Preaching the Gospel with Fists
I woke up not on the stiff, appealing leather sofa with its new-car smell, but on damp, moldy cardboard. The chilly autumn night breeze slapped my cheeks like it was trying to snap me out of it, ruining the sweet deep sleep I'd been enjoying for once. The surroundings were noisy as hell, dazzling lights flashing everywhere. Nights in Seoul are always like this—pointlessly loud, pointlessly flashy, a paradise for clueless moths swarming to all that bullshit.
'If someone asked for modern Sodom and Gomorrah, this place would be perfect.'
I hauled my disheveled ass upright and checked the time on my shiny new smartphone: just past 9:09:09 PM. Now 10 seconds, 11, 12.
"Yawwwn. Maybe I should grab a bowl of hearty gukbap with thick broth and plenty of meat..."
I'd ditched the hard-won one-year office lease in Hongdae to wake up here because I had to. This was Seoul Station in 2025, known for the highest foot traffic churn in the city—a midway point where every kind of human trash flowed in from or out of Seoul, each with their own agenda.
"Hey."
I was debating between Kim Malja's kongnamul gukbap or Kim Hyeja's sundae gukbap when some guys approached me as I scratched my head. They looked ragged at first glance: unkempt beards and hair, slightly unfocused eyes like they'd lost it, and that musty stench mixed with a dangerous vibe. Homeless crew, no doubt.
"Who the fuck gave a punk like you—who probably hasn't even seen blood dry on your head—permission to squat here? You think there's no code of honor on these streets?"
"Boss, looking at him, he seems fresh to street life."
"Clean clothes, solid build—not some bankrupt loser on the run?"
"Heh, makes sense."
Makes sense my ass. If I'd had the financial or mental slack to start a business, I wouldn't be here right now.
"I was just getting up anyway. Didn't mess up the spot, so don't get too pissy."
I brushed off and started walking away when one grabbed my shoulder. This coat was freshly cleaned, damn it.
"Hold up, pay your spot tax first, punk."
"Did 'code of honor' go in one ear and out your ass?"
"That's why clueless brats like you are trouble. Back in my day, we just..."
"Whatever. Let's not make a scene where everyone's watching."
I smacked his hand off my shoulder without permission, and the vibe turned ugly. These bottom-feeders only had one solid thing—their yellowed teeth—and a massive pride complex. They knew they were trash, but get dismissed and they flip out. The ones behind were glaring like they were ready to pull fish knives any second. Identities wiped, lives at the endgame—they didn't give a shit about cops. Hell, they'd probably love a free ride to a warm prison with meals.
'Heard some homeless commit crimes on purpose just to get locked up.'
That thought hit, and everything felt like a hassle. Fuck hot gukbap—Koreans need chicken. I kept walking.
"This fucker's ignoring us?!"
Thwack! One charged and smashed my nape with a metal thermos. Brain rattled a bit, but compared to that soul-shaking hell back then? Nothing. The sticky blood trickling down would scab and flake off eventually.
"Wh-what...?"
The ambush prick stared bug-eyed at his dented thermos and me, alternating. Onlookers whipped out phones to film the violence, snapping the homeless back to reality. Ignoring the stares, I hit up an old-school chicken joint nearby the station, got a fresh bird to go, and headed back to my cardboard spot.
They hadn't expected me to return, staring like I'd lost my mind. The sweet-spicy sauce scent wafted through the cold air, and I heard gulps from the crowd. Whatever—I gloved up, tore into it savagely. Sticky mouth from sauce? Crunch some pickled radish. Finish with ice-floated cola. Owner raved that's the perfect temp for cola with chicken. Explained why this retro "Old Chicken" joint still thrived.
"Spit it out if you got something to say, or swing that thermos again and fuck off nicely."
I muttered after dumping bones in the bag. Nearby homeless whispered among themselves.
"Looks like he's got some cash."
"Better than you honor-preaching street rats. Wait, no social status means not even human anymore?"
