We're Not Beasts. We're Proper Civilized Folks with Manners, Right?
"We're not beasts. We're civilized people with proper common sense and manners, aren't we?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then tell me—what should two guys prepare when visiting the home of a woman in her mid-20s, probably a shaman, who doesn't bother with makeup, wanders around in a tracksuit, swears like a sailor, and reeks of someone who was a delinquent back in school? A total crazy bitch living solo. You're an ex-S-man, right?"
S-man and I, who'd regrouped during the day, were standing right in the middle of a department store having this conversation.
"First, we need to prioritize and focus."
"Oh, fuck, you sound kinda smart for once. So what are we prioritizing and focusing on?"
"When visiting a woman with so many traits, we pick out a few key ones that symbolize her and zero in on those. Mid-20s woman, solo liver, no-makeup fashion terrorist, and a macho personality that doesn't fit modern society's push for diversity and gender equality."
Even narrowing it down, we've got four solid keywords. No wonder she's such a crazy bitch—her combat power's no joke.
"Fancy stuff won't work on a woman like this. Trust my pickup artist experience, boss."
"Of course I trust you. You even hooked a trans woman—what's not safe about that?"
"...Instead of expensive shit, something thoughtful or sincere works better. Ideally, a 'consumable' item."
"Why's that?"
"A mid-20s woman living alone, skimping on self-care, with a shitty personality? It means she hates hassle. Social economics taught me these types prefer quick, easy consumables."
"Like how office workers grab kimbap or sandwiches instead of a proper breakfast?"
"Exactly. Cheap, tasty, calorie-packed kimbap and sandwiches are perfect for busy workers. They're a sales strategy tailored to Korean office life—that's why they fly off the shelves."
Two guys in the middle of a department store midday, chatting like intellectuals. Don't we look kinda cool? The hipster posers who couldn't keep up with our brainpower were shooting us side-eye, and it made me feel seriously superior. This the peak of great pleasure mountain...?
"Men living alone can scrounge meals from whatever, so they tend toward rational, cost-effective stuff over simple consumables. Like an air fryer or sous-vide machine."
"Yeah, I've heard those expand your solo cooking options. Thought about getting one during my office drone days but never did."
Too slammed to have the time anyway.
"So we skip durable appliances or handy tools and drop the level way down to something like instant rice you nuke in the microwave and scarf."
"Makes sense."
"But grabbing cheap mart-bought stuff as a 'gift' screams tacky. So we buy branded from the department store. Take those Shine Muscat grapes over there—look perfect for a visit at first glance, but fruit's a nightmare for hassle-haters. Peeling's a pain, cleanup sucks, and the pressure of it going bad if you don't eat it fast? Solo dwellers in their 20s-30s avoid fruit like the plague for good reason."
"Never touched fruit myself. Just popped vitamin pills."
"But don't be dense and bring vitamins. They only work with placebo if you buy and take 'em yourself, with real motivation. Someone else's vitamins? Tastes like nothing."
"You're on a roll, huh?"
"Not done yet. If fruit and vitamins are out for health reasons, go for 'juice.'"
"Sounds pervy."
Juice, huh. Wonder which bastard's brain birthed that word first.
"But skip red ginseng or onion juice unless you want three days of beatings with no comeback. Even elders don't touch that shit anymore—their tastes got classy."
"So safe bet like apple or pear juice?"
"Nah, lacks sincerity. We get Shine Muscat juice."
Regular fruit's no-go, vitamins from others don't hit, plain juice feels half-assed—so Shine Muscat juice it is. Super logical, totally convincing conclusion.
The Shine Muscat brand counter staffer, face stiff as we yapped excitedly, quietly pulled out a box of the juice.
"One box, 60 packs—two months' worth, 300,000 won."
"Fucking pricey."
Sounds naughty, but slapping a premium on juice at 5,000 won a pop? Straight robbery.
Finally scoring our box of Shine Muscat juice, we bailed the department store and hopped into the pickup truck. S-man, refreshed after a solid night's sleep with no pills or booze, gripped the wheel with that young-blood swagger.
"By the way, boss, I looked into that Yonghwa Seonnyeo you mentioned. She's no ordinary shaman."
"Obviously. Seemed like she had a proper divine possession young."
"Not that—the area's got her famous, but she doesn't run a proper shrine. Stays holed up unless it's big; just shuttles between the shrine hall and altar for devotions. Occasionally hands out talismans or quick fortunes for local businesses. Far from your typical shaman."
"Looks like some monk polishing her karma, but plenty of shamans shun worldly greed."
Hell, it's the fake shamans serving minor spirits or normies pretending with no spiritual sight who fleece people, tanking the rep of modern shamans.
"She first showed up as the divine daughter of Shin-eomeoni, the Earth Queen Bodhisattva. Traveled nationwide, bulking her powers at vital spots like Odaesan, fixing possessions or grudge ghosts for free. Dug that from old blogs and SNS of folks she helped."
"Guessed she got possessed early and started as a divine daughter young, but no dirt makes her suspicious instead."
"Types like her draw hard lines between work and personal like OCD obsessives. Finding flaws'll be tough."
That's why she's suspicious. Crushing her vibe upfront to show the 'rank' gap? Pure fun. Lost in such petty thoughts, we rolled into the commercial district where Yonghwa Seonnyeo lived.
No memory of her exact pad, so time to grill locals first.
"Old timer. Me camping naked in your shop for three days straight till the cops drag me off, or you just handing over Yonghwa Seonnyeo's address nice and easy—which saves your skin more?"
"D-down straight, turn corner, right there. Stands out—you'll spot it easy..."
"Thanks. You saved your neck, old timer."
True to the cooperative grill house owner's tip, her shrine squatted smack in the commercial heart.
Clutching our overpriced Shine Muscat juice box, I knocked. No stir inside, so I yanked the door open. Sparks popped from my fingertips—zap!—and a shredded talisman fluttered down. Fingertip charred black, pencil-stub ready, but whatever.
I strode in bold, dragging uneasy-looking S-man. No 'open' lantern lit, no greeter, just eerie vibes in the tiny yard. Looked like a remodeled home-shrine.
Then a grating bell tinkled from the altar room depths.
"Who the fuck gave you permission to stomp filthy boots in here?"
A tracksuit-clad ponytail woman stormed out from the inner quarters, cigarette dangling, snapping irritably. Her stench wasn't cig smoke—more incense, thick and cloying. Like she smoked to mask the incense.
"Running a business, but short-staffed with just two guys. Came to recruit someone useful."
"Hah, calls a sane guy 'crazy bitch' when it suits. As if I'd work with someone defying heaven's will and fate."
"Your type talks big but body's honest. S-man, show her the goods."
"Yes, sir. This is Shine Muscat juice—concentrated, refined drop by precious drop, unavailable to mere mortals. Health-packed, skin-whitening, delicious. Premium brand flavor, no compromises."
S-man presented the box like a shady mobster flashing a cash-stuffed briefcase.
She stared, incredulous, flicked ash from her cig, and spat:
"First meet, your face was just twisted. Now you waltz in upside-down—what d'you think I thought?"
"This guy's got killer head game?"
"Fucking persistent bastard. Reaper's blade scar on your neck, but you're still kicking; psychopomps itching to lasso and drag you, and you brazenly hit up a shaman."
"Real men ignore piddly shit. Anyway, you look like a jobless bum—wanna work with us? Passion pay, but good experience for you?"
She ignored me, turned to S-man.
"You—reapers say you're marked dead in the ledgers, fate all tangled 'cause of this guy. Won't die pretty. Follow the natural order now? I could unknot it while it's fresh."
"I'm already sworn to the boss."
"Fine, if you wanna die uglier, not my business. Piss off—your bad vibes might summon shit that ain't here."
"Scared? Just say you're scared."
"...What?"
"No real skills, so can't run a shrine—clients would bleed you dry. Join me, get socialized, build that spiritual power? Win-win."
She chucked her half-smoked cig into the yard, eyes blazing fury at me.
"Only reason I don't rip you apart? Others'll do it without me lifting a finger. Want a clean death? Watch your mouth."
"All solo women this hysterical?"
"Her time of the month, maybe?"
"Good point."
I faced the ice-cold glaring madwoman head-on.
"Join my crew."
"Or?"
"Solo protest here daily. Not open for business, so no disruption. Legally protected free speech—cops can't touch it. Not like those fake Jesus freaks on Line 1."
Three days chanting Jesus Heaven Nonbelievers Hell. Hymns during her prayers, preaching Lord Jesus Father's word.
"Hate it? Join up."
Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office—2/3 staffed. You make it full.