Finally Got the Money to Buy a Girlfriend

I finally had the cash to buy a girlfriend. And not just any cash—a shit-ton of it. Back when I couldn't go to college, all I got from Dad was beatings day in, day out. This was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠several times his annual salary. Bullshit. Truth is, I have no idea what he made. But he splashed money on himself like it was nothing, so he must've pulled in decent dough. If he'd been making good money, why didn't he buy me supplements from when I was a kid and train me properly? Instead, he just beat the crap out of me for being hopeless, and look where that got me—no grades, no college.

Dad always said with my muscles, reflexes, and instincts, I could've gone to college as a martial arts prodigy. He said send him to college that way and repay him with filial piety. So I'd say fine, get me supplements, build my body, do martial arts, go to college, and make him proud—and boom, he'd beat me for asking for expensive shit. Fuck, even when I promised payback, he'd lose his shit. That was back in high school, and it still pissed me off. But since I made this money using the fighting skills he taught me, I couldn't hate him completely. Guess all that's left is filial duty? Nah, still hate him, so fuck that. The grudge over those supplements runs deep.

Truth is, I was great at street fights but sucked at formal martial arts. I just couldn't wrap my head around rules and fighting in a confined ring. Why can't you gouge eyes, rake flesh with nails, kick the balls, or stomp vital spots on a downed opponent? Why drag it out with slugfests or filthy grappling on the mat when you could end it quick and efficient? Winning isn't about scoring points in a game. Winning means eliminating every possible threat and risk from your opponent—total liberation from danger. Lose, and you're done. Defeat is death. So I use every suitable means to win. Well, I didn't need fancy techniques to beat Dad. He was just too weak. How's a college grad weaker than me, a dropout? Old age?

Anyway, I had money. Well, not exactly yet—it was money incoming. Lucky me: while agonizing over what to do with Dad's corpse, I figured maybe someone would buy it, so I listed it on the secondhand marketplace. Sure enough, a buyer bit. See? Barter's been around forever. Everything in this world can be traded. And it sold fast. Phone was busted, so I used Dad's to post the listing, and chats flooded in almost instantly.

But as his son, I couldn't sell to just anyone. I asked what they wanted with his body. First guy wanted to make sashimi out of him. No way—Dad gets eaten, digested, and shat out? I'd be the son of shit. He tried convincing me it's not just shit; parts become the eater's body. I asked if that meant he'd partly become Dad. Then I'd have to watch him eat Dad and fight him after to win. No more chats from him.

Second was a woman who wanted to stuff him as a taxidermy collectible. Offered big money. But when I sent pics of his bisected corpse, she raged about ruined value. Chat over.

Lots more chats. Tons of people wanted Dad for all sorts of uses. Guess he was popular in his youth, and even dead, he had fans. Tch, with this many chats, I gotta admit it—he was popular! Lucky bastard!

After chatting with a bunch, I sold to a doctor who was also a university prof. Asked what for; said cadaver for medical training dissections. Even halved? Still useful. Which uni? Hesitated, then Seoul National University. I agreed happily. Dad nagged me nonstop to go there but never did himself—now I sent him instead. Congrats, Dad! Wanted SNU so bad? Got in via cadaver track!

Wait, doesn't that count as filial piety? Clashes with my no-filial-duty policy. But he forced college on me despite flunking it himself; fair's fair, I force it on him now that I flunked too. Parents are mirrors of their kids, huh? Hate to admit it, but two admissions already. Guess I'm stuck as his son. Fuck.

Cool transaction with the doc-prof. He said they'd send the site's own courier. Hit confirm, entered home address. Alert: 20 minutes. Faster than expected. Pickup this quick? Koreans really are the delivery nation.

Nothing to do while waiting, so I scrolled the site on Dad's phone. From "Debt collection services" to "Rare stolen goods fire sale," all sorts buying and selling. No wonder people get hooked on this app. Cheap as hell, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fast delivery—money's all you need for paradise in Korea.

Browsing listings, I hit the people category. Sold Dad there, so curious about others. Weirdly, more live people than corpses. Corpses sold piecemeal—eyes, livers, kidneys—not whole like Dad's half. And each piece cost as much as Dad's half! He always said people are worth butcher meat prices—his was cheapest! How you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gonna make up for that?! Regretted not pricing higher, kept scrolling, then froze at one post.

The preview pic looked familiar, so I tapped. Sure enough, not some seaweed snack—black rectangular mosaic over one eye, star-style pics galore. Sleeveless low-cut top showing off natural tits in every shot. Blue veins peeking through—no fakes here. Two moles under right collarbone, mosaic be damned—I knew that bitch instantly. Familiar face. Knew her. I knew her.

Dad monitored me for workouts—no proper wanks. Said it'd sap strength. No dating either. Thinking about it pisses me off more? Maybe skip sending Dad to college? Real scum? But didn't wanna keep him home. Delivery already requested—no choice. Screw Dad right now. A girl I knew was listed as used goods.

High school classmate, delinquent bitch. Her gang poked at me, the workout freak, bullying for no reason. Bad memories, but big tits and personal history made it hotter.

2 million won. Just 2 mil for a girlfriend. One you could fuck. No clue if cheap or pricey. But banging the bitch who dissed me at 20? Thrilling as hell. Short deliberation—hit buy. Warning: pay delivery guy cash on receipt. No cash now, but soon Dad ships, cash flows.

Riiiing—

Phone rang right after. "Black Joongo Delivery." Picked up quick.

Delivery riders these days are so nice. Calls to update progress. Hung up, pored over used GF pics. Foxy face was a flaw, but big ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tits fixed that. Mom had big ones too—instinct pulls me to 'em. Pic-gazing flew by. Felt like 30 flips, then doorbell.

Ding-dong!

"Delivery!"

"Coming!"

Excited as hell! Like ordering jjajangmyeon at Han River Park. Rushed, flung door open—a guy in black, helmeted, huge bag slung over shoulder.