's way worse than past ones. Thanks to one person. The site's drunken monster, reeking of booze, showed up while we hauled bags up stairs.
"Hey! What you doin' here!"
The gambling-alcoholic foreman.
"What else? Doin' what you told us."
"You fookin'! That tone!"
Gusechan's bluntness pissed him off—eyes bulging, teeth grinding.
"So what? Butt in on guys workin' fine."
"Workin' fine my ass! So much left, why not done?!"
"C'mon, how we supposed to finish this already? And 'so much'? Ain't we done after this?"
I watched the red-faced screamer and unfazed Gusechan. Dude ain't scared of wage cuts? After seeing old man Kim stiffed last time.
"Grrrr…! Fine, more after—remember that!"
Hating Gusechan's vibe, he bellowed once more and stomped off to his area. I eyed him riding the site elevator up easy.
"Haa… Why's he always on my ass?"
"He ever not? Gotta bail soon."
I bent to grab the dropped bag—Gusechan grabbed my shoulder.
"Hold up, fun stuff later. Got somethin' cool."
"What?"
Grinning, he pulled a palm-sized thing from his pocket. Familiar shape—I squinted at him.
"Straw doll? Why you carryin' this?"
"Kekeke! Don't freak. Bought this Curse Doll from a legit shaman for big bucks!"
"For what?"
"Cursin', duh. On that chink asshole."
His sparkling eyes—sigh. His "normal but off" hobby kicked in. Not his first rodeo.
"Last time you brought some weird pottery, swore it was haunted."
"It was! Showed you special!"
"Pfft, ghost my ass. Smashed when I touched it. You got scammed."
Tsk! Gusechan snatched a nearby hammer.
"Watch. This is real. Real Curse Doll."
He slammed the doll on the ground hard, repeatedly.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
"See? Real, right?"
Grinning, he showed the unscratched doll. Shoulda shattered.
"You go easy?"
"Jeez, don't believe your eyes? You try."
Scoffing, he handed me the hammer. Gripped it, eyed the doll.
Body of rotten straw, once golden, now lifeless. Damp stems bloomed black mold like age spots on decayed skin.
Red thread bound it tight—vivid fresh blood against the rot.
"Hmmm…."
I grumbled. Up close, nasty. How'd he pocket this?
"Hurry up."
Urging me, oblivious.
What a pointless chore.
Chuckle escaped as I raised the hammer. Even Gusechan's full swings left it fine. No clue why tough, but mine wouldn't break it.
Whack a few times, done—back to work.
I swung down.
Thud.
"Huh?"
Didn't hit that hard, but it pulped—form lost.
"No way?"
Gusechan startled, crouched to inspect.
"Breaks this easy?"
"Told ya. All scams."
Squinted at the mush. Just center hit with smaller hammer—yet whole thing mangled.
Red threads snapped, scattered. Snapped threads caused it? Faded now, luster gone.
"Really scammed?"
Gusechan pouted. Bought with a month's wages, apparently. No guilt—ain't his style to whine, and scammed buyers kinda ask for it. Seller's still scum, though.
Averted eyes from his pout, last glance at doll. Black liquid oozed from straw guts, like crushed by giant.
Mold juice? Marvel at his dumbass spending big on filth.
"Leakin' rot juice. How you buy crap like this?"
"Huh…? Rot juice? Nothin' comin' out."
"Black from the moldy straw—not seein' it?"
"Mold? Worn, sure, but not neglected."
What? Really invisible? Doubted his straight face—no prank.
Only I see it?
Confused in the weirdness—then building shook.
"What! Quake?"
"In Korea?"
Quake stopped quick.
But soon, heavy chains whipped snake-like in air, sharp snap of fixed pin popping—massive crash echoed.
"Huh?"
Turned to site elevator on outer wall.
Saw it plummet—supposed slow descent, near freefall to ground.
KABOOM—!
Rushed over, peered down. Crumpled elevator, foreman limping out.
Not too high—minor injuries.
But peering down, massive shadow engulfed his head.
"You fookin' bastards! Call ambulance—"
KABOOOOOM—!! BOOM—! Thud!! Thud!
Rebar and debris rained from rooftop, burying him.
"…."
Coincidence? Red blood pooling from wreckage—matched the black muck from the doll too perfectly.