Money Can't Buy Heaven
"Brother, you sure about this? Didn't the Jangchung-dong crew say not to touch that guy?"
"You with Jangchung-dong or Golden Gang?"
Kim Eundong, the man who preached money above all and opened the P2W Club, shot a piercing glare as he growled the question. His underling immediately shut his mouth.
Meanwhile, tables were flying and furniture shattering in one corner. The lunatics charging at the punk wearing a rotten chicken skin mask were the Golden Gang's specially prepared 'jiangshi'. To be precise, they weren't dead people, so calling them jiangshi was a bit of a stretch—but they were a modern Korean adaptation of an ancient Chinese soul-binding spell with deep roots.
The Golden Gang made junkies who borrowed money for drugs, then couldn't pay up time, sign body abandonment waivers. They ripped out the junkies' useless souls and stuffed them with murder-crazed evil spirits. In short: living flesh stuffed with already-dead souls, bound tight, then triggered into killing frenzy by a special medium—the rotten chicken skin. They became puppet squads that slaughtered on command.
Without the spell active, they were just normal living bodies, so feeding, watering, and sleeping were no big deal. They ignored their own injuries, charging like berserkers, making them perfect for gang brawls. If the body got too wrecked to repair, or cops nabbed them as perps? Just release the soul-binding—no hesitation. The evil spirit goes free, empty husk left behind. No evidence, no cleanup hassle. Way handier than dealing with regular humans.
Of course, running the club, internal ops, accounting—complicated shit still needed people. So they kept the useful ones around.
"I love money. With money, nothing's impossible. Hell, with enough cash, I could fill Hongdae streets with those puppets. I don't 'cause that old hag's still kicking around stubbornly."
He wet his lips with a sip of cognac, the sharp, bitter booze flooding his mouth. Kim Eundong had grown up rough, hooked on cheap soju that got you drunk fast and easy. But once he grabbed real money, he stuck to premium cognac. When you get cash, you gotta upgrade yourself too.
"Look at that punk. No money, just cocky skills, barging into our turf like he owns it. Watch his end."
Kieeeek!
Kyaaaack!
The puppets' ear-splitting shrieks echoed as they trashed the club. No need to look—he knew the score. The cocky kid was holding on desperately, but sheer numbers had him on the ropes, defense crumbling. Bones snapping, flesh tearing, bodies crushing. By the time the puppets' bloodlust faded, he'd be unrecognizable meat mush. They'd scoop it up, toss it in the communal incinerator from his last rampage. Only recognized crews on this street could use that incinerator. Some punk thinking he could? Time to teach street rules. Sure, he'd be the one getting used in it, not using it.
"Tip the cleanup crew extra today. Buy new furniture and tables outright. Beating one retard to pulp's worth the expense..."
"...Brother."
"This fucker interrupting when I'm—"
He glared at his underling mid-sentence, then whipped his head the other way. The guy's terrified point toward the opposite side felt off. Come to think of it, when did the crashing and roars stop? No more meat-tenderizing thuds?
Turning, Kim Eundong saw the punk—drenched head to toe in blood—calmly returning to his seat. Fresh droplets dripped from his brass-knuckled fist. The rotten chicken stench was gone, replaced by the thick, hot tang of human blood. The demon slathered in warm gore casually ordered another Quick Fuck from the bartender, who mixed it with a face like death warmed over.
"What you said earlier was pretty memorable. 'Money makes anything possible.'"
"...Who the fuck are you?"
"Couldn't agree more. In capitalist society, what can't money buy? Hell, even back in the day, those Western cokeheads sold indulgences. What's different now?"
"Who the fuck are you, you dogshit bastard!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Really wanna know?"
Kim Eundong's jaw locked. It felt like invisible hands forced his mouth shut, refusing to budge. He desperately wanted to scream who the fuck are you again, but unseen hands held him back. Not to scare him—no, these were warm hands protecting him, pulling him away. Hands like his grandparents and parents, who left him young in that freak accident.
"That day was your elementary school graduation."
"!"
"Your family rode out to pick you up—proud kid strutting out with his diploma."
"S-stop."
"Then outta nowhere, a luxury limo runs the light, slams into your car. Your cheap family sedan—barely seats one household—bounces into oncoming truck traffic, crushed flat."
"Stop, I said stop!"
"Limo guy's loaded. Bribes your fresh-grad relatives, pins it on the unlucky trucker who pancaked your fam. He had the power, the cash."
"STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Kim Eundong shot up, grabbing the blood-soaked demon's collar. Black eyes, depthless voids, stared back. But the demon wasn't done, droning on flatly, digging deeper into the 'sin':
"Night before graduation, you begged Dad to take leave, pick up Grandpa and Grandma from the nursing home too. Wanted the whole family cheering your big day."
"I-I...!"
"What if you'd said just Mom was fine? She'd have walked to your nearby school. No Dad hauling elders from afar, no crash."
Kim Eundong's grip slackened; he collapsed backward. Legs gave out—couldn't stand. Couldn't even look up.
"I see sins. If you think it's sin, it becomes sin—even if it wasn't. And yours? Crystal clear to me."
The demon grabbed his cocktail with bloody hands, downed it one-shot, the booze reeking as fierce as the gore.
"Don't get it twisted. World's piled with way poorer, way worse bastards than you. I've lived a shit life too, so I know. But what's the difference between us?"
What the hell is it? Human vs. monster?
"I believe in Jesus. You don't."
"......"
"Scrape all the cash you want—no Jesus, it's worthless. Your sins from usury, dope, trafficking, hits, curses? Money won't wash 'em."
Only faith in the Lord forgives sins. Money? Just a tool for comfy earthly life.
"This hits the spot. Bartender, another."
"Y-yes...!"
The monster—on his third Quick Fuck—slipped off his knuckles, gleaming gold amid the dark crimson.
"Self-defense. Made it my win from the jump. Hate someone enough to kill? Don't give 'em self-defense wiggle room. One-shot to Jesus' side, no mercy. Keep it simple."
He tapped his temple with his index finger, downed the third drink, then strolled out past the minced puppet corpses.
Before leaving, he asked the bound spirits at the entrance, 'Where do I go to join the community?' They answered gladly; he crossed himself, laid hands on their foreheads. The soul-bound club ghosts ascended in a flash.
That day, P2W Club hung three skulls and closed for business.