A New Day of Treasure Hunting
It was the next afternoon.
Tom was dragging his filthy, greasy old bag down the street, scanning the ground for cans and bottles. But luck wasn’t on his side—he hadn’t found much. A faint look of worry crept onto his face. He still didn’t have enough for dinner.
At a street corner, he noticed a small deli store with a few plastic stools out front. Sitting by the entrance was a little kid with his mom. The kid was sipping from a bottle of Pepsi—already more than halfway done.
Tom’s eyes lit up. Quietly, he approached, stopping literally one foot away. He stood there silently, eyes fixed on the bottle, waiting patiently for the kid to finish it so he could pick it up.
The kid noticed. His eyes widened. There was a huge, dirty man standing right in front of him, staring down like some kind of monster. His lips started to tremble, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.
His mother turned to look—and immediately snapped.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at Tom. “Standing there and scaring a child like that?”
Tom mumbled, “I was just—”
“Get lost,” she cut him off, voice sharp and furious.
Tom didn’t argue. He just turned and slowly walked away, his bag dragging behind him, still light and mostly empty.
Stalking the Sip
Tom wandered a short distance away and crouched behind a bush, keeping his eyes locked on the mother and child from before—like a hunter silently watching his prey.
He stayed completely still, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.
Then, a stray dog wandered up behind him. The dog gave Tom a quick sniff, circled once, and apparently mistook this crouching, filthy man for just another trash bin on the street.
Without hesitation, it lifted its leg and sprayed a stream of urine right onto Tom’s shorts, soaking the entire crotch area and leaving a yellow stain.
But Tom didn’t even flinch. He was too focused and didn’t notice a thing. Still watching. Still waiting.
After more than ten minutes, the mother and child finally finished their soda and stood up to leave. The kid tossed the empty bottle into the trash can outside the deli store.
As they walked past the bushes, the mother suddenly noticed the large yellow-stained wet patch on the front of Tom’s shorts. She rolled her eyes and said, “What are you? Three years old? Wetting yourself in public like that? God, you’re pathetic.”
Tom blinked, a bit confused. He didn’t quite understand what she meant.
But the child, emboldened by his mother’s dominance, stepped forward—and without hesitation, launched a sharp, powerful glob of spit right into Tom’s face.
It landed with a splat, bursting slightly on impact, and sent tiny droplets flying across his cheek.
Back to the Cans
He’d already spent so much time out here and still hadn’t picked up much. That made him even more anxious.
The sky was getting darker by the minute, and he still didn’t have enough for dinner.
So he kept at it—scouring corners, peeking into bins, pacing up and down the streets like a stray.
Then finally, he saw it. Right in the middle of the road, catching the last bit of sunlight like a spotlight—a shiny, perfect Pepsi can.
He glanced around, checking all sides. Had to make sure that damn old lady wasn’t nearby, messing with his business again.
The coast looked clear.
Then he stepped into the street, quick and low, like it was a heist. He bent down, reaching for the can.
The Steel Beast
On the other side of the street, some young punk was behind the wheel of a sports car, music blasting like it was his personal concert. He’d probably just smoked some weed—eyes glassy, mood flying high.
He wasn’t paying attention to the road. Not even close.
The car tore down the street, tires humming over the asphalt.
Tom had just picked up the can. He turned around—and the headlights were already right in front of him.
There was no time to dodge. No time to think. It was too late. This was probably the end of Tom. No escape. No mercy.
Knee to the Steel Beast
Tom raised his right knee on instinct, trying to block the steel beast with his specialty move.
The car slammed straight into it. His knee instantly shattered on contact.
The force lifted him off the ground and launched him into the air—thirty, maybe forty feet up. He spun wildly, like a human windmill caught in a hurricane.
Then—crash.
He blasted straight through the front glass wall of a bakery, shattering the entire storefront like a bomb went off. The glass exploded in every direction—shards raining down like jagged hail.
His body flew deep into the shop, tearing through display racks and shelves, before slamming headfirst into a refrigerator—most of his upper body jammed inside, legs still hanging out.
His shorts had been yanked halfway down by the impact, now bunched around his knees. His right leg had snapped clean and was dangling by a thin strip of tissue, twitching slightly in the air. His left leg was still intact, though bent awkwardly on the tile floor.
The crash had been so violent, it made his intestines unload. His bowels burst. Feces smeared across the back of his thighs, leaking from his butt crack like a blown-out pipe.
It was disgusting. Really, truly disgusting.
This was probably the end of Tom.
Even after all that—after such a tragic scene—the young punk didn’t stop. He hit the gas and took off, tires screeching as he disappeared down the road, gone like nothing ever happened.
Old Geezer with a Goatee
The bakery exploded into chaos. People screamed and ran for the exit, flipping chairs, knocking over tables, crashing into each other.
A tray of buns went flying. Someone slipped on a puddle of spilled coffee and knocked over a display rack.
The floor turned into a wreck—glass, pastries, broken furniture, and panic all mashed together.
It looked more like a riot than a shop.
But one old man stayed seated.
He had a thin little goatee and wore what looked like traditional Qing Dynasty robes—deep blue, with a high collar and wide sleeves that draped past his wrists. The kind of outfit nobody’s worn in a hundred years.
It looked ridiculous—yet somehow fitting on an old geezer like him.
A newspaper lay open on the table in front of him. He calmly turned the page, took a slow sip of coffee, and didn’t even blink at the body sticking out of the refrigerator right in front of him.
Someone near the door shouted, panicked and loud:
“Somebody call an ambulance! Now!”
The old man paused, set down his cup, glanced over, and said,
“Oh, there’s no need for that. I believe he’s already a goner.”
Then he went right back to reading.