Want to Bury Your Nose in the Meme Girl's Snatch? Everyone Smash Upvote Once?

"Ya-ring-ko-ring, what a crazy bastard." Whoever it was, spewing such trashy words without shame meant they sure as hell weren't right in the head.

I was getting so dizzy from that Ho1Gam ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠newfag virgin's comment that I was about to close the gal. But then, like a guy grabbing his dick before bed out of habit, I reflexively opened the request board.

Come to think of it, on that Jindo trip a few days ago, I'd only spent money without earning any, so I needed to hustle more. Sure, money isn't everything in life, but the fatal flaw of humanity is that without it, you're miserable. Life without Jesus is fine, but no cash? Misery. What irony.

"The Illuminati controls the world's economy~." The pyramid and eye on the dollar! That eye! That eye! That eye!

"Any decent requests?" The newfag virgins from single-parent homes, fresh off their inefficient family education, had already snatched all the good ones. Fucking useless pricks. Maybe chuck some Halabong banana at them and crash—

Right as I reluctantly hit refresh, a piping hot new request popped up. Views: 0, comments: 0, claimants: 0. Even by virgin theory, it was pure.

My thick, long finger tapped the title, and the post lost its virginity, baring its shameful guts.

"Reward's 500? Nice." 500 grand meant kongnamul gukbap for a thousand bowls. If the client was trading their daughter's life and family peace for a thousand bowls of bean sprout soup, then bean sprout soup maniac Han Daeri would gladly step in.

Fearing someone else might snag it, I slammed the claim button. Once claimed, my contact info auto-sends to them, and theirs to me—no hassle.

Sure enough, before I could call, they rang first.

"Hello? Is this the one who claimed the request?"

"Yes, Han Daeri from the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office."

"Thank God! We're so scared... Even today at lunch, that bitch! Eek, eek, eek."

"Ma'am, calm down first and explain slowly. If a pro steps in, it's nothing. Even pest control guys go after cockroaches the size of their forearms. That's what pros do. Same with me."

"Ah, sob! It's so scary..."

"Is your husband nearby? Anyone can explain as long as they tell me."

"Husband's here, but... it's fine. I'll explain."

"Go ahead."

Her trembling voice showed she was tense as hell, but she pushed through with curses, sighs, and sobs.

"It started just a few weeks ago. When my daughter's summer break ended and she went back to school..."

"Sorry to interrupt, but how old is she?"

"Nineteen this year, senior."

"Nineteen, senior." It was late September now, post-Chuseok. Suneung was right around the corner. No wonder the freakout—not freshman or sophomore, but senior year.

"That day... nothing unusual. She usually gets home from academy at 11 PM, but she was two hours late."

"Did something happen to her?"

"That's what I'd like to know! Asked what kept her, no answer—just locked herself in her room. Next morning, skipped breakfast and went to school alone!"

"Got it. Any special incidents during summer break, or before it started? Met someone?"

"No way! Me and hubby manage her schedule like hawks. She's quiet, polite, pretty—losers sniffing around would be a disaster!"

"What about academy? Something between drop-off and pick-up?"

"Called them—picked her up from school as usual, studied, dropped her home around 10:50 PM. Checked the black box. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠True."

"So she got dropped off, pretended to go in, then ditched elsewhere."

"Exactly why it's weird! She wouldn't! Must be possessed!"

"I see. You love and trust her completely—comes through loud and clear."

"Right?! We've poured everything into making her a doctor! Normal schedule: home by 11, shower, study till 2 AM, up at 6 for preview/review, breakfast, hubby drives at 7:30!"

"Impressive. Even doting parents don't go that far. But possession—especially by a demon, not some grab ghost or evil ghost—is rare. Do you sense spiritual stuff normally?"

"Of course! We hit church hard—tithes, offerings on point. Wouldn't miss that demon stink!"

"Right. Any weird house stuff? Flying objects, strange noises, mystery bruises?"

"Not really. Oh! Hubby's arm and neck had scratches and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bruises!"

"Critical. Definitely the demon."

"See?! Hear that, honey? I'm right!"

"Yeah, seems so."

"Good. Too late to visit now—tomorrow morning early okay? Easier without her if she's possessed."

"Perfect—the sooner the better. Just now she went nuts with a kitchen knife; we're hiding in the master bedroom. Please."

"Yes, tomorrow morning. Send address."

No sooner hung up than the text came: swanky Gangnam high-rise complex. The kind no average Joe touches—not unless you're that family chaining a lake ghost for centuries of forced blessings. Ironically, their third-gen heir works for us.

"Another notch in my mad movie history."

To wake early, pound some gukbap, and head out, time for bed. In the dim office center, I sprawled on the premium-leather sofa, long coat as blanket.

Today's me got the baton from yesterday's; tomorrow's from today's. Always yesterday's me wins. Dumb thought lulling me to sleep.

Sweet dreams ahead—until some rat-footed fucker crept the hallway outside at this hour.

"Haa."

World's shittiest types: two kinds. One wakes you just as you're dozing.

Giggle.

Eh, probably nothing. Sleep time.