Turn the Other Cheek
■Aang aang aang~ I like you~
"Hey, get lost while I'm asking nicely."
I'd just barely missed S-man at the motel entrance, and now this pickled radish-looking bouncer—who looked ready to beat the shit out of me—was blocking my way.
"Wearing that mismatched long coat with a weightlifting belt? You're obviously some creepy stalker or hidden cam pervert, you fuck."
I couldn't fathom how anyone could look at me and come up with that logic, but the bouncer stood there like a gatekeeper filtering out total losers and deadbeats from the club line.
"I'm a customer too."
"Customer my ass. Who the hell flashes their dick in front of people like that? You think I haven't seen your type before? I've dealt with enough of you creeps sneaking into busy motels, planting bugs and hidden cameras in every room. If you don't want to get dragged out with a broken limb, fuck off when I tell you to."
I scanned the bouncer from head to toe. They called him Pickled Radish because of his looks, but he'd clearly hit the gym—solid build, tall frame, the type who could snap bones without trying. Not that I gave a shit about bones. Animal bones are funny like that: they break, heal, and come back stronger.
"Here's the deal. When I say I'll pay quietly, you let me in nice and easy. I'm busy and don't have time for this."
"...Dude, are you insane?"
The bouncer glanced around, noted how the nightlife strip was still quiet since it wasn't late yet, and growled. His fists were clenched tight—he was itching to swing.
"We're both better off this way. You get paid properly and keep taking customers; I handle my business. Isn't that just capitalism?"
Back in Jerusalem, which wasn't capitalist, Jesus beat and chased out the merchants without permission. But once they started selling indulgences, he unofficially greenlit capitalism. No law says faith alone suffices where people are—Jesus knew that shit well. Don't people kneel easier at the cross when they've got money and bread to farm some faith in peace?
"Fuck, I've been holding back 'cause the bosses said to chill... but you brought this on yourself, you little shit."
"Just take double payyy?!"
The boulder-like fist flying at my face nailed my jaw dead-on. Since my mouth was open, a few loose teeth clattered out. But he didn't stop—grabbed my collar, hoisted me up, spun half around, and slammed me into the asphalt.
My body hit the hard road, and pain shot up from my spine and the back of my skull like electricity. My limbs twitched like a frog on a live wire. Probably a concussion shock with compressed nerves causing acute back pain. Plus sprains, bruises, torn muscle fibers—the usual.
My life, my body—Han Daeri's always been a walking disaster.
That's why office life was nonstop drama. Who wants to hang with a problem magnet?
Come to think of it, I've been a mess since kid days.
I couldn't hold back anger, always causing shit, popping out problems like a frog laying eggs. I was a goddamn walking problem factory.
"Hah, why are there so many people who love money until you actually offer it?"
Win-win for everyone. Isn't money like that chewy pussy every guy wants to pound once?
So was this guy lifting his pillar-like leg to stomp me a eunuch? Didn't peg him for one.
Over-testosterone can make you seedless like a watermelon. My bad for lacking empathy.
Offering a eunuch a chewy pussy to let me in? No wonder he was pissed. I'd lose in court.
Thud!
The kick to my unguarded gut ripped through my abs and peritoneum like it wanted to pulverize my organs. So hard it felt like my half-digested kongnamul gukbap from breakfast was surging up. Silver lining: no mint choco cake. Otherwise, I'd be blasting mint choco energy beams right now.
"Fucking bastard! Goddamn prick! You think I'm a fucking idiot!!!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Even from my omniscient Han Daeri POV, the merciless stomping on a downed opponent felt a bit much. Then I remembered that legendary line only boomers know, so I grabbed his foot with my trembling hand.
"Thank you... my ass hurts, kid......"
"You crazy fuck!!!!!!"
It was just a YouTube algorithm classic TOP 15 line. Shit.
Finally, after more kicks, he stopped, panting hard. Thinking his job was done once he dumped me in the trash, he hauled my wrecked ass up.
"Can I go in now?"
"Urk!"
As I brushed off my filthy coat and asked, he freaked, ass-planting backward. Is "ass-plant" too gay for a guy falling? For equality, say "lower body collapsed." Jesus loves everyone except gays.
"Y-you... how...?"
"Guess I gotta claim damages. Can I get in free instead?"
I popped my dislocated jaw back with a crack, and he scrambled up, horrified but standing. Thinking I wanted more, he spread his arms and stepped forward.
"Jesus said, 'If someone slaps your left cheek, offer the right one too.' That way you rack up more payout. Hammurabi-style eye-for-an-eye is fair, but Jesus' Roman court win strat says mutual assault means no gain."
Funny thing: Jesus didn't win in Roman court either, got executed, then resurrected. Still a win strat—endgame victor is all that matters.
"Wanna slap my left cheek again to amp things up? Or skip the foreplay and let me into this brothel-motel? Ah, that sounded gay—filter as needed."
"M-monster......!"
"Next, you say: 'Get out of our motel, you monster!'"
"Get out of our motel, you monster!"
"Nah, pass."
S-man was probably about to bang with his girl, so I grabbed the bouncer's hair like a weed and smashed his head down. The burly powerhouse knelt helplessly.
"I used to be like you. Hot-tempered punk starting shit. But I graduated after growing up. Turns out no more meds needed."
Daily Bible thanks once, Lord's Prayer once, hymn once! Doing that religiously, my rage faded unnoticed. Realized people must judge rationally, not swept by anger.
So the knuckle duster on my hand wasn't rage—pure reason. And straight-punching his trembling-dog face? Calculated decision.
"Die and go to heaven—no worries. Live? Jesus sent you back for more life—be grateful always."
All part of Jesus' plan—no doubts.
Splat!
One punch caved his face. I dusted my hands. Finger bones mangled? Not my problem. Moms skip vax and meds to toughen kids? Same here—no hospital, I'll toughen up.
World remembers only final winners.
I dragged his caved-face ass to the alley, then leaned on the motel counter.
"Tell me the room key for that couple who just went in, or I'll sing Holy Night, Silent Night all damn night. See if couples visit a low-birth-rate country's motel then."
"7... Room 701."
"You talk nicer than the guy outside. Since you're letting me in, any service?"
"C-condoms. 0.03mm ultra-thin......"
"Trash 'em all. They're killing Korea's birth rate. Or poke holes with needles—one by one."
More kids born means more to heaven. Damn rubber-arm bastards.
I chucked the condom box into the hallway trash and hit the elevator. By now, S-man's probably sheathing his S-pen in 0.03mm ultra-thin. Hope I'm not too late.