Something Stinks Here

"It's difficult. For now, this is private property too."

"Bullshit, difficult." It reeks. The stench is overpowering.

I've had a sharp nose for bullshit ever since I was a kid. Analyzing people's outward behavior, tone, and tendencies to deduce their hidden motives became a twisted little hobby of mine. If you're wondering why I'd pick up such a gloomy, fucked-up pastime, it's simple: every single person around me was a two-faced hypocrite.

Relatives who took in an orphan like me for the government handouts and the boost to their reputation. Classmates who got off on feeling superior because, hey, even if they were total idiots, at least they had parents. Surrounded by that pack of scumbags, my options boiled down to either exploding in violent resistance—which gave a quick hit of satisfaction but came with massive fallout—or slyly peeling back their masks for some guilt-free schadenfreude.

The guy standing smack in the middle of the corridor, about ten meters away, was the most familiar type of all.

"Any civilized adult with a shred of discernment starts with introductions. My card doesn't say 'demon slayer,' so no need to piss yourself."

He flicked a business card my way, stamped with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the bullshit title Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Expert. In front of the Lord Jesus and the Father, any foul aura, dirty sorcery, or insane contract gets crushed flat—that's just how it works. Not technically wrong. In the end, it's first-come, first-served: repent and pray fast, or eat shit. Like supernatural crap is some big deal.

"Han Daeri, Han Daeri, Han Daeri."

"Better than a slacker junior clerk, does more work than that eternal manager fuckwit—what else you gonna call me but 'Daeri'?"

The guy snatched my card mid-air, stared at it stone-faced, then crushed it in his fist until it crumbled to dust.

"Noted."

"Your turn to cough up a name. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠You bring something, you take ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something."

I motioned for his card, but he just flashed a smug grin.

"Your approach is refreshingly novel compared to them. Their filthy minions are all brain-dead thugs who just tie you up and scream for your name."

"It's the 21st century. Only the smart ones survive. Hell, take away a guy's smartphone, and he's back to being a suit-wearing caveman."

That's why I fucking hate suits. Same threads on everyone, yet some screech like chimps, others flop around like bloated piglets or shovel food nonstop. Dressing up morons doesn't make the system run, let alone teach them basic human speech or thought.

"Look at me. Rocking this shitty coat like a boss, strapping on a fanny pack in proud Korea where pickpockets and muggers are a myth. Symbol of the intellectual elite."

Fuck suits that hobble you in a pinch—instead, comfy rags for easy moves, and a thick fanny pack since lugging a duffel everywhere sucks. Preparedness, right? Unbi muhwan or whatever.

"So spill it already. What rock did a clown like you crawl out from under, hijacking my heaven-bound customers and rerouting them to hell?"

"You're... intriguing. I figured you'd drone on about some archaic divine will or duty, like the rest."

"Every real man carries a resignation letter and a Bible in his heart. Does this make me look more like those posers?"

I'd already chucked my resignation, so I waved my Bible instead. It flipped open on its own, pages whipping wildly with a shra-la-la-la frenzy, like it was possessed in the still air. Then it slammed to a halt on a specific page.

"Intriguing, isn't it? They preach final judgment sorting the saved from the damned to instill fear of the future, yet they blind themselves to this greater truth. No one teaches it."

I flipped a few more pages: unknown apocrypha crammed in, nowhere in standard Bibles. Far more humans damned and fallen than saved—blasphemous shit slapping the face of the Lord Jesus Father's promise to love and save all equally.

"Humans are fragile to corruption. Primal urges run deep; intellect makes them slaves to impulse. Twist their morals, ethics, and order a bit, and even pious nuns turn Babylonian whores. Pastors today? Give 'em cash and pussy, they'll rationalize straight-up sin."

"In other words, everyone's bottling up desires for liberation and an easy life."

"So you cherry-picked the weakest social underdogs like tasty side dishes to corrupt?"

I got the Revelation bit: undead crawling from hell to curse the holy skies, tormenting God's children like it was nothing. But like I said, fuck fate. If I say sinners go to heaven, they go. What's with the yapping?

I snapped the Bible shut, reopened it—back to normal pages.

"The Ten Commandments are key in the Bible. Follow 'em, and you won't fuck up half your life. But the weak get screwed because they can't. Starving to death? Pick between a juicy corruption burger or a scrap of faith? Nine times outta ten, burger."

Unless you're a psycho vegan.

"Point is: don't strut like you earned it raw. Did they really crave human flesh, rip out organs for altars, slather themselves in blood and dance like lunatics for you? Nah. Bullshit."

I kicked open a nearby door; a skull rolled out. I toed it.

"Who falls for this outdated crap? Tempt 'em right—make it trendy. Guys and gals eat that shit up."

SSS-grade babes! SSS-grade monster cocks!

"They all repented and prayed quick in front of me. Why? Your methods suck dick. Promised something good, followed along—next thing, kidnapped, gutted for organs, fed human meat. Who'd pick hell round two?"

"Every group has weak believers."

"Tempting humans against an omnipotent God? Mocking the divine? Then do it flawlessly. Isn't this contradictory as fuck? Or are your sales reps just that incompetent?"

A tiny crack split his poker face.

"Han Daeri, leaving no openings!"

I army-style soccer-kicked the rolling skull at him. He flung open every door in the narrow hall to block me, but manly grit laughs at that.

Crunch! Bang! Smash!

I barreled through, ripping decayed doors off hinges, charging the scowling prick. Three meters left. A few steps, and I'd knuckle-sandwich that pretty-boy mug.

Or so I thought.

"Fine, 'expertise' is our weak spot. We got mouths to spare, but this world's full of faithless fools. I'm slaving to save them, yet no appreciation. Sad."

"At least proselytize with drug-fueled orgies!"

"Heavens, that's outdated. Know what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah?"

Dozens, hundreds of hands from every door pinned me mid-air, half-suspended. Inches from grabbing him, but I drifted backward.

"Before teaching corruption's joys, first: imprinting. Like that guy upstairs sprinkling 'miracles' on devotees. Essential for true faith."

"So drug-orgy preaching is real?!"

"Who knows? Once your cheap soul hits hell, curiosity satisfied?"

He sneered, turning away. The pulling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠force intensified—soon, my flesh would shred beyond recognition.

Obvious outcome, so I saw his back-turn coming. I stretched my tongue like a frog, chomped hard.

Snap!

All physical grips and nauseating floatiness vanished. In the doorless corridor—never there to begin with—I was just choking myself with both hands.

I pried my fingers free, vision clearing. No one here from the start. Hallucination, auditory bullshit, delusions from breath starvation. Probably since that random skull rolled out.

I clocked his gimmick quick.

"Not drug-orgy preaching. Hypnosis-orgy preaching's your specialty."

Tongue half-torn but clamped firm, I pressed on. Time to counter with Bible-orgy preaching.

Sex.