The Quitter's Rampage
Maybe the common thread between schoolyard beatdowns as a kid and smashing your company as an adult is that burst of pure catharsis in such a short time. I knew this happiness wouldn't last long, but I threw myself into savoring that fleeting freedom anyway. I'd head to the Han River, basking in the subtle early autumn sunlight like it was no big deal, ordering delivery food. When my body felt sluggish, I'd rent a bike and cruise the whole river path. Even when the sky, which should have been that crisp autumn blue, turned yellowish from fine dust, I kept moving without rest. Driven by one sole determination to enjoy everything I'd never had before, I dragged my body around like I'd regressed to my early twenties as a fresh-faced college kid—even though thirty was breathing down my neck.
Belting out off-key solos alone in a coin karaoke bar was standard fare. I'd hit up a comic cafe that was already half-past its trend, devouring backlog manga with a side of jjajangmyeon. And when there was still time to kill before office drones clocked out, I'd make my way to the hoop pub. A bit early, sure, but I was craving that tender, juicy chicken with its crispy batter, washed down with a frosty pint of draft beer. Then I'd watch sports on the TV mounted on the pub wall and wash away the day's drudgery. When entertaining heavy drinkers, we'd often hit second and third rounds, ending up at a hoop pub or street stall for the nightcap. My preference was always moderate drinking, but for business, I'd match their pace with professional grit, endurance, and a few tricks up my sleeve.
Thanks to that, the pub owner—who knew me by sight—didn't give me the side-eye for showing up early for dinner. Instead, seeing me alone without a suit or arm-in-arm with clients, he shot me a puzzled look.
"Han Daeri, what's up with coming solo today? From the looks of it, you on vacation or something?"
"Quit my job. Guess I won't be boosting your sales anymore."
"Come on, when have I ever played favorites with customers based on how much they spend? It's just a neighborhood joint anyway, nothing fancy. But seriously, why ditch a steady gig out of nowhere?"
"There's people who save companies and people who kill 'em—and turns out the killer was my boss."
"Tsk tsk, that's why the top brass can't be idiots. Having a guy like you under them would've made life easy, but they don't even see it..."
"Even if you give me a ride on your plane, I ain't working part-time here."
"Busted!"
The pub owner burst into laughter at my half-joking reply, slapping his forehead. He looked like your typical shabby neighborhood uncle on the surface, but he was actually a former hotel kitchen chef—a real pro. Rumor had it he couldn't stomach the hierarchical bullshit and abuse in the kitchen, headbutted a sous-chef, and got blacklisted from the industry. So instead of becoming a master craftsman, he opened this pub to channel his skills. That's why plenty of customers came specifically for his killer chicken and sides paired with booze. I'd known the hype and often used the place for late-night client entertainment.
"The usual?"
"Solo this time, so half a bird. And cram that pint full—500cc."
"Always with the 'cram it full.' Have this to tide you over till it's ready."
He casually set down a plate of bar snacks. He'd poured his soul into perfecting these to hook customers into ordering more drinks, and damn if it didn't work. Tiny peanuts coated in sweet caramel, dusted with a light, proprietary salty seasoning. That sweet-salty combo drives Koreans wild—one taste and you're done. Next to them, flavorless but crunchy biscuits for texture, surrounded by scattered bits of jerky he'd made himself in his workshop. The stuff got rave reviews from regulars. Pros who trained seriously could elevate even the smallest things. If someone had crafted my life for me, they'd sure as hell never studied professional life-making.
"Here's your Salty-Mayo Chicken and draft."
"One thing I've always wondered— you ever gonna change that menu name?"
Salty-mayo? What the hell even is salty-mayo?
"Fried chicken with a salty edge, topped with special mayo—Salty-Mayo Chicken!"
"At least call it Salty-Mayo Chicken or something!"
Typical uncle naming sense. Grumbling anyway, I stabbed a fork into the steaming chicken. Fresh-fried tenderloin invaded my mouth first, followed by the crisp pickled radish. I gulped down the cold draft to cut the oil, clenching my lower body instinctively as my head spun. When it got monotonous, I'd pile soft chicken and mayo on a biscuit for a canapé bite.
"You look like you starved for three days. Eating like it's your last meal."
"I'm the type who vents stress by eating and sleeping."
Truth was, outside of gorging and crashing, my life had no ups or downs. I survived today—let's survive tomorrow. Just eat, drink, sleep! I'd kept these shitty habits for three years even while seeing shrinks who couldn't fix me. Now they were just routine.
"Those goddamn bastards. They're trying to lose on purpose. Struck out there?"
"You ain't a Hanwha fan for just a day or two."
"Even for fans like us who stick around, they'd win a few if they could."
Talking smack but busy handling the evening rush as seats filled up. For a neighborhood pub, he had loyal customers who kept it hopping. I'd eat my fill, down a few, and head out for the next guy's sake.
