30cm
"If you're a man, it has to be long, no question."
"Same here."
We were heading downtown for a late breakfast, shooting the shit about the meaning of life. The topic of real men living thick and short came up, but S-man and I were firmly in the thin and long camp. Live too thick, and you'll get battered by every storm life throws at you—and if that life ends short anyway, what do you even have to show for it? It's like some guy blue-balling himself all year, then setting a grand goal of ten straight faps to celebrate the new year, only to drop dead of a heart attack on New Year's Eve. That's why men have to live thin and long. Dodge as many storms as possible, enjoy every damn thing there is to enjoy, and stick around forever. That's the win. And above all, living thin and long means more kongnamul gukbap bowls in your lifetime. Only Jesus gets to judge you to heaven or hell with a single flick of the chin, no matter how quick you croak.
Jesus probably hits up a steaming bowl of spicy, hearty gukbap after every judgment. Guy's got refined tastes, so he'd definitely chug grape juice like water instead of soju.
A man who pairs top-shelf grape juice with a bowl of gukbap—absolute Jesus, zxJesusxs, ziUltimateJesus. Mash 'em together: the Holy Trinity. To cockblock that bourgeois Jesus lifestyle, I've gotta ship more sinners straight to heaven. It's my duty.
"How about... rose tteokbokki today? There's a spot right up ahead."
"Who the fuck even brought that goddamn rose shit into Korea?"
"A country with the world's most chicken varieties, yet so sick of 'em they invent traffic-light chicken? That's Korea. Rose tteokbokki was a disaster waiting to happen in our red-ocean tteokbokki market, just like red tteokbokki sauce."
"Fuckin' hell."
I couldn't stop lamenting the flood of 'rose-whatever bullshit' these days. Black rose, brown-sugar rose, mint-choco rose, Rose: From Another World Life. Made me wanna puke. I was legit worried the evil rose cult would infiltrate the sacred realm of gukbap next. If that happened, I'd storm the Gukbap Association first and split the chairman's skull in two—but still, the anxiety lingered. Once this country latches onto a trend, it milks it dry through every verse, chorus, bridge, and earworm remix till the juice is gone. Prime examples: mega castella cakes, honey-butter ice cream, strawberry mochi, fire-noodle whatever, honey-butter whatever. Even nerds get called ultra-nerds if they overdo it among their own, but this place has no control tower to rein in the brain-rot.
When traffic-light chicken first dropped, I seriously considered going vegan to bust open chicken farms and free those poor bastards. Thinking of chickens born just to get slaughtered for that retarded shit? Heartbreaking. But with no better options around, we ended up ordering the rose bullshit anyway. Two dudes rolling into a shop first thing in the morning for that? Country's fucked.
"Menu says they've got unbreakable long tteokbokki. Says you can slurp it like noodles."
"That's just uncut garaetteok."
"But didn't you say thin and long beats short and thick?"
"...Yeah."
We went with two portions of rose long tteokbokki, two tuna rice balls, and Coolpis—the kind no real man touches. Real men only do sodas, so pairing it with tteokbokki? Dizzy before we even ate, so his blood sugar must've been tanked for hours. I mentally added the Tteokbokki Association chairman to my sinner list and scanned the shop. Early morning tteokbokki spot should've been dead empty, but surprisingly, a few other customers like us had wandered in. Weird part: they all looked reluctant as hell, grumbling at the menu before half-ass ordering the basic tteok-fry-fishcake set. Or just sitting there silently, not ordering shit.
"Who knew rose long tteokbokki held the essence of life? Wild, right?"
"Why not find life's essence in jjajangmyeon while you're at it."
Griping aside, slurping those noodle-like long rice cakes wasn't half bad. The sauce—pale carrot-pink—was sweet-tangy with a smooth spice blend. Tomato sauce and cream as the rose base, mixed with gochujang for Korean tastes; the flavor gap was huge. Greasy, creamy, cheesy—Korean girls who stan cheese harder than Westerners would eat this up and spam it on SNS. Not my vibe—I like hot, salty, spicy—but prime bait for the insta-crowd. Still, my K-gut rejected this non-authentic slop, so I needed a legal way to ditch it.
KWAAAAANG!
That's why I let the fucker who grabbed my head and smashed my face into the tteokbokki bowl have it.
"Got him! Grab him!"
"This little shit, where'd he run to? Just the outskirts of Gyeonggi?"
"Boss is worried sick. As if this punk could get far!"
"Drag his ass...quiiiick?!"
Thanks for the legal out on the rose bullshit, assholes. I jammed a fork from the cutlery holder straight into the guy's forearm. Yanked it out with a pop!—blood spurted from three neat holes. Do humans get more perfect the more holes they have? Makes sense why chosen Jesus-girl Joan of Arc was so badass with arrows punching her neck. She was the type that powered up per perforation, imitating Jesus. But this poor bastard who dunked my face? No perfection, no power-up. Hadn't repented yet, so no Jesus pass.
For this pitiful sinner bleeding out, I pinned him down and held out a hand to S-man.
"Hemostatic."
"Here."
S-man slapped the parmesan cheese shaker into my palm. Sprinkled it on, and the blood from those three holes clotted like magic.
"You've sinned plenty in your life, but today's tops 'em all. Know what it is?"
"Ugh... krrghhh..."
"Wasting food. Kids in far-off Africa don't even know what rose is, starving daily—and you ignore their pain to trash perfectly good eats. Jesus obsessed over a bread crumb, saying 'This is my flesh.' He cherished food, and you dare mock him?"
"What kinda bullshit is that, you fuck...!"
"Your flesh ain't much different from bread crumbs, so forking it ain't weird."
Whish! Graceful as hell, I snatched another fork from the holder, wedging it between my knuckles. Shop owner yelled to at least use chopsticks, but too late. Chopsticks got no style.
"Coming into a tteokbokki joint with zero intention of eating it—your hypocrisy makes me fucking gag!"
I flung forks like daggers every which way. The goons who'd tailed me here blocked with chairs and plates. Quick bastards!
"Need a hand?"
"Finish your food. They've killed my appetite—gonna need gukbap later."
"Take this, then."
"Thank you."
S-man tossed me a 15cm Magic Cross. Cool, heavy vibe surged through my fingers. Power pooled inside me, exploding toward the tip. Or yeah, it did. 5cm, 10cm, 15cm, 20cm, 25cm. Finally, 30cm. Felt like a grand wizard with foot-long black-dude dick game. I swung the Magic Cross.
"Million Volts."
⟨ Lightning Strike ⟩
ZZZAPPPPPPP! Lightning energy from outside surged through me and blasted out the tip. Not the blinding white bolt I'd hoped for, but blue sparks crackled hard, slamming into the goons charging over tables.
"KIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!"
"Buh-buh-buh-buh-BALLS-SHRINKING ONE-HIT-KO!!!!!!!!!!!!"
See that? The power of 30cm.
"I am Han Daeri, master of 30cm foot technique. Any more challengers?"
"...You motherfucker!"
"Gas Lightning."
⟨ Spark Storm ⟩
ZZZAPPPPP! Ahh, killer lightning. Perfect.