I snapped at the grinning yellow-tooth leader. He cackled and reached for my chicken like it was his. Dirty hands on my coat? Tolerable. But chicken stays pure till the last shred. So I grabbed his wrist mid-reach.
"Weird. Korea's never allowed guns legally, past or present. Where'd you catch that headshot?"
"Heh, fun guy. Where'd you crawl from?"
"Why, gonna do something with it?"
"Sell your fresh organs to needy buyers—pocket change, right?"
"Yeah, right."
I shoved his hand away and kept eating.
"I'm here prepping for something great no one else can do. Fundamentally different from you beggars too gutless to rejoin society."
"Kid, mouthing off like that down here? Might as well beg to die."
"Hearing that from gutter-crawlers won't change my life. Better to gnaw another chicken chunk—puts meat on bones."
More joined, doubling the circle. They knew cop patrol times cold—no badges nearby now.
"Fine, finish your meal. Belly full for the last ride."
"Heh, nobodies playing gangster with numbers—think that makes you hot shit?"
I knew 'cause I'd lived that worthless life. A truckload of these? I'd blink once. No nobility, no great purpose, no real choices ever—pathetic.
Ridiculous. I picked my spot clean, stood, brushed off.
"Watched humans all day. Surprisingly, no one needed my help right away. Staring at early-begging idlers, saw your common thread."
Sins dripped from head to toe, sticky. Same sin, different shapes, sizes per person. Theft? One steals ramen from hunger, another guts a jewelry store. Same crime, vastly different depth, stench, hue, aura. But if dropouts wear identical sins like twins? That's a flag.
"Casually dropping organ talk? Not total trash, huh?"
"...Kids, what're you waiting for? Off him quick, out of sight."
Leader's grin vanished; they pulled hidden tools—weapons big and small. Time on streets shows tons of people; spot easy prey, reveal true colors. Like this. Free meals from volunteers by day, filthy deeds by night—prime scum. Pros: one hauled a body-bag backpack, others blocked views.
"Even armored in mercy by holy men, you won't change—hell-bound trash. But don't worry. Someone accepts your kind in heaven. Forgives the world's worst if they repent and believe in him alone."
"What the fuck?"
"Nutjob?"
"Whatever. Organs intact? Bonus—no loose ends."
I pulled my Bible, flipped it open casually. Not for verses—just looks badass.
"Let's see, great Lord Jesus Father says don't covet others'. Means my organs too."
But that turn-the-other-cheek bullshit existed, so I closed it.
"Sinners, confess and repent before me today—straight to heaven. Hell's mine alone, so scram to paradise nicely."
I stowed the Bible; they charged. I took an empty soju bottle to the forehead instead of dodging, grabbed one, asked:
"Your eyes are clouded—you can't see straight. Someone blinds you, lures innocents for organs. Confess truth to me."
"Fucking...psycho!!!!"
"Beat him! Skip money-makers, just wreck!"
"No stabs! Blood's cash too!"
"Stomp him!"
Amid the barrage, I calmly peered into cloudy-eyes' depths. Just a failed-life tumble—why that sin?
"Gaaarrrghhh!"
Leaning closer, he foamed, eyes rolled white. Something erased data before I could dig.
"Why won't this fucker drop?!"
"Put some back into it!"
"Crack his skull if needed—just hit!"
Sturdy bottle shattered on my head; thermos swung again. I eyed the convulsing guy on the ground. Red blood trickled clear in my vision—irrelevant. Some bastard's dragging these sinners to hell.
'No chance. All of 'em heaven-bound, not one left.'
I punched the next thermos-swinger. Skin split, knuckles cracked like that night—but swung on instinct. Burning nerves, endless blood? Nothing next to delivering these souls to Lord Jesus Father.
"Believe in Jesus and hit heaven now! Repent for 100% discount! Group bookings today!"
Don't believe? All hell! Believe already! This ain't daily! Jesus heaven, nonbelievers hell!