Pussy Commander vs. Han-nam Deputy (2)
Any Korean who's ever grilled samgyeopsal at a barbecue joint knows the scent of "pig stink" all too well. That savory aroma wafting from the pork sizzling on the hot plate is nothing short of legal dope that induces instant boners without fail. Academic consensus even holds that Koreans hit up meat joints solely to satisfy their carnal cravings with garlic and pork. Once the lust is quenched, it's time for gluttony. Be that as it may, I've devoured everything from jokbal to samgyeopsal, ogyeopsal, and pork rind—no pig part left untried—so I'm intimately familiar with swine body odor. My mind can't help but conjure images of what this hefty beast was fed, how it wallowed and snorted through its pen.
But the stench permeating the air right now? That's no ordinary pig reek. Strictly speaking, it's the rank, gamey funk you'd expect from wild boar. Wild boars are infamous for their overpowering musk, right up there with bears. Back when I was in sales, I once took some bigwig to a mountain village in Gangwon Province and got served "delicacy" boar meat. Spoiler: it wasn't a delicacy. The flesh was tough as leather, and no amount of spices could mask that nose-raping stench—it straight-up throat-fucked me. The agony of that forced boar oral was indescribable, yet the old geezers chowed it down like it was gourmet. That's when I grasped a profound worldly truth.
Wild boar is like feminism. Tasteless, stinky, with shit-tier texture—a "self-proclaimed" delicacy no one wants. But boomer fossils over 50 gobble it up, precisely because their dicks don't work anymore. No rational revulsion to cloud their judgment, so they swallow the boar bullshit whole. It's us young guys who suffer the boar brutality. No privilege, not women, barely any rights—that's young Korean men for you. So imagine my vibe confronting not barbecue pork, but raw wild boar stench in a meatpacking plant?
"Ma-goo-nee... this pig's got ma-goo-nee in it!"
I pointed at the grotesque meat lump wriggling out from between factory machines, my limbs trembling. Truth be told, it wasn't a real pig. No cute curly tail, no fan-like floppy ears, no snuffling snout. I called it a pig anyway because it was a massive hunk of flesh crawling on stubby limbs like handmade ham about to burst, oozing black juices. What else could you call it? The camera wouldn't capture its eldritch horror, but the raw malice prickling any living human's skin? Even the normie cameraman felt it crystal clear. Mouth agape, drool—er, rock candy—dripping forgotten, he just clutched his camera in a daze.
Time to bail? Nah. 'Korean men don't back down from wild boars.' That thing wasn't even the real deal—just the evil spirit culprit slurping up every foul vibe and stray grab ghost in the plant, ballooning into a temporary bloated specter. Swallowed too fast like a pig at trough, it couldn't fully digest; that's the limit, piled up inside its ethereal bulk. Nick that blimp even a little, and it'd spew contents like a trash bag ravaged by a psycho alley cat.
More than that, the Christian in me screams: Rescue every pitiful soul trapped and digesting live inside, send 'em all to heaven spotless. Come to think of it, ancient burnt offerings used livestock like sheep or pigs—offering this boar to heaven sounds perfect. I slapped the cameraman's cheeks a few times till he snapped out of his stupor, then grabbed his face and bellowed.
"You wanna make legends from Episode 1?!"
"Huh? Uh, yeah! Gotta film! Legends!"
"Good! Then you're now the cameraman filming man vs. evil god showdown!"
"Me?!"
"You bet! But first, total faith in me! You believe?!"
"B-believe!"
"Empathize, stand in solidarity, support me?"
"Empathize, solidarity, support."
"Then stand at attention!"
The cameraman straightened up like a proper K-2nd-class citizen and hoisted his camera high. I scratched a tiny wound in the center of his forehead with my nail. Dabbed three tear moles under his big eyes, finished with a smooth curve. Third eye, mind's eye, shaman eye—call it what you want; basically an spirit eye upgrade. Lets normies see the unseen, peer into motives. Saints with stigmata pull miracles; I hacked it shaman-style, etching a third eye onto skin.
Human skin's prime real estate for spells—could make books from it. Etching a third eye? Cakewalk. Bonus: Re-etch after healing for permanence. Regular spirit eyes amp your natural peepers' ethereal vision; this births one from scratch. As expected, cameraman's new third eye locked on the black boar squirming from the machine guts—he freaked. But now it was just visuals spooking him, no unknown terror. True to his horror-special grit, he steadied quick and rolled tape.
Confirmed he was primed, I cleared my throat like a Brit treating this to tea and crumpets.
"Alright, I'm starving. Starving for Jesus' grace, that is. How to fix? Make sinners repent, ship 'em to heaven. Done."
I pointed at the pig oozing sticky black juices like wet grass.
"My genius detective work says this ties the plant's grudge, incident origin, process, endgame. A wicked soul hating living humans with a passion, using cosmetics—one of humanity's top products—as curse conduit? Brutal, inhuman methods. So forget why this factory—focus why cosmetics."
Camera on me, I spotlighted the star: the pig finally squeezing free in the cramped dark, rearing up.
"Cosmetics' role in modern society? Clear: beautification, whitening included. Few use 'em otherwise—maybe SFX makeup or scar cover. Ironically, screams the plant's grudge isn't at people—it's at cosmetics themselves."
If it just hated humans, it'd tank any factory. This area's sparse pop anyway—not prime revenge turf. Cosmetics plant was trigger; root cause deeper. Like societal pressure forcing makeup, loved ones' biases, or realizing it doesn't suit you—or all three.
Exhibit A: Miss A, lived makeup-free, blasts Korea's cosmetic obsession, skewers pals slathering it on. Makeup? Voluntary slave-shit for women chasing male gaze, patriarchal plot to control 'em. Women dolling up? Self-strangling corsets, proof women's rights in the gutter. A thinks/says this. Gets shunned as hate object, holes up, can't function socially.
Worried folks hook her up with a job for independence: this simple-labor cosmetics plant. Cosmetics—to A, ultimate love-hate object. Surrounded here, her mind crumbles fast, rationality gone. Boom—not plain pig, but wild boar born. Omnivorous rampage, devouring all, ruling the plant. Petty grudge swells monstrous, heart turns vile. Crossed no-return river. From grudge ghost to malice evil ghost, evil ghost to evil god. Finally evolves to true "Pussy Commander"—screaming girls can do anything.
"God-given, huh? Bite down tight... my 6.9's gonna sting a bit."
I slipped on my golden knuckle duster, clenched my fist till it ached. Knuckle sandwich upgrade: ultimate golden technique equaling kidney stones on impact—now manifesting via yours truly, Deputy Han.
I lunged at the bloated sis like shrinking ground arts, swinging hard.
"PUSSY KNUCKLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Not a Vietnamese name)"