Shady Clinic in Alley
Ever since that night he went to the prostitute, Marvel had been completely obsessed with one thing—the moment of ejaculation.
He thought about it every single day.
He wanted to relive it. To retaste it. To feel that surge again.
It wasn’t just memory—it was ritual.
Each morning, he’d close his eyes and recall the exact sensation: the buildup, the explosion, the trembling that followed.
He never wanted to forget it.
It was, to him, the purest moment of bliss.
Even in his dreams, it would return—amplified into wild metaphors.
Sometimes, he’d dream of a gigantic cannon firing a massive shockwave that flattened an entire city.
Sometimes, it was a meteor—engulfed in flames—crashing violently into Earth, shattering the planet into dust.
And other times, it was the moment the universe began: a tiny glowing speck erupting in a Big Bang, giving birth to stars and galaxies.
But one morning, reality interrupted the fantasy.
He woke up and noticed something strange on his knees—clusters of red rashes, painfully itchy and oozing a little clear fluid.
His heart skipped.
Was this an STD?
He didn’t even eat breakfast.
He just bolted out the door, dashed down the stairs, and ran into the street, panic in his eyes.
He rushed into the same filthy alleyway he always passed through.
Nothing had changed.
Canelo was peeing on an electric pole.
Tom rummaged through the trash, looking for recyclables.
Lawson squatted beside his broken porcelain bowl, silently begging.
And Benson—Benson was curled up in the shadows, getting mugged by a gang of punks.
Someone had shoved dog feces into his mouth.
He was kneeling, chewing through it, begging for mercy with tears in his eyes.
Marvel didn’t stop.
He kept running until he reached a shady little clinic tucked at the back of the alley.
Inside, behind the counter, sat a short man with pale skin and an oversized white coat. He looked up and gave Marvel a faint, unreadable smile.
Marvel didn’t say hello.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. My skin—my knees—there are these red spots… they itch and leak. I’m worried I caught an STD.”
Mildy glanced at him flatly.
“You? Caught an STD? Come on, kid. You still smell like a virgin.”
Marvel looked nervous. “Actually… I went, uh… a week ago, I—”
Mildy waved it off before he could finish.
“Say no more. I get it. Men have needs.”
He stood up calmly and opened a door to a private room.
“Come on, I’ll take a look.”
Marvel followed him inside.
Mildy shut the door behind them and began to examine the rash—with total, unnerving composure.
Unprofessionalism
Mildy took a closer look at Marvel’s knees, gently poking at the red, irritated patches with a gloved finger.
“Hmmm,” he muttered. “Yeah… this could very well be an STD. But let’s run a blood test to be sure.”
He reached for a syringe. Marvel noticed a faint smear of reddish residue on the needle.
“Uh… doctor? Are you sure that’s clean?”
Mildy gave a casual, confident smile. “Of course. I rinse it thoroughly under tap water for a full minute after every patient. Completely safe.”
Marvel looked unconvinced, but it was already too late. The needle slipped in smoothly, drawing a full tube of blood.
“All done,” Mildy said. “You’ll get your results in about thirty minutes. Please wait out front.”
Marvel shuffled back to the waiting area and sat near a buzzing floor fan. The plastic seat creaked beneath him. Time ticked by, painfully slow.
Then, the clinic door opened.
A young woman walked in—stylish, well-groomed, with a neat ponytail and a white tank top. She stepped lightly to the front desk.
“Hi, I think I caught a cold,” she said. “Just feeling off.”
Mildy nodded with a brisk professionalism. “Got it. Let’s begin with a basic checkup.”
He stepped around the counter.
“I’ll start with a routine breast examination,” he added plainly.
The woman blinked. “Wait—breast exam? I just have a cold.”
“It’s part of a full-body screening,” Mildy replied, as if it were common knowledge. “Sometimes symptoms manifest in less obvious places.”
She opened her mouth to object, but before she could, Mildy gently slid down the left strap of her tank top and shifted the bra cup aside—exposing her breast in the middle of the waiting area.
Marvel, seated nearby, froze.
The woman gasped, covering part of herself with one arm. “Here? In front of someone?”
Mildy remained calm. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen thousands. Totally normal.”
With one hand, he carefully cupped the underside of her breast, lifting it slightly. Then, with a slow, focused motion, he began pressing gently around the tissue—rubbing in small, practiced circles like he was following a mental checklist.
Marvel’s eyes widened. His mouth hung slightly open.
This is insane, he thought. This is what being a doctor is like? I should’ve gone into medicine.
Mildy continued with the same professional face. After a few moments, he brought up his other hand—adding light pressure from above—and gave the area a careful squeeze, shaping it slightly so the nipple would stand out more.
Then, as if inspecting even closer, he leaned in… his face drifting toward the breast.
Marvel leaned forward in his seat, hypnotized.
Mildy’s tongue flicked out slightly, approaching the exposed skin.
The woman immediately stepped back, pulling her shirt up with sharp precision.
