No Country for Old Men
Lee Ji-ah had been addicted to soaking up attention from those around her ever since she was a kid—an attention whore through and through. She had a passably pretty face and came from a decent middle-class family. Once she stepped into society, she'd be the type modern guys fawned over without her lifting a finger, but even that was chump change compared to the "real" stars. The spotlight was reserved for the top 1%, and landing a guy straight out of a morning soap opera who had it all was their exclusive privilege too.
Once she hit college and dove headfirst into the social rat race, Ji-ah quickly woke up to reality and decided to pivot her image. Enter the enigmatic mystic girl vibe. No more competing with cookie-cutter hotties boasting flawless looks, sharp tongues, and perfect personalities. Her goal was to hook people's curiosity first and foremost. So she dropped hints about having a divine spirit, claimed she'd receive a shamanic initiation after graduation, listened to her classmates' woes with just the right nods, and dished out vague, feel-good advice. She poured everything into crafting that persona.
The result? In just a few weeks, she went from "kinda cute" to "kinda cute but weird as hell." She never cracked the popular crowd and ended up in the occult club—the one mocked as the reject squad—hanging with second-years Choi Yeon-jun and Lee Chan-young. Still, she didn't give up: she started a YouTube channel, shot vlogs, poured her soul into it. But so far? Zilch. No way a half-decent-looking girl's ramblings could outshine the "real" influencers.
At least, that's how it had been until now.
"H-hee... hiiik..."
Was it her habit of scrolling her phone till the wee hours that kept her up? Whatever the case, Lee Ji-ah lay wide-eyed next to the soundly sleeping Park Seol-ha. She couldn't close her eyes—not with the view just beyond the tent's slightly unzipped flap.
That weird expert dude who'd insisted on solo car-camping had grabbed a stick, whittled it into a skewer with his knife, and started roasting marshmallows. She'd brushed it off at first, but soon a chilling aura seeped into the tent. Like the blast of winter air hitting a stuffy Korean room when someone cracks the window at midnight.
'Who's he talking to? His voice is too quiet to make out.'
Is he actually chatting with a ghost? Her inner attention-seeker fired up again. The occult club's channel stuck to scripted shoots, but her personal one? Fair game. She quietly grabbed her smartphone, switched to night mode, and peered outside.
"Hik!"
The phone's killer camera pierced the darkness, revealing what had been hidden. Villagers encircled their campsite, clutching bats and makeshift weapons, creeping closer bit by bit.
Then the weirdo—who'd already scarfed her sausages for tomorrow—sprang up, yelling something. A golden knuckle duster gleamed on one hand, a ridiculous stick-skewer in the other, posed like a total clown.
"WABARAT!!!!"
************
"WABARAT!!!!"
I brandished my sharpened holy sword (a.k.a. tree branch) and bellowed. The village head—the local boss—let out a guttural screech and charged.
"Kkungki-ging-ging-gong-gang-kkungki-ging-ging-kkungki-ging-gang!!!"
"Spit out my red ginseng extract, you fuck!"
Head-on collision. It was like bear versus rhino—nature's top bruisers minus the elephant—both of us pouring our souls into one all-or-nothing strike. No calling dibs; we slammed bodies first, then flailed our bats and sticks in a frenzy.
Clang! Clang! If only it had that sound effect. Every graze was lethal.
"We got fucked over for peanuts! Why won't you acknowledge it?!"
"You chose it anyway! No take-backs! Never! You're a fag village head!"
"Only I suffer doing all the dirty work?!"
We vented our guts but fought like knights—fair and square. Dropping your sword? Shame on a man, disgrace to a knight. But smashing jaws with fists and stomping joints? Totally fine. Manly as hell.
"Galilee Swordmaster Peter's Style #1: Ear-Slicer!"
"It stings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The village head's ear, perfectly impaled by my blade-tip, flapped wildly, proving its freshness. No wonder he'd fallen for that junkyard trash—with ears like limp noodles.
"Eeeeeek! Folks! Get over here! Outsider's trying to kill!"
Phase 1 gauge chipped, Boss Monster 'Village Head Fag (Not Actually Gay)' triggered Phase 2 with 'Summon Locals' skill and retreated.
Cue the villagers: dentures clacking, bats and blades raised, swarming me.
"You brittle-spined fucks snapping like twigs! Blind-as-bats geezers squinting through cataracts! Rain-swollen-knee cripples who can't walk! You dare deny Jesus's miraculous folk remedies?!"
He spat in blind eyes to make 'em see, straightened lame legs to walk, cast out demons. Yeah.
"You, Jin Bok-hee, 91 years old. Know what dentures and castanets have in common?"
"What?" Clack clack.
"Forget 'em, and you're in for pain."
"Inhumane! Clack clack!"
No dentures, no chow. No castanets, no music class—out back for punishment. Can't clack without 'em. So stand up already. You're a pro racist now!
I scooped marshmallows, mashed 'em into a blob, skewered it, and thrust into the campfire.
Enchant Success!
Acquired Burning Marshmallow Holy Sword!
"That thing... clack clack! What kinda weapon is that?!"
"Dunno. Sword? Spear? Maybe marshmallow."
Time to serve these ancient horrors fire-enchanted chemical seasoning. My red-hot, forehead-searing marshmallow blob ironed out their wrinkly brows like a kid's smooth skin. Agony made 'em jump—the creases popped flat.
"You bastard! Insolent pup!"
"Back off, Kim Chil-deuk, age 85. Want that marshmallow forehead-brand as your portrait for the ancestral tablet?"
"Every dog-day summer, I bashed the neighborhood mutts! With this club! You're next!!"
"Too bad."
I shoved aside the now-stiff-as-board Jin Bok-hee—like she'd been starched with a hot iron—and squared off against 'Predator THE Chil-deuk', who'd clubbed half the stray dogs for dog-meat soup.
"I slaughtered dogs myself for every 60th, 70th, 80th bash! Feel the power difference?!"
"But against 'Gukbap Slayer Han Daeri', your dog-stew bowl count falls short. Age and experience? Useless without the real sauce: tenure."
Octogenarian THE Chil-deuk versus almost-thirty highly-educated Slayer Han Daeri. The tenure showdown was rigged from the start. No way a debuff-riddled old coot offed by strays could match my US-beef gukbap-forged might.
"Make America Great Again."
More, cheaper, better American beef. Aussie beef's a solid sis too—bang for buck, tasty.
"Y-you... vile Yankee lapdog... No patriotic native beef loyalty, chowing foreign meat?!"
"That's pa-tri-ot-ism."
I snapped THE Chil-deuk's club, forced him to kneel, and branded his forehead with marshmallow. Branded by me? Straight to heaven.
No mom skips praising a kid's diary stamped 'Good Job!'. Father Jesus'll welcome these marked ones with open arms too.
"Enough bullshit... Slayer... Han Daeri...!"
"Showtime, Gas-bag Grandpa."
"Trust... the government...!"
"Trust in Jesus."
Unbelievers? Death (salvation) awaits.