That's when rough-looking guys burst through the door, rattling the bell overhead and souring everyone's mood. But they scowled back like what's your problem? and claimed the biggest six-seater table. Only four of them.
"Hey, boss! Two of your best sellers and four 500cc drafts."
"...The hell you think you're doing in someone else's shop?"
True to the guy who'd headbutted a sous-chef in that brutal hotel kitchen, the owner charged out mid-fry. The thugs were obvious meatheads who'd eaten their share of fists—security goons at best, gangsters at worst. And sure enough, when he reacted just as they wanted, they snarled and barked.
"This a business or what? What kind of owner treats customers like shit? When they come in, you hustle over, take orders, bring food!"
"You think taking folks' money's that easy? Gotta have some damn conscience!"
"Hey, you deaf? Two best sellers and four 500cc drafts!"
"Tsk tsk, owner's got shit personality—bet the food's trash too. Still standing there? Wanna make a buck, serve your customers quick!"
It was blatantly clichéd sabotage, straight out of outdated movies or dramas. Who knew assholes still pulled this crap openly? Back in the day, they'd occupy spots and owners ate the losses, but laws changed—report aggressively now and cops handle it. But the owner didn't call; he just clenched his fists, trembling. Like I always did. That wasn't rage about to erupt—it was forced restraint.
"We ever smash your shit? Block other customers? We just wanna try that fancy chicken with beer!"
"Yelling a bit ain't sabotage—what, everyone loud in restaurants gets arrested? You ain't calling for that, right? Heh heh!"
"Unless you wanna step out like a man and settle it with fists—but that's not what we want."
"Right. We're just customers— you flip out first, you're the one screwed."
Prologue sucked, but this sabotage skit was all over the place—turns out they were sharp. Taunting gestures, needling words, meticulously skirting the law. Cops would just warn 'em. Laws change, but the world's still fucked.
Chicken nearly gone anyway, I stood, craving that light buzz on the way home. Owner wouldn't kill me over one tab. Grabbing an empty, hefty beer mug, I strode to the door. On the way, I smashed one punk's head from behind, then kicked another's chest as he rose, toppling him. Bolted out and sprinted like mad. At least pinned two—only two chasing, right?
"You fucking dog!"
"Freeze, you shithead!"
"You're dead when we catch you!"
"Grab that fucker! Kill him!!"
World didn't spin easy like I thought. Ambush worked, but all four piled out after me. Couldn't lead 'em home, so I looped streets. Ducked narrow alleys, vaulted low walls, desperately shaking pursuit. But meatheads' stamina outclassed mine—I got nabbed.
"You fuuucking piece of shiiit! Said you're dead if caught?!"
Gasping captor swung first. Schoolyard scraps honed my dodge, but another's kick sent me flying. Then indiscriminate beating—no blocks, pure one-sided violence.
"Die, you dog!"
"Crazy fuck, why hit innocent heads?!"
"Beat him to pulp! Self-defense anyway!"
"Worthless shit, what made you act tough?!"
Worthless shit. Orphan shit. Hot-tempered psycho since kid days, always causing trouble. Labeled orphan, bottom-feeder, forced into pushover salaryman role. Couldn't punch back when Perpetual Manager spat pad-lips to my face—just mumbled and left, pathetic shit. Thinks he's hot shit, punches customers in someone else's shop, now getting dog-beaten like the idiot of the century.
...*giggle*.
That eerie laugh cut sharp through curses and blows—definitely mocking me. Gonna take beatings forever? Kid tough guy on minor status, adult coward? Parents vanished to heaven or hell, guys curse 'em, you just clench fists? Delude yourself you're "letting them live," mental win your shitty life away? Better off suiciding for the world, retard?
*Cackle cackle*!
Yeah, retards like me should off ourselves. But dragging these along first? Fine by me.
"RAAAAAGH!!"
Roaring beast, I charged, snapping bones without care, fists flying. Blood blurred one eye—didn't matter, lunged blind. Block punches with face, counter with mine. Kicked down again, rolling stone caught my eye impossibly far. Stretched desperately—it rolled right to hand. Swung at lunging thugs. First crack—not mine, theirs.
Bliss! This misery, pain, desperation—not just mine, hitting them too! Yes, feel it. Know my shitty life's vibe. Ever heard of empathy? Switch places, experience it!
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
"Grraaah... someone... grab this fuck..."
Smash, crush, smash, crush—endless. Nothing left to break, swung stone madly. Finally shattered—then pulverized with mangled knuckles. How long? I'd pulped the four who tried pulping me. Standing firm, first-time ultimate victor, I shuddered with overflowing euphoria, ecstasy. Never done drugs, but this must be it. Blood and flesh stench fresher than air freshener.
This moment, first time grateful to be alive!
...*giggle*.