"Believe in Jesus or Not? 'I'll Believe! I'll Believe Again!'"
Around Seoul Station, the massive brawl breaking out among the homeless drew reactions from passersby that split roughly half between "entertaining" and "disgusting." Whether it was the cutthroat nature of the world or just because they were rock-bottom drifters anyway, no one bothered calling the cops, so the raw physical debate with the homeless rolled on smoothly for a good while.
Crack! I finally grabbed a homeless guy's arm and twisted it to the limit until—given his shitty health—it snapped in a grotesque, unnatural angle.
"Aaaaaargh!"
"Quit your whining! Jesus made the lame dance the tap, gave the blind the right to ogle naked women! What's the big deal about a busted arm?"
"You fucking... psycho... nutjob... grrrgh!"
I turned to the cluster of homeless still standing strong, my body a canvas of blood. The shards of broken glass and small blades stuck in me, the chunks of splintered bat mixed with bloody hair—they all told the tale of what had gone down in this short scrap.
"You lot wanna sign up for the heaven beta test too?"
"Th-that crazy bastard!"
"Sleeping on this filthy ground! Eating scraps from do-gooders who volunteer just to stroke their moral superiority! Begging pennies from strangers to scrape by—that's all because you don't believe in Jesus! Why do you think churches overflowing with believers rake in the cash? Obvious—they believe, life turns around, they tithe it all back!"
My parents, devout Christians, had left behind a decent pile of inheritance. So the relatives swarmed like piranhas, gnawing it away bit by bit. Believe in Jesus, and your aches vanish, your crooked spine straightens like a rod. At this point, it's not "bitter resentment"—it's Bitter Jesus.
Repent and pray now for double blessings and grace event? I'm no believer, so I wouldn't know, but it sure feels like that kinda scam.
"Anyone sick of this world, wanna stretch out easy in heaven, listen to angel trumpet orchestras while munching grapes—step forward now."
I said it with blood dripping from the knuckleduster clenched in my fist.
"What, scared you're too lowly and sinful for heaven? No worries! That great one up there? Close your eyes, repent, pray—he grants it all! No need to wait for Judgment Day! Hop the heaven express, kick the pearly gates wide—what's there to fear?"
I used the gut of a groaning homeless guy with the broken arm as a step stool, stomped up, and spread my arms piously to show these lost lambs the way.
"Simple method. Tell me who made you sin, confess your sins, beg forgiveness for your pathetic lives—that's it. Eternal happiness guaranteed. Our Lord Jesus the Father promised paradise forever to all who enter."
"Ah... aaaaa."
"I... I!"
"No, can't say that... grrrgh, but this is too... eeeeeek."
I scanned the still-writhing sinners and pointed at one fitting the bill.
"You there, with the booze bottle. Can't sleep without a drink every night, full-blown alcoholic. You know about the infinite wine our Lord Jesus pours out?"
"W-wine?"
"Yeah. Fresh, fragrant wine in supple leather skins, pouring endlessly before you. By his grace, drink all day. Angels wait on you hand and foot, trumpets lift your spirits. True heaven awaits—why cling to this world's tasteless cheap swill?"
"M-m-m-man, you're right. This stuff's... cheap... no flavor... gives you headaches after! Because of it, I lost my family...!"
"No worries in heaven. Chug with Jesus, play drinking games, banter like pals. Mix him a bomb shot, dare him to down it one-go while teasing how long you'll make his shoulders shake. He loves you all equally, like his own kids."
"Ooooooh...!"
"Feeling ready to confess your sins now?"
"Y-yes!"
"Believe in Jesus?"
"I believe!"
"Step forward then."
Despite the pleas from the horde of homeless, the jaundiced, yellow-faced drunk bolted out, bowing his head.
"You've fallen for evil's temptation, treating this tasteless cheap booze like treasure. Lived a life infinitely far from the Lord's boundless wine. Pathetic."
"Aaaaa! Never again... I just wanted to do well...!"
"I get it. Job's a grind, family doesn't understand, so that bitter, quick-buzz cheap shot was your only comfort. Then you heard the evil whisper. Drowning in booze daily, you remember that voice from your stupors clear as day. Confess it all to me."
"It was two years ago, that night! Economy in the shitter, money bleeding out everywhere, wife nagging nonstop, kids I raised with care calling me a worthless breadwinner! So like always, I drank... and heard a voice!"
"What'd it say?"
"Shake off the shackles on your ankles, drink easy from now on!"
So he killed his wife and kids, tumbled to the streets where he could booze anytime, anywhere. Clichéd, plausible, horrific, pitiable—your standard tragic tale.
"Your family mocked and hated you, blocked your easy drinking—they're in hell now. Our Lord Jesus the Father enjoys the laser sport of hurling such wicked souls into the pit."
"R-really?"
"But you got the chance to confess and repent fully before death. Heaven-bound. True heaven, no nagging wife or bratty kids—infinite wine beyond any earthly booze. Amen."
"Amen!"
"Believe?"
"I believe!"
"Crave the wine he himself pressed enough to spill where that voice led you?"
"Yes!"
"Then confess."
Imagining heavenly wine he'd never tasted, the homeless sprang up, pulled a burner phone from his pocket.
"This burner gets orders at random times to random people! Different homeless groups per district, pyramid scheme style, pulling shit like today!"
"Vile thing. You gonna face the Lord with that filth?"
"N-no way! I wanna stand pure and clean before him!"
"Right. Can't have filth by good booze. I'll dispose of it for you."
"Thank you!"
"Now go. Till heaven calls, no more tasteless cheap swill—pray to the Lord nonstop. When your body drops, angels descend to escort your soul straight up. Break that? You'll join the nagger and brats in hell, yearning forever for untasted wine."
"Never falter!"
Enlightened, eyes sparkling, he strode into the night with dignity. Now he'll live shameless till death, slip quietly to heaven, guzzle his wine forever.
Checking the burner phone's numbers and texts, I geared up to hunt the asshole issuing hell tickets—then eyed the unrepentant horde still before me.
"Chronic violence, theft, embezzlement, rape, even murder. Your sins stain you head to toe, but that artificial guilt you all share bugs me most. Not crimes from impulse or weak flesh—someone exploited your frailty and cursed lives to dirty your hands."
Kidnapping, confinement, human trafficking, organ trade—way beyond standard heavy crime. Shockingly, every one here had dabbled in cannibalism and human sacrifice, more or less. Panorama of past atrocities leaked from the sin dripping head to toe.
These bottomless wrecks, digging hell's graves, led to firepits by some utter cocksucker—I shuddered in rage. How dare he skip heaven to pimp hell as prime real estate to solid sinners?
Before hunting the puppet-master homeless strings, I cracked my wrists to spread heaven's joy to all here. Heaven's gate narrower than a needle's eye? Shove hard enough, they'll squeeze in.