“No. Nope. I don’t think this is appropriate at all. I’m leaving.”
She turned and stormed toward the door.
“Wait!” Mildy called after her. “If you leave your condition untreated, it could lead to serious complications!”
She didn’t look back.
“You haven’t paid!” he added, louder.
The door slammed.
Silence.
Mildy shrugged and strolled back to the counter.
Marvel, still sitting frozen in his chair, finally turned his head.
“She just left?”
Mildy sighed. “Some patients just don’t understand what proper care looks like.”
Marvel nodded slowly, still in awe.
I really, really should’ve gone to med school.
The Diagnosis
Not long after, Mildy emerged from the lab room holding a test report in his hand.
He walked up to Marvel and said solemnly,
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marvel. I’m afraid I have to inform you… your result is positive.
You’ve contracted an STD.
To be precise, it’s HIV.”
Marvel trembled instantly. His legs went weak.
He asked, “Doctor… is there any hope for me?”
Mildy answered flatly, “According to the report, you likely have less than three months to live.
My advice is—enjoy your time while you can.
Eat what you want. Play, drink, sleep with whoever you want.
Say farewell to your friends and family.”
Marvel broke down on the spot. He cried out, loud and raw—
like a child who had just lost everything.
“I only did it once… How could I get HIV so fast?”
Mildy shook his head and replied,
“I once had a patient who got HIV from shaking hands.
Sometimes it’s just that easy.
Like winning the lottery—but the bad kind.”
Marvel completely collapsed.
He held his head in both hands,
tears dripping onto the cold floor one by one.
“I’m such a loser,” he sobbed.
“How do I tell my mom about this?
How do I explain something this shameful?”
Mildy stared at the broken man in front of him.
After a moment, he spoke with cold calm:
“Sir, I understand your pain.
But I have more important matters to attend to.
You take some time to process your emotions.
Life… is fragile like that.”
Then he turned around and walked back toward his room—
likely to take a nap.
What remained behind
was a dim, chilly waiting room,
and a ruined man
crying his heart out alone in an old, plastic chair.
Mistaken Results
As Mildy walked down the hallway toward his room, one of his assistants stepped out from the lab and handed him a freshly printed paper.
“Doctor,” she said. “This is Mr. Marvel’s actual test result.”
Mildy took the sheet and glanced down.
He blinked.
The name on the result he had just delivered? Jackie Chan.
The one he was now holding? Marvel.
The air felt still for a moment. The cheap fluorescent light above buzzed faintly.
“…Ah,” Mildy muttered. “Well. That explains it.”
His expression barely shifted, but he forced out a professional smile—a polite curve of the mouth that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
“Jackie… Marvel… the names really do look alike,” he said lightly. “Very easy to mix up.”
Back in the waiting area, Marvel shot to his feet. His tears stopped immediately.
“Wait—what? So I don’t have HIV?? I’m okay??”
Mildy raised a hand to calm him. “Hold on. You’re clear on that… but that doesn’t mean everything’s fine.”
Marvel’s trembling eyes began to well up again.
Mildy glanced at the correct report and said plainly, “You’ve got a heat rash.”
Marvel gasped with relief, like he had just escaped death itself. He dropped to his knees in the center of the room and clutched his forehead.
“Mom… I’m safe… I really thought it was over. I didn’t even know how I was gonna tell you… about what I did…”
After a few heavy breaths, he scrambled to his feet and rushed over to Mildy.
“Doctor, so what do I need? Pills? Ointment? Some kind of cream?”
Mildy remained calm.
“No need. I’ve developed a new method. It’s fast, effective, and a little unconventional.”
He gave a faint, unreadable smile.
“Just wait here. I’ll get it ready.”
Marvel nodded eagerly, completely relieved.
The clinic felt warmer now, almost sunny—like the tension had lifted from its dusty walls.
Dog Therapy
A few minutes later, Mildy walked into the clinic, dragging along a black German shepherd. The dog was excited and friendly, its tongue hanging out like it was smiling at everyone.
Marvel asked, “Doctor, is that your dog? Pretty cute. But… why are you bringing it in here?”
Mildy replied, “This dog is here to treat your heat rash.”
Then he unhooked the leash and said, “Go on—lick his knees.”
Marvel felt something was off, but before he could say no, the big dog was already going to town, frantically licking his knees and the irritated patches of skin. Oddly enough, it actually felt… soothing. The burning sensation seemed to ease, and it felt like he was already halfway cured.
Marvel gave a small, awkward laugh. “Doctor, your method is… kind of interesting.”
Mildy looked proud and smug, resting his fingers under his chin with a self-satisfied pose. “This is a treatment I developed myself. It’s very effective. As long as the dog doesn’t have rabies, I’d say the risk is basically zero.”
Marvel chuckled. “Well, I assume you tested the dog for rabies, right?”
Mildy casually replied, “Nope.”
That night, Marvel went home. His legs didn’t itch anymore. He was thrilled. He watched porn while humming a tune—his skin finally felt better, and that annoying itch was unbearