Surprisingly Usable Body
One interesting fact was that my body—which I'd never once given a damn about in terms of health—was surprisingly damn useful. Ah, back in my early childhood, when I should've been stuffing my face, partying hard, and sleeping like a log to grow big and strong, I was skipping dinners left and right. In my teens, I barely scraped by without proper meals. As an adult, I wrecked myself even more, chowing down on instant crap for every meal and flipping the bird at any bio-rhythm bullshit. By all rights, my late-20s body should've been a frail mess like some 40-year-old's—wounds that never heal right, joints aching in the rain, huffing and puffing after a short walk. Total garbage-tier flesh.
"Even so, rolling up Bible pages for smokes might be pushing it."
I toyed with the idea of hitting up a custom cig shop for the first time in ages, maybe puffing on a fancy hand-rolled one. But I nixed it quick. Didn't wanna burden this unexpectedly solid body any more than necessary—and cigs turn into a fixed expense like transit fares once you get hooked. That's exactly why I'd ditched them cold turkey back in my early working days, despite drowning stress in food and booze otherwise. Fixed expenses. Just the words make my hands and feet shake.
I swung by the nearest 24-hour sauna to scrub off the grime, then combed through every burner phone I'd lifted from those newly homeless folks starting fresh.
Info sharing and orders are all over the place—totally random depending on time, place, and people. No wonder the cops couldn't nab them even if they pulled a blatant crime smack in central Seoul.
With criminals who were social dropouts like the homeless, using burners meticulously? Yeah, investigations would hit a wall. And if the backend was some loose network impossible to gauge in scale, tracking them was basically a pipe dream—unless the homeless went collectively insane and handed over all the burners while spilling every scrap they knew.
First drop points and distribution are scattered everywhere, but the final destination's gotta be one spot. No need to overcomplicate it.
I transferred all the data from the burners to my personal smartphone, then chucked them into the Han River bed. No point handing them to the useless cops—they'd fuck up the follow-through anyway. Better off trashed.
Luckily, the nearest first drop was by Wonhyo Bridge, so tracking it down was a breeze. Basing out of a fixed building risked CCTV, tails, wiretaps, or utility spikes, so they set up right in the open street. At late night when foot traffic thinned out—specific time, specific Han River spot—a van with a certain plate number idled for a set window. Pre-notified suppliers (homeless) loaded up the "goods" and got paid. Boom. That was their first-drop setup.
Grinning like some armchair detective turning wild guesswork into sleuthing, my coat flapping in the chilly autumn night breeze, I felt like a novel's star gumshoe.
Tonight's drop was just as expected: shady spot, dimly lit, guys posing as randos. Van tucked in a corner, lookouts loitering pointlessly by streetlights or vending machines—probably the distributors. Matte-black Starex plate confirmed it was the one getting the delivery today.
I sauntered up to the guy dripping sin like oil slicks and plopped onto the empty bench spot.
"Hey, plenty of seats—go sit somewhere else."
Predictably, the dude glued to his smartphone on the bench got prickly, like it was Magic Monday or some shit. If an SSS-grade babe pulled that icy city-girl act, I might buy it with heart-eyes, but this cig-reeking fucker throwing a tantrum? Made my blood boil.
Actually, the real piss-off was something else. A stench no normal person should give off, one you shouldn't even sense: the ripe stink of man-flesh wafting off him.
"Got a real unique palate, huh? Skipping two-plus kilos of prime Hanwoo beef for Korean at dinner?"
"What! You motherfu—!"
No formal martial arts training, no fancy takedown moves from spec-ops bullshit—just faith in this usable hunk of meat. I lunged first. Before the lazy-sitting bastard could stand, I yanked my hidden blade and jammed it into his thigh, then smashed a knuckle-duster punch into his screaming yap.
Corn kernels of teeth and blood splattered—enough to rile his pals? They dropped the civilian act and charged like a pack.
"Just fucking showered, goddamn it."
I ripped the blade from the still-gurgling thigh, then hurled it at the distant ethnic Korean (probably) already drawing a hand axe. Dumb luck or my freakishly spry body? It sliced clean into his nape.
"Gack! Kek? Grraaarrgh!"
He face-planted mid-charge, yanked the blade out dumbly, and sprayed blood like a fountain.
"Still fresh! Still fresh! Still fresh!"
I dropkicked the gut of the one swinging fists, ignoring his downed buddy. No pro skills beyond childhood brawls, so hurling my body raw felt easiest.
"Guhk!"
"Move it, you fuck! Still fresh! Still fresh!"
Shoving past the gut-clutching, retching prick, I closed on the pathetic illegal sprawled on the pavement—Dazzahao or whatever.
"Dazzahao! You yanked a hand axe on sight like a monstrous fiend, but it's not too late!"
"Grrk! Krhk! Grrrrrr..."
"I'll witness your repentance! Repent here! You'll hit Jesus faster than ramen softens!"
Grabbing the still-fresh Dazzahao, I pressed fingers to his forehead and traced a cross. Looked cool enough.
"Quickie repentance. Shout in your head: Jesus has milky skin! Pray to live as heaven's illegal after croaking as earth's!"
"Grk? Guh..."
"Yes! Heaven! A paradise of equality, peace, no snap hand-axe bullshit! You can make it! No more commie censorship there!"
Though you'd get Jesus' censorship.
"Before Jesus, you're just one sinner. Lowly illegal. Doesn't mean auto-hell! Heaven's gates open to all!"
Dazzahao clutched my coat hem, mumbling something.
"I'm... Taiwanese... grk..."
"Taiwan number one!"
"Taiwan... number one!"
De-China'd, de-world'd, de-sinner'd—Dazzahao passed peacefully. No doubt in my mind he'd ascended.
"Brother Dazzahao's safely heaven-bound. Hallelujah."
"You psycho... suuuueeeek!"
The thigh-gape victim crawled, cursing. I stomped his gushing wound.
"Aaaaaagh! You fucker!!!!!!!!!!"
"Where's the goods headed?"
"You fuck... what crew...?"
"Han Daeri, repentance helper of the Nazareth Monkey-Spanner Faction."
"Die, you fuck!"
The dropkick-victim I figured KO'd lunged from behind, throttling my neck. I tensed and kept talking.
"Where'd, cough! you take, cough! the goods, cough! spill it, cough!"
"Fucking die already!"
"Agh! Quit stomping, fucker! Hey, clear this prick first!"
No talking sense outta these. I whipped out the thick tome—sealed with thin chain and lock, atmospheric as hell but a pain without a bellyband. It'd blocked a homeless knife to my gut fine; it'd crack skulls too.
"Blasphemous wretch!"
Wham! Bible-smashed the floored fucker's dome—he foamed and blacked out.
"Don't you know hiding sin before Lord Jesus Father is the gravest offense? Cain slew brother Abel yet stood bold before the Lord, hiding his whereabouts—that sin topped the first fratricide!"
Fratricide's just kin-betrayal; lying to the Lord betrays Him direct. Sin-quality wise, obvious which is worse.
"But even you—repent and pray, all forgiven. What mercy!"
Hell, maybe Hui-ja Christ (Korean stock) was the Second Coming.
"This sinner's not snapping to, so you spill. Sins got guilt-by-association; forgiveness too—buy-one-get-one-free."
No choice, I grabbed the choke-artist's arm and flipped him overhead. He sprawled starfish, Bible-thumped in the chest, gasping sudden.
"Krhk, h-heuk! Fuck... why... won't you die!"
"Pad-lip hell since kid days stacked me infinite longevity buffs?"
"...Psycho!"
"C'mon, Jesus is merciful but time-poor. Droves clinging His pant-legs grinding repentance-tech right now. I offer the easy path—you refusing? Dazzahao'd laugh from heaven."
I alternated flashing knuckles and tome over their pain-twisted mugs.
"Pain lingers; heaven's instant. Nice Jesus-believer or Catholic silent retreat?"
Toothless yaps can't talk either—silent retreat either way.