Jesus Heaven, Buddha Hell (3)
The fatal flaw of a rockstar is the insane calorie and hydration drain after just one performance. That's why real rockstars obsessed with the stage supposedly lose a ton of weight between stepping up and coming down. It's no accident sports drinks are scattered everywhere onstage—it's to keep them from collapsing mid-show from dehydration.
"But my constitution doesn't need that shit."
It's one of the few things I can brag about inheriting from my parents. That's how I could yell at that chubby bitch next to me in class when she said she hated me as a kid.
Of course, wiping out Group A didn't end things. These guys had ditched their "individual" selves to become a "collective," all huddled together to achieve Living Buddha status. No way they'd drop here.
I eyed Group B, bowing relentlessly in the vast dining hall, and Group C, chanting ancient Sanskrit sutras. Unlike Group A, the noise around them barely fazed them. Group A had been deep in meditation, so disrupting their focus was enough. But Group B just needed to bow like machines. Group C was reciting memorized lines—no focus required. Do you need concentration to repeat that 1+1=2?
To take down B and C, I needed a different approach.
"Meal time!!!"
Right on cue, S-man appeared at the cellblock entrance in guard uniform, bellowing with gusto. He wheeled in a cart through the automatically opened bars. The portions looked skimpy for all the inmates, but for one person—me—it was a feast fit for breaking tables.
"Your requested special meal, sir."
If external interference wouldn't work, time to stir up internal conflict. The grub S-man had swiped straight from the staff kitchen put that shitty dried pollack dish from my first day to shame. Prisoner chow and guard meals were strictly separated, so using guard-exclusive ingredients naturally yielded a gourmet spread.
"Can't resist beef seaweed soup."
This deeply simmered beef seaweed soup had a broth depth rivaling beef soup, and even the slippery seaweed—usually a love-it-or-hate-it deal—went down smooth thanks to the beef's umami and fat. Wrap a lump of rice with crunchy kimchi and shovel in a big spoonful, and you'd get why our ancestors fed moms this stuff postpartum. It pries open even the most jaded appetite straight to the throat.
After lightly padding the stomach with hearty beef seaweed soup, it was time for the side dishes. Pan-fried tofu, sesame oil-seasoned mung bean salad—mild but nutty and fresh—egg-battered fried patties. Sample each in order, finish with kimchi and rice. Rinse the palate with more soup, then turn to the star: braised short ribs.
Grab a thick chunk, bite through the tender meat, and soy-braised goodness floods your mouth. Worlds apart from the soup scraps. Imagining missing this today—or regretting it forever—horrifies me.
Do I really have to savor this joy alone?
No answer from above. But I already knew mine.
I quietly hefted the rib pot and rice bowl toward Group B, sweating buckets mid-bow. One bow, one rib bite. They rise, two bites. Wipe sweat from drenched sleeves, one rice scoop.
"Nutrient-packed ribs, tiger-energy rice—mix with sauce, potatoes, meat, top with kimchi... kuh!"
I'm a man of action, not empty words. From the ribs, I pick the melt-in-your-mouth prime cuts steeped deepest in sauce, pile them on rice. A nudge scatters flaky potatoes and sauce over it all. Starch binds with rice, sweet-savory glaze amps the stickiness. Crown with lavish meat—pure temptation.
I pity vegans from the heart. Doomed to chomp tasteless greens and fake meat forever, oblivious to this bliss. Born that way or traumatized into it, sure—but for those who know the taste, sweat-drained like these guys?
In our era where "flavor" rules, humans live to eat, eat to exercise, exercise to eat. Workout hunger hits, gorge, then guilt-loop back to the gym. There, they grasp salt, sugar, protein, carbs' glory. No salt or sugar? Not food. Protein, fat, carbs—a destined love triangle.
I've served the ultimate tongue-and-brain ravisher: salt, sugar, protein, fat, carbs. Rejecting the devil's whisper might be human will's pinnacle, but who could? Especially Koreans here.
What nation are Koreans? Sweet, salty, spicy—hook 'em on bold flavors. Rice love etched in DNA since tiger-smoke days. Any side dish with rice? Mix or fry it up—we own that.
Behold: Your vague nirvana's unreachable, but genes and soul crave the familiar. This is it. Rice, sides, spoon—anyone's realm. No enlightenment, asceticism, or self-abandonment needed.
Look! Ribs before you! One bite probes worldly truth, pure bliss, hollow end—profound. Ribs are Buddha, rice truth.
Thud!
One inmate crumbled—dehydration, hunger, desire unbroken. Endless toil, frail flesh, shaky mind. I sneered at those sharing pain for unity, flawless focus for oneness.
"Mm, Koreans run on rice power, after all."
Spoonfuls of rice, meat, thick sauce coated every crevice.
"Ptooey."
Clink. A sharp rib bone shard hit the empty bowl. I flashed the "lotus" etched on my tongue.
But not your standard lotus. My dark red blood mixed with near-black rib sauce formed a Black Lotus.
"The lotus (Buddha) blooms pure, sacred, wise from mud (world), transcending unstained. He stood alone, lofty, unique. But you? Can't shed the world, cling to base life—unclean, unholy, unwise. How call yourselves transcendent lotuses from mud?"
Ordinary man on cross up Golgotha ain't Jesus. Nuking the world don't make Yahweh. Ditching self for petty reasons to Buddha-up and sow chaos? Hardly righteous. Criminals, plain.
"That's why I love you. He surely does too, so I love you."
Sinners like you must ascend to heaven—I'll applaud gladly.
I gazed at the ragged mob swarming the pot like three-day starved beggars. Not one resisted the world—all flocked. Filthy mud. No lotus bloom, no throne atop. But prime heaven-fodder.
I watched them devour ribs, cough blood, collapse. Black lotus poison soaked their worldliness—transcendence lost forever. Dreamers fallen far meet this end. Like all-in coin chumps biting peak—na rak drop, no climb back.
I'm just sending them heavenward cleaner than Han River polluters.
"Die human now. Happier that way."
The day they'll thank me for humane death dawns. I swear: you're truly blessed, no lie.