Advanced Erections Are Indistinguishable from Magic
I've said it a million times: advanced erections are indistinguishable from magic. But I have zero ties to Gangnam. My parents never bought land there. And Cheongdam-dong—the poster-child neighborhood packed with the ultra-rich—is even more alien to me. The moment a regular schmuck steps onto those streets, it's like an automatic debuff hits: Beep! Total assets under ten billion won—confirmed total loser.
The central stretch, heavily renovated under H Group chairman Park Han-jeong's orders, stretched ahead as we drove straight through. In this age of cutting-edge tech, who builds a Renaissance-style mega-mansion instead of some sleek modern pad? Guess it's true what they say: the richer you get, the more you obsess over the old ways.
"Even I, a fellow Gangnam resident, haven't set foot in Cheongdam-dong in ages."
"Your family's drowning in cash, isn't it?"
"Cheongdam-dong isn't just for anyone with deep pockets. Even rural backwaters have their cliques—imagine the gatekeeping in Seoul's priciest spot. This is the league for Korea's top 0.01%. Unless you've got connections to someone truly elite living here, it's foreign territory even for us Gangnam locals."
"I'm more shocked you don't have those kinds of connections."
The guy was born with a major physical flaw—S-pen and all—but he's a natural social butterfly. Who knew he lacked Cheongdam-dong ties? Skies above skies, huh? Whatever. Doesn't matter to me. We're not here as commie agitators ranting about Korea's insane wealth gap. Just making a house call to deliver some good words. A daily dose of scripture keeps Jesus happy, after all.
"Checkpoint ahead. Shall we comply?"
S-man glanced back from the driver's seat, probing my mood. I nodded—sure, why not. Sure, they're chaebol, but setting up checkpoints at a private residence? Tells you how paranoid H Group's chairman must be. To get past that vehicle barrier, we'd play nice with the inspection. I wasn't in the mood to hoof it like some lowly pedestrian anyway.
The guards who'd been eyeing our approach sprang into action, swarming the truck to poke and prod. Checking for suspicious cargo, bombs, the works. Standard protocol for visiting a chaebol's home—fair enough.
"Hey, that cross looks fishy."
One guard, scrutinizing the pickup bed, jabbed a finger at my magic cross (physical). But Jesus didn't hand off his cross to anyone on the hike up Golgotha Mountain. Same here—I wasn't yielding mine.
"This cross is for the qualified only. You're unqualified and motherless—now get back in the car and fuck off to your station."
"...This motherfucker."
Shwick! He yanked a telescoping baton from his belt, glaring daggers as he closed in slow. Hired by chaebol standards, so he had skills, no doubt. But he forgot we were atop the truck's cramped cargo bed. Rookie mistake.
"Uppercut!"
"Glurgh?!"
My upward swing nailed his jaw dead-on. The 50kg-plus hardwood cross sent him spinning through the air like a top before slamming headfirst into the ground. A nasty crunch echoed—jaw probably shattered. But with Korea's world-class plastic surgery, he'll be fine.
Especially smack in the heart of Gangnam, the mecca of cosmetic miracles.
To deter any other reckless charges, I hoisted the massive cross high and bellowed:
"Any bastard climbing up here better be ready for my windmill!"
"Tch! Windmill on that tiny cargo bed?"
"Dirty trick!"
"Call inside! 'The guy's here!'"
As the guards hesitated and fell back, the barrier dropped, and the mansion's grand entrance swung open. The grounds were vast—flower beds, fountains, winding paths, all straight out of a Renaissance blueprint. Wide enough to plow a field and harvest a decent crop. Only chaebol could squander prime Seoul real estate like this.
"Boss, lots of eyes on us."
"I know."
Big garden meant plenty of hiding spots: behind trees, bushes, marble statues, benches. Felt gross soaking up the feverish stares from what had to be nearly a hundred goons. What good's a man's body drawing that kind of male gaze?
"Halt!"
Burly dudes guarding the fountain blocked our slow roll. Leading them: a tough short-sport-haired gorilla in a suit straining at the seams from his muscles, hand raised.
"Where you headed?"
"To see your chairman."
"...You got clearance?"
"Nope."
"No clearance, no passage!"
His shout unleashed the lurking meatheads in a wave. So I'd have to plant my feet on the dirt like these losers? Heaven's cruel!
"You brought this on yourselves."
I'd hoped to avoid blood on the way to spread good words. But this land crawls with unbelievers and sinners. No wonder I get fired up when they're all desperate to reach heaven like horny widows—twitching and grinding away.
Time to use this mighty tool to repent each one properly, inject some faith in Jesus.
"They call me Han Manager, temporarily evolved from Han Deputy. Anyone who goes to church, or pays the pastor monthly remote tithes and offerings—hands up."
No hands rose. World's gone so harsh. Shepherds' quotas for lost lambs to Jesus keep shrinking—heartbreaking. Priests too. With sinners roaming free, they should preach proactively, even if it feels naggy. Hiding in cathedrals? No wonder folks don't come. In this era, you gotta hunt sinners down with service. Can't just hang 'em on crosses and burn like medieval Europe anymore.
S-man sensed the tension, killed the engine, and stepped out. Gone was the handsome elite socialite—replaced by a proud 5cm-foot-technician gripping his own magic cross.
"Boss, bless me with a victory chant."
Couldn't hurt. I sidled up and whispered in his ear:
"S Electronics dropping an integrated S-Pen L-Pen version first half next year."
"Finally."
Confidence surging, S-man thrust his cross skyward and erected it for all to see. I wouldn't be outdone—propped my cross with one hand, beckoned the meatheads with the other.
The gorilla boss, veins bulging in his neck, couldn't ignore our tactical taunt anymore:
"Crush 'em!!!!!!"
"Sorry, I don't get stepped on unless it's a chick!"
Crack! Elbow to the first charger's solar plexus, then a massive windmill swing. Smart ones ducked or backed off from the bulky cross—but that's not how you dodge this holy relic.
Whoosh-BOOM!
"Guh, urk?!"
"What the...!"
"Insane air pressure!"
Yeah. Whipping a 50kg-plus beast at crazy speeds? Air blast's inevitable. Those dodging by a hair got slapped face-first, noses exploding in blood. That's why pro martial arts training's scary. Dodge efficiently, counter fast—that's the core. But this? Can't efficiency your way out. Shatter that mindset first, or no escaping my uppercut or windmill.
"Push when his stance twists big!"
"Don't dodge—make him drop it!"
Some timed it, lunging for tackles. Grab me, pin me down—they figured they'd win. Amateur hour.
"How can an ant shift a mountain, or a tiny cup hold the sea? Before doubting, grasp basic faith first."
Ya gotta believe before you disbelieve, right? That's why Peter sank—not trusting Jesus first turned possible into impossible.
To the sinners straining to flip me backward:
"You can't make my erection go limp."
It's full mast, after all.