BBQ Feast for the New Hire
"Auntie! Pork galbi for five and another bottle of peach soju here!"
"Hey, peach soju's too gay—order a bottle of makgeolli too."
"One makgeolli as well!"
We slapped slabs of protein and fat onto the scorching grill, tearing into a proper welcome dinner for the new hire. Once I promised to pawn my very life as collateral, the Mad Woman stopped objecting and agreed to work at our office. What a fucking picky bitch.
"Eat up and grow big and strong."
"...I can feed myself."
"Feed yourself my ass, you little shit. You reek of someone who can't even grill a single piece of meat properly. We're both ex-pro office drones—shut up and eat what we give you."
I scooped a pile of perfectly cooked meat onto the Mad Woman's side plate with the tongs. Apparently, she'd grown up mooching off meals served by kitchen aunties her whole life. She'd been receiving divine possession since childhood, wandering the country as a shaman, so she knew how to set up ritual tables—but never learned to set her own damn plate. I also just found out she was 22 this year. Prime age for college kids to be partying it up.
"Hey, can shamans even eat meat?"
"Shamans are deeply tied to Buddhism, but that doesn't mean we follow a strict diet, boss."
"I mean meat from animals slaughtered specifically to be eaten by humans. Aren't shamans sensitive to killing animals and shit?"
"As long as there's no malice behind it, it's fine. Like, village elders beating a dog to death the old-fashioned way? Can't eat that. You'd get sick for sure."
The Mad Woman stuffed her wrap with ssamjang and meat only, skipping the garlic and peppers entirely. Who knew this bitch, two years older than twenty-something me, was such a picky eater.
"Then why skip the garlic and peppers?"
"They're spicy and bitter."
"Our lives are plenty spicy and bitter already—how the hell does a shaman claim she can't handle garlic and peppers? One clove and one pepper per wrap. I'm watching."
"...Fucking nag."
"Piss off then, you be the boss~ In this office, I'm the law and the truth~."
S-man, ever the demonstrator, showed off proper Korean ssam culture. He layered perilla leaf on the lettuce, piled on rice and heaps of meat, added chopped green onion and ssamjang, then jammed in garlic and peppers like a madman. Shoving that massive wrap into his mouth and chomping away, he looked just like a farmer's boy scarfing down a snack after fieldwork.
"Look at this guy. Eats well, grows big, and boom—model looks. Wouldn't look out of place anywhere."
Except down below.
"Shamans are human too, boss. We can have likes and dislikes. Right?"
"Not the shaman of the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office."
I tonged a plump, grilled garlic bulb onto the Mad Woman's wrap. She ate it grudgingly, the lazy bitch. If I didn't force it, she'd probably live off instant ramen and convenience store bentos forever.
"There, kiddo's fed properly. Now time for me to monopolize the grill?"
"A drink first, sir?"
"Mix peach soju and makgeolli, 1-to-2 ratio."
The sweet peach aroma blended with makgeolli's milky tang, turning it into something like Milkis. The opaque makgeolli mixed with clear soju into a milky pink, but the taste shifted from sweet to refreshingly tart—like a crisp cocktail chasing the greasy meat.
"Kuh, perfect. Pork galbi's done for."
Alpha male trait: Base of two lettuce leaves, mountain of meat.
Faggy trait: One lettuce leaf, mouse-tail portion of meat.
"That Perpetual Manager fat fuck made every company dinner a game of eyeing portions. Now I'm the boss—no more watching my back. Power's the shit."
I swept a full serving of pork galbi off the grill, slathered ssamjang, garlic, and peppers, topped with green onions, and rolled a wrap ready to burst. Doubting it'd fit, I crammed the lettuce boulder into my mouth anyway—suddenly I got why AV actresses roll their eyes back on huge cocks.
"Oguk, ogogogogok!"
Feeling my esophagus tear as I forced it down, a rush hit from my toes to my brain. The insane thrill of choking on a monster then slamming it to your gut—I finally understood. Eyes wide, it rivaled a chronic constipated guy's first clean dump. No more settling for small wraps; my throat was ruined for anything less.
You slutty bastard. Here's another. Eat it good.
As I geared up for the next, the noisy BBQ joint's door flew open. Someone charged in—a totally average early-20s guy, college student vibes from head to toe. But his next move? Far from ordinary.
He bolted to a nearby table, grabbing sizzling meat bare-handed off the grill. Not stopping there, he snatched sides and booze, wolfing and chugging whatever he touched. Shocked patrons yelled—what the fuck?—but he just moved on, food smeared on hands and mouth.
Another table hit. Like a limit-break human—no, beast—he ravaged food and drinks. Guys finally grabbed him, but his strength shook them off easy. Women's screams echoed, the owner bellowed from the back. Smart folks already dialing 112 for cops.
Ting-a-ling.
"You filth. How dare a lowly grab ghost crawl into the realm of the living?"
The Mad Woman shook the bell at her waist with a chilling voice. The rampaging guy froze like a toy with dead batteries. Silence fell; eyes turned our way.
I was busy ogukking monster wraps down my slutty throat. S-man played bartender, mixing peach soju and makgeolli. Only the Mad Woman wiped her mouth with tissue and snarled low.
"Get out. This is where the living unwind from the day's grind, feel joy and sorrow. No place for scum like you."
Her quiet threat made the food-fiend roll his eyes at her.
"Two guys one girl, two guys one girl, two guys one girl."
"Who told you to hunt two guys one girl?"
"Find 'em and eat and drink free, find 'em and eat and drink free, find 'em and eat and drink free."
"You bastard. Covering a healthy body with a filthy grab ghost to make a food slave. Who did it? Speak."
"Find 'em and eat and drink freeeeeeeeeek!!!!!!!!"
He shrieked like a death rattle and collapsed, puking everything inside out. Dark red clots mixed with half-digested food.
The Mad Woman tsked, grabbed the peach soju bottle, and splashed it across the floor. The foul stench vanished, replaced by fresh peach scent. I already sensed the evil aura gone, so I called her back.
"Sit. Those things are like stray cats—chasing's pointless and risky. Hard to track anyway."
"Vicious black magic. Never thought someone here would use that shit."
"Then it's not Korean. Sit."
Tsking again, she returned, downed S-man's pre-mixed shot. Still fuming, she bit her lip.
Cops arrived, hauled the passed-out kid into the cruiser. Victims griped about ruined moods and appetites. I had S-man calm them.
"I'll cover everyone's meals and drinks tonight. Relax and enjoy."
With a mic, he'd pass for a presidential candidate. Flashing his card, he shouted—appetites and moods restored. The worried owner bowed thanks, rushed staff to clean the mess.
Money fixes everything.
"So, what's your take?"
I asked the Mad Woman, who'd been silently nursing her drink. Shamans half-possess when emotions spike—worse with ghosts.
Her eyes fierce, glaring at the door where the kid was dragged:
"A strong shaman can temporarily open spirit sight in normals or let 'em chat with wandering souls. But slapping a nasty grab ghost on a healthy body? Only a vicious fucker could. Shouldn't even be possible."
"So, blasphemy in your industry's eyes?"
"Worse than flaying the innocent. Once that grab ghost leaves, the body's wide open—even without the fate for it. Becomes a leaky sieve for every stray spirit. What a karmic debt...!"
"He was ordered to find two guys one girl. Plenty here besides us. Probably stacks of 'em on this street. But he zeroed in on us—means intent."
"Obviously. Crude method, no karma worries, pure malice—not Korean shamanism. If one served gods here, heaven's wrath would've smited 'em."
"Mystical orientalism for the win?"
"Eastern black magic for sure. But East's broad—China, Japan, Thailand, even Yanbian Koreans. Can't pinpoint."
"Then don't bother. Why headache over it?"
I picked at prime cuts, esophagus still orgasming—break time.
"If it's us they want, they'll come. Wait it out."