Muddy Salvation in the Swamp
Back in my childhood days, when all I did was swallow resentment day in and day out while quietly staring at the TV with nowhere to go. I once saw the Boryeong Mud Festival on television. Everyone on screen was covered head to toe in thick, black mud like some kind of darkies, giving interviews to reporters. They looked dead serious about enjoying rolling around in that filth, even slathering it on their skin, claiming it was good for you—mud that probably had all sorts of nasty shit in it. And it didn't stop there. Men, women, young, old, they'd all dive into the muck, thrashing around without a clue who was who, grinding bodies like it was a damn club. Yet somehow, just splashing in that mud pit had them all laughing and hollering like they were in paradise. It hit me hard back then.
To cut to the chase: after that day, I graduated from kid stuff like playing in mud faster than anyone. I just couldn't see it as play anymore. But what if it wasn't play? I shrugged off my coat, folded it neatly to the side, and rolled up my sleeves and pants. I wet my hair with mineral water, slicked it back cool as hell, then barefooted it right into the heart of the mud-choked swamp.
The Mapinguari crew flipped out at this outsider barging in bold as brass, growling "Woo-woo!" like I'd invaded their turf. The king—the first Mapinguari to claim the throne—raised a hand silently, and his minions shut their traps. He'd been holed up in this swamp way longer than the rest, slathered in mud and weeds, bulked up huge. That freaky wooden mask fused to his face, leafy headdress—none of it budged as his massive frame shifted.
"Man cannot live on bread alone, nor can he live humanely without the grace and glory of our Lord Jesus the Father. You lost lambs, blind to heaven's gate and adrift in time's flow—verily I say unto you: return to where you belong, and serve the one you ought to serve."
But the Mapinguari king, the first guest trapped here and twisted into a swamp monster, ignored my polite complaint and flat-out refused eviction.
"How pitiable. Even with your Goliath build and brute strength, how can you overcome the craft and intellect shaped by Lord Jesus himself? How can you live without his word? Hearken—the joyful laughter from beyond! That's what you forgot, what you must reclaim!"
The king wasn't hearing it anymore. He swung a spear carved from jagged stone right at me. The second that filthy thing stabbed into my shoulder, it was self-defense time.
"Hey, you fucking mutt! When someone's talking to you, you fucking listen!"
Crack! I snapped the shaft with one hand, didn't give a shit about getting caked in mud, and charged. That schoolyard brawl-honed tackle of mine dropped most punks flat on their asses. I'd picked up mounting and raining down dumbass punches somewhere along the way. But I'd overlooked one thing: goddamn mud. This slippery shit cushioned shocks, moisturized like a dream, and was slicker than lube. The Mapinguari eel-ed out of my tackle and slammed a massive mud fist around my throat for a chokeslam. Don't think mud's soft like a bed—packed with water, it hits like a truck when slammed down.
Splat-splat! Agony shot up my back, exploding with the mud spray, swallowing me whole. The other Mapinguari hooted and cheered like monkeys, treating it like a ride or some ancient ruin stage show. These primitives needed Jesus's love. And his love? It came straight from my fists.
"Not even blinking, you bastards!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Buried and drowning in mud, I smacked his arm away and surfaced like a spawning salmon. Leaping high, spraying mud, I low-kicked his sturdy thigh.
"Lam-gak."
Thud! My leg was loaded with mud too, turning that sharp low kick into earth-shaker territory.
"Jee-gun."
I hammered fists into the spots where mud flaked off, and he cringed like a nerd getting beat by school bullies.
"Hey, you. Use your [Tet-Kai] quick. Or you're. Fucking. Dead."
Dead or alive, heaven-bound either way—but there's that saying about preferring this life even rolling in dog shit. Despite his size, my blitz threw him off; he went defensive, slathering on more mud. Wonder what skin issues that TV auntie got the next day after gooping it on like it was gold? Bet she never went back. I know aunties.
"Ora! Ora! Ora! Urraa! Oaaaah!"
Straight lefts, then a liver blow follow-up!
"Can't block? Can't dodge? No clue? Then eat it! Huh? Looks mid but fakes low, then uppercut to the top~."
Fuck yeah! No pro fighter, but back in my Hongdae arcade gig, I schooled those Street Fighter scrubs. You think my arcade chops are a joke?!
"Hand in hand~."
Over the wall to our world~
"Make it better to live in!"
I grabbed his hand, yanked him in for a knee strike, wrapped my arm around his wobbling neck from above. Kicked his stumbling leg, jumped—slammed his head into the rock-hard mud with my full weight. No stopping; I circled behind, took his back. Our sticky grapple in the slick mud pit? That was just the opener.
"You dog! Biting's a foul!"
He went for the banned bite in grappling to escape, but I clamped down harder. Hell, I gave him what he loved—pinned him under me in the mud, grinding him down. Smashed his face in for breathing trouble, then spurred his ribs like a horse. For a guy short on air already? Pure hell.
"Wooooaaah!"
Finally admitting he couldn't win solo, he riled up every Mapinguari in the swamp. Turned my sacred 1v1 into a 1vAll clusterfuck. Damn showman.
"Squirm all you want. You'll all end up back in Jesus's pasture anyway."
I ground my teeth by his ear, then charged the incoming horde. Snatched a submerged branch for fencing stabs to throats and solar plexuses, smashed skulls with fist-sized rocks. Yanked wires from a busted speaker, garroted one while chilling on the reactions.
"Spaniards treated you 'you people' like that. First SM play in history—still burned in your memory. Mouth says no, body says yes."
O great Jesus Christ. As I aped you whipping those Jerusalem merchants, permit me the lash! Snapped a springy branch to whip-size, cracked bare-charging foes: head, shoulder, body, shoulder-shoulder-body! Mud flying! Striker hyped, striker hyped! Eye contact mid-swamp! Budding romance? Total romance novel 4D!
"Cry more, pig! Urgh! Say you'll submit to Jesus! Say heaven with him beats this mud pit—say it!"
As I personally whipped the mud pigs, a racket pulled my eyes afar. S-man had jacked an aqua park water truck, waving from the driver's seat. I thumbs-upped; the massive water cannon locked on. The blast? Matched Noah's flood from our Lord Jesus Father. Amen.