Jesus Heaven, Nonbelievers Hell! Eternal Life Elixir for Sale!
These days, I thought the station staff had things under tight control at every stop, cutting down on the crazies. But no—here comes some cult-peddling hawker working the subway car, hawking his wares.
"Jesus heaven, nonbelievers hell! Drink this elixir of eternal life and believe in Jesus! Just ten thousand won a bottle! Ten bottles get you ten percent off!"
People glued to their smartphones barely gave him a glance. Instead, they popped in earbuds or AirPods one by one, tuning out the noise pollution. I wandered toward the middle of the car, drawn to this guy ripping off my catchphrase left and right.
"Is that really the elixir of eternal life?"
"Of course! I drink it every day myself! Every sip washes away your sins, purifies your soul, makes you more like Jesus!"
"But I don't feel any holiness from it."
"That's 'cause you've got a ton of sins! You need to chug one right now to get your senses back! Nah, one's not enough—at least ten!"
Props for trying to fleece me out of ninety thousand won, but I could see the black sin fragments dripping from his shoulders, soaking into that mystery elixir bottle. I figured he was just your run-of-the-mill scammer ripping off the clueless, but the purity of those sins seeping in was off the charts.
Pointless envy, jealousy, rage—all mixed together.
It's not easy to harm others with raw emotions alone. You get pissed? Blow off steam solo. Jealous? Grit your teeth in private. This modern world, especially harsh on the flawed, gives extra side-eye to people who can't control their shit. I've got anger issues myself—couldn't hold it back for twenty years—so I know.
Scamming's part of it, sure, but there's darker malice here. Selling fake elixir's just a side gig; spreading it to people is the real goal.
"Ten's too many. Gimme one."
I whipped out a ten-thousand-won bill, and he looked stunned, handing over the bottle with a sour face. Folks who grill you like that usually don't buy the obvious fake. The second I had it, the train pulled into my station. On the platform, public service workers and station staff—tipped off already—waited with arms crossed. He caught on quick, stashed his gear, and bolted to another car.
I was beat anyway, hoping for some pick-me-up like a tonic. I twisted off the cap with a crack. Expecting something sweet and tangy like Bacchus or Vita 500, I got... colorless, tasteless plain water.
"Slurp. Smack smack... Don't feel any closer to Jesus."
At least he wasn't real competition. If ten grand and a bottle got you to heaven, my business would've tanked ages ago. I chucked the glass bottle in the recycling bin and started up the stairs. Then a huge shadow loomed overhead. I glanced up: a massive woman, built like her thighs could fetch three-to-five grand apiece, waddling up just ahead. Her XXL skirt strained like it might burst; one hand barely covered her ass as she lumbered along. Something boiled up inside me.
Wasn't my "bad habit" of losing my temper gone since that night? So why were my fists shaking?
Right then—like she had eyes in the back of her head—the 3-5K chick whipped around with a snooty glare, staring me down. That contemptuous look screamed, You, staring at my century-old wild ginseng calves? I seriously weighed spilling blood for victim number thirteen, but the stairs ended first. No bloodshed. She left me fuming like a volcano on the brink and waddled off.
World's full of entertaining types. Someone who should roll everywhere is walking? Hilarious, right? My rage flared fast and faded just as quick. Peace like a river flowed back in, like I'd never snapped.
"Lemme see... Supposed to meet around here..."
The old lady running the kongnamul gukbap joint solo had said she'd tip her off; meet at a cafe near the station. I swept into one, coat flapping, weaving through masked rush-hour crowds. Solo guy in a cafe's awkward, but good thing I had a meetup. Scanning the back, I spotted a woman matching the photo the granny showed and headed over.
But up close, past the partition, an unexpected face was already there ahead of me.
"Huh? The subway eye-rapist!"
"......"
How the hell did that huge frame beat me here? Anyway, the 3-5K chick pointed at me rudely, branding a normal guy an eye-rapist. Her friend—the granny's granddaughter, sitting primly across—frantically tried shushing her.
"You're Kim Hyeji, granddaughter of Kim Hyeja, right?"
"Ah, yes. That's me. You're the one Grandma said was coming?"
"Yeah, Han Daeri."
I ignored the 3-5K bitch and introduced myself; Hyeji jumped up, sliding next to her to make room. Thanks to her kindness, I dodged sitting right by the beast. Is human decency inversely proportional to body weight? Whatever didn't sit right with the 3-5K chick across from me, she silently slurped what looked like a fresh 1L caramel macchiato.
"Ah, this is my friend Jeong Suji. High school classmates, now at the same uni—different majors, though..."
"Heard from your grandma she's been worried sick. Good thing you've got such a 'sturdy' friend looking out."
Calling a guest an eye-rapist on sight? True friend material. The beheadable kind. Maybe sensing my vibe, Hyeji smiled warmly, linking arms with Suji's smoked-ham arm.
"Yeah! Friends for five years now."
"We're pretty tight. But Hyeji, why didn't you tell me about this? I was shocked."
"Sorry. Told Grandma recently, and she worried. Said she'd send someone she trusts to check it out, so we set this up sudden-like."
"Hmmm, really?"
The 3-5K chick narrowed her heavily lined eyes at me like daggers. Staring wouldn't turn me into food, though.
"Seems like your friend knows the story already, so no harm including her."
I set a cheap recorder on the table. Learned detectives, cops, reporters always pull one first for initiative. I'm none of those. The girls' reactions split hard: Hyeji, the victim, tensed but eyed me like a pro; Suji shot pure disgust and contempt.
"Excuse me, why bring a recorder to talk with women?"
"Human brains aren't that smart—can't remember everything perfectly."
"Then why not just take notes?"
"Recorder's easier."
"Ha, victim's a woman, and you're all about convenience? At least pretend with a notebook."
"Why mail letters or tie notes to pigeons when smartphones exist? Skipping easy for hard isn't 'sincere effort'—it's just dumb."
She could chug that 1L macchiato straight from the cup with that giant mouth—instead sucking through a high-tech straw. But I bit my tongue, turning back to Hyeji. My hand rested on the record button—waiting for her okay.
"It's fine, Suji. We can get the file later and listen. Better than notes."
"But people splice voices for deepfakes these days. Gotta be careful in times like these."
"Grandma vouched for him. I trust."
"Fine then."
Suji jammed the straw back in with a pout, letting talk proceed.
"Start from the first weird day in your routine."
I hit record; Hyeji laid out her recent ordeal chronologically.
"First odd thing was about a month ago."
Early August—college kids wrapping summer break. Now's typical semester start.
"After a club beach trip, coming home felt off."
"Signs of break-in?"
"Nope. Locked up tight for the four-day trip. Fifth floor—no easy climb."
"Mm-hmm, go on."
I scarfed a big bite of the banana-strawberry ice cream waffle the nice cafe owner brought. Damn, they nail waffles here.
"Opened the door after the trip—house was freezing, like midwinter. AC off, windows shut; should've been muggy. Total icebox."
She moistened her throat with Americano, calm as ever, then continued.
"Dead center of my room—sealed four days—a rat, belly bloated huge. Believe it?"
Her voice quivered slightly as she shyly showed me her photo. I nodded gravely.
"Hard to believe, yeah."
No dead rat in the photo.