Another Boring Day That Gets My Dick Going
Another tedious day kicking off by teasing my morning wood. If I keep living like this, I might end up infamous as the stamina king who pitches a tent even in old age. When that time comes, maybe I should seriously consider auditioning for the lecherous old man role in AVs, ogling young girls with creepy eyes.
I woke up on the office sofa, washed up in the bathroom as usual, and brewed some coffee. Today, neither S-man nor the Mad Woman—that's Yonghwa Seonnyeo—was coming in, so I'd be stuck spacing out alone like some lonely old fart. It was that irregular day off we had maybe once a week, if at all. Our office dealt more in mental exhaustion than physical, so without these breaks—like call center workers unplugging from emotional labor—we'd all go insane. I didn't want to shove my employees into psych wards with tears in my eyes, so I gritted my teeth and declared today a holiday.
S-man was spending rare time with family, catching up with friends too. Hell, he even planned to brag about quitting S Group and his current gig. No need to ruin his happy vacation. The Mad Woman? Holed up in her shrine-temple-whatever, chanting prayers like always. Said being around us dirtied her soul and she needed a cleanse. 'Not all women are like that, but single ones who can't keep themselves together and lack any iron will tend to be hysterical as fuck.' As the boss, swallowing all that hysteria whole—ain't that true emotional labor? Why doesn't anyone empathize with me?
"These are the end times, man."
I dumped five sugar cubes into premium canoe coffee, stirred vigorously, and slurped while lounging on the sofa. Morning news droned on about that massive blackout in Hongdae streets the other day. Some Korea Electric Power Corp. spokesman blamed the extreme temperature swings from our shitty fall weather—people cranking AC and heat at once, spiking demand. My lips curled in a smirk. I flashed back to the brief encounter after handling that incident.
S-man and I were hauling the tanuki's corpse to the incinerator when some high-up from the gang running it showed. He demanded a meet, then bitched that Hongdae's public incinerator was only for local "mystics" and their crews—outsiders like us had no right, so fuck off. I'd used it once before, so the sudden ban pissed me off. I sent S-man and the Mad Woman home early, citing tomorrow's day off. Then I charged the foul-mouthed prick, mashed his face like chewy rice cake, and torched the tanuki corpse. Took extra time pounding the other rubberneckers who wanted the same treatment, but we got it done.
And now, exactly a day and a half after that blackout, I wasn't lounging on the sofa anymore—I had visitors.
BAM BAM BAM!
"We know you're in there! Come out nice or else!"
"Don't make me rip the door off—and your limbs too!"
I'd heard geniuses feel like they're talking to apes with normies. Same vibe here—maybe I'm a genius? I chugged the hot coffee like steaming soup, threw on my fall staple: the coat. Opened the office door and launched a kick on instinct.
WHAM!
"Gahk?!"
"You fucking prick. We only let three types in here: chink delivery guys, clients, and my staff. Who the hell pounds on someone else's sacred door like a cocky shit? You gonna pay if it's dented or scratched? Fuck, it's actually dented!"
"No, it was like that before we—"
"Rip my door and you're dead, asshole!"
I cycled punches through the loitering goons, then body-slammed the gut-clutching one on the floor. Locked his neck in an armbar and twisted—he tapped frantically, groaning.
"M-mercy... mercy, sir!"
"How much?!"
"H-how much you want?!"
"A lot!"
He yanked out wads of 10,000-won bills from his wallet—clearly dirty money for hookers and drugs, fueling his debauched life. By stopping him, I'd saved another soul from the pit of evil!
"One, two, three... only fifteen bills?"
"Who carries cash these days? It's all digital tra—agh!"
"Who backtalks without a clue these days? Everyone shuts up and pays."
I pocketed the fifteen sin-stained scraps, then hauled the sprawled goons up one by one.
"So, it's our irregular day off at the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office, no reservation call—why show unannounced? I swear I tossed you my card at the incinerator."
The card had the office number and a rough map.
"Cough cough! Our boss wants to see you...!"
"Then he should come here, not me going to him. When did the ways of the jianghu sink this low?"
"We're just errand boys—we don't know details!"
As I raised my fist again, the rat-faced one flinched and yelped. Makes sense—in a world where fists trump law, sending two meatheads and a snitch fools most. But I'm no average joe. I'm Han Daeri.
"So, where and when did your boss summon my head?"
"...You really don't know? Everyone on this street knows our Pay 2 Win Club."
"Name five Korean presidents."
"Uh..."
"Fucking colonized jap sympathizer."
A pure Korean too dumb to know his presidents, trying to boss me? I lightly smacked the snitch's occiput, then dragged the dizzy meatheads outside. If punches drop 'em easy, they've been starved for days—poor bastards need feeding before delivery.
"I love chink food. You will too."
"I prefer triple samgyeopsal jjajangmyeon mo—agh!"
"This your money? I'm buying—eat without bitching!"
I ignored the grumbler—it is my money—and hit the spot for piping-hot chink breakfast, best in the morning. The chef uncle served four bowls of jjajangmyeon, big sweet-and-sour pork, and free fried dumplings without a word. The meatheads sprinkled chili like no tomorrow's hangover, mixing eagerly. The snitch? Boldly poking the pork first.
"Slurp noodles once, pork once."
"......"
"Men gotta have backbone. Even eating chink: show you slurp mains before sides. Live snitchy, and no respect forever."
Finally, the snitch timidly slurped noodles—surprised by the taste, he demolished radish, pork, and dumplings too. Post-brunch, we stacked three-color ice cream in a snack cone like a pagoda—old chink joint tradition—and headed out.
"Uh... we're late already. Better hurry? Our boss gets scary mad."
"She hot?"
"It's a guy."
"Then fuck off."
A busty babe fuming cutely while waiting? Hot plot. But no interest in sweaty dudes' schedules.
"You think these streets are just a graveyard for rich moths chasing vice? Half right, half wrong. You can enjoy human-style here too: claw machines, arcades. Even board game cafes and escape rooms for the insa crowd."
"Is that important now?"
"Obviously. We're playing board games next. Who knows Halli Galli? Hands up."
The meatheads tentatively raised hands. Snitch? Clueless.
"Don't know? Then get hit till you do."
We strode into a board game cafe prepping for afternoon open. The owner startled but shut up at the meatheads. I tipped extra, borrowed a toy hammer from another room, plunked it on the table.
"Slow ringer gets their skull smashed—no mercy. I'm dual-wielding, so two for me. Complaints now?"
No gripes. Halli Galli started. Surprisingly quick meatheads lunged first—but not faster than me. I hammered the snitch's head mercilessly. Dual-wield: x2, four smacks.
"Ow! Wait! Ah! Bone hit!"
"Huh? Blocking? Nice—back of head open~."
We also grabbed mahjong for four-player, sipped trendy insa drinks and snacks. After mad fun, we realized lunch neared and stood. Handed the owner all leftover cash.
"Your 150,000 won today? Worth more than anything. Agree?"
"Y-yeshir...!"
I patted the gritted-teeth snitch's back, finally heading to that retardedly named club.
Pay 2 Win Club: Pay big, get anything customized. Pyramid where the rich devour all. Top dogs claim best seats, booze, girls—or boys. Bottom feeders leech off tops, inflating spend. More underlings gazing up? Bigger ego high. Spend more, invite more—grows the joint like water business. Like whales dumping thousands, billions on auto-farm games. Apt name, really. Just retarded.
"That building. We're dead..."
"Told ya: backbone. Phones off for a bit? Say you gamed with me boldly."
"Sigh..."
"Or I'll say it."
"Better say we got beat and passed out hours. True anyway."
Whatever. I marched to the glaring door goons. They spotted their battered pals behind me, eyed me warily, and parted. Gatekeepers must spot block/allow right—or die unlucky. These two had the smarts.
Inside the pre-open club, staff bustled cleaning. Post-orgy guests always trash—cleaning's their main gig. Like street cleaners sighing over endless Hongdae trash for decent pay. Closed clubs trap booze, makeup, body odors—AC and purifiers run 24/7.
Crossed spotless tiled floor to the guest bar. Already: dozen suited bruisers, one loner nerd solo-drinking pathetically. I sat casually, ordered a Quick Fuck from the shivering bartender. While mixing, I addressed the sole white-suited oddball.
One thing to clear first.
"Any conscience? Free those bound spirits at the door. No minimum wage, 24/365 slavery? Rude."
Club/den gatekeepers need sharp eyes—dull ones die. Those two doofuses died from bad judgment alive; now ghosts, reduced to "quick-guest-sorters" for the club.
The on-the-rocks whiskey sipper chuckled.
"Real mystic, huh. A normie might've just gotten warned."
I eyed his pocket—scripted cheese lines? No such luck. Unfortunate for us all. Me, you too.
"Quick Fuck. Love it—gets you fucked fast."
The drinker, or folks around 'em. Me? Latter.
Downed the shimmering Quick Fuck, slipped on knuckles. Ceiling panels parted overhead—blood rained down. Bruisers silent till then roared savagely, charging.
"Target curse? Modern touch."
Old curses vague, hard to pinpoint. But modern minds modernized 'em. This blood? Pinpoint hex turning maniacs berserk, attacking mercilessly till death. Like tossing honey-coated guy to bees.
"Jesus heaven, nonbelievers hell!"
Nazareth Monkey-Spanner bulked up to survive Israel's barren wilds and hard hearts—muscle and violence are faith's symbols!