Mom's Killer Go-Stop and Our First Snowman
"When have I ever not worked hard? I've put Go-Stop away ages ago." Mom, her eyes on the TV now, wiped my pepper-sauce-smeared face with a satisfied look. My dick felt about 1cm smaller, but I'd defended my pig.
The news Mom had turned on featured a breaking report about someone who'd ruined their life with stocks and committed suicide.
Mom glanced at me quietly.
"Even if you lose, one round of Go-Stop would cover it..."
"...Pfft."
Mom caressed the kiss mark on my cheek with a pleased touch. I kept forgetting her age—her skin was so firm and taut from all the care, it felt off somehow. She relaxed her expression, recalling what had just happened.
Dad came back from his company dinner and told her the story.
"You know your mom doesn't play Go-Stop anywhere, right?"
"..."
I'd learned that the hard way—with my body. Her calculation speed was beyond comprehension, superhuman even. She gauged opponents' skills, waged psychological warfare, and on top of that, luck stacked in her favor. It was unstoppable. I was sure even an AI couldn't beat her...
"Hearing her Go-Stop stories sounds brutal~"
"For real..."
Come to think of it, I'd never heard Mom talk about her past. Not even little things like what she did in school or childhood memories. Even if I hadn't asked much, she avoided it more than seemed normal. Dad probably knew...
I was about to ask her about it when Dad cut in.
"I tried it once myself, but with your mom's skills, playing Go-Stop anywhere would get your connections cut or a knife in your back."
Dad's serious face made me nod in total agreement a hundred times over. Even Gon would have licked her toes for that score.
'She's the best hustler I know.' Yeah, that'd come out for real.
"That's why she's so good at kissing, huh?"
"..."
Dad's face twisted into something more and more fucked up, so I bolted from the scene. Sticking around in this mood might lead to some filial impiety.
"What's so hard about it? You do it too, Dad!"
I ignored Dad's voice from behind and headed outside.
The next day, the latest-model computer arrived lightning-fast. If they thought I'd be thrilled just because it was top-of-the-line, they were dead wrong. The screen was fat-ass bulky as standard, and the tower looked so dated it sucked. But hey, this two-million-won beast was this era's supercomputer. Monitor and tower integrated, no less! In this rapidly evolving digital age, it could even run games that wouldn't drop for another seven years.
Saba Computer, they called it. I'd only learned such a company existed through stocks.
Trying to surf the internet here with modern sensibilities would kill you. I hadn't used computers much, so it didn't hit me hard, but still.
This state-of-the-art machine took damn near 30 seconds just to boot up.
Wrrrrrm.
Listen to that majestic roar. Turning on a computer sounded like an SF movie.
First thing I did with the internet-ready rig? Downloaded StarCraft. Sure, I'd sworn to atone with my time, but... a little fun wouldn't hurt.
Maybe it was my pre-regression sensibilities, but my StarCraft skills were hitting perfect every match.
Six months into playing, I wasn't losing a single game anymore, and spectators started trailing me. Makes sense—how many folks were computer-savvy back then?
With APM hitting 400, I hammered commands and crushed opponents.
I used nicks like 'Firm&heavy' and 'DandanMugjig', and before I knew it, both were named users. My 'FirmAndHeavy' showbo (early-game rush) build was even up on cafes. I'd gotten pro offers a few times but turned 'em down for Taekwondo. Tell 'em I was 9, and they'd call me crazy and bail.
After gaming sessions, I dumped the cash I'd made from half a year of day-trading into blue-chip stocks via the smartphone. Taxes due in May anyway.
No clue how to explain this pile to Mom.
My stock method was simple: Fire up YouTube on the phone, search company market cap charts. Crank to 0.25x speed, hunt the ones spiking right on cue. Pick a winner, dig its history. Done.
My real plan kicked off in 2004 anyway. Right now, I was just casually stacking cash. Not much a soon-to-be-10 body could do. Focus on family, train, sketch the future.
I checked the phone for texts. Only a few—Yubin, Jun-woo who'd gifted it for my birthday...
As expected, from Yubin. Data hog? Bill bomb would mean a back-smack from Mom. Though her fam probably didn't sweat that.
She'd call if replies lagged. Smartphone said she was cool back then, but... kid version was a bit off. Age thing?
After dinner, I drilled Min-ji on writing. She slacks for Mom but copies me like a shadow.
Studying in the living room, Mom brought sliced fruit.
"No soccer with Jun-woo today?"
"Too cold."
"Yeah, too chilly to play out. Oh, it's snowing?"
"Really? Guess I'll take Min-ji out tonight then."
Min-ji, dreaming of snow, bobbed her head while scribbling letters. Snowman doodle by her notebook.
Bored during her lessons, I did bodyweight workouts—and she tried copying.
"You'll get hurt~"
"Minji can do it too!"
She nearly head-planted on pushups, so I caught her. Lately, with her mimicking me, better not train in front of her.
Evening hit; off to the dojo. Even with horseplay, training time brought roars of spirit on cue. Do Min-jun led the charge, pros showing true grit.
The head instructor popped in occasionally, critiqued each kid, then back to the office.
"Instructor, you see Do-hyun's 900-degree roundhouse?"
"You had a kid without basics down yet do that? It's just a trick."
"Hm... tricks have levels. You'd be shocked."
Practicing side kicks, I obliged Min-jun hyung with a roundhouse demo.
Thwack!
Perfectly powered. In a perfectionist dojo, the instructor's eyes widened a millimeter more.
"His form's more perfect than mine."
"Hoo... Trying 1080 yet?"
Extra 180 from jump technique.
"Yeah, but not as flawless as 900—kinda lacking."
"900 to 1080's talent gap... but you'll nail it easy. Kid's got the gift for Taekwondo."
Like he said, most here could do 900, but 1080 flopped often. Still, pointless for real fights.
The strict instructor went easy on me. Wouldn't call gold medalist Do Min-jun talented, they said. But he saw me like a nephew.
"No way. Do-hyun needs soccer. He wins body checks? Mind-blowing."
"Shut it and manage your weight."
"Sir!"
Breaks meant Do Min-jun begging soccer tips. Even brought a ball for trapping drills. Watching him, I kept thinking, this guy's a national rep? More passion for soccer than Taekwondo. Devotion pro-level.
Winter dojo, no futsal post-training. Loosened up with workouts, but no ball meant emptiness. Soccer had no seasons...
My cleats in the gym bag whispered temptations.
"Soccer in winter? Go home and sleep..."
Then a white flake from the sky hit my nose and melted softly.
"Oh, snow, right?"
Min-ji's snowman dreams flashed; I rushed home.
Min-ji passed out on the living room floor mid-sketch. Mom and Dad watched TV behind.
"I'm back."
"Welcome home?"
"Snowing hard out."
Tossed dobok in the hamper, eyed sleeping Min-ji.
"She wanted to touch snow..."
"She's out cold~ Let her grow big and strong."
Snickered at Dad's words.
"Tell her Dad said no waking?"
"...! Who does that?!"
Dad was always second-fiddle to Min-ji. Tiptoed around her.
Stretching, I peeked out.
"Snow's piling up fast."
"Wake Min-ji...?"
Snickered at Dad's cautious tone.
"Yeah."
Mom pulled Min-ji's winter kid gear—tons from her child modeling.
I woke drool-faced Min-ji.
"Oppa..."
"Snow outside?"
"Snow...!"
Big eyes blinking, she bolted up and checked the window. World gone white; she lunged for the door.
"Min-ji! Clothes first!"
"Okay!"
Geared up with gloves and all, she marched out with me. Dad scooped excited Min-ji.
Snow-mad, she sparked.
"Pink bunny!"
Handed her the rabbit doll I'd grabbed. Our family cleared the yard snow, dove into snowman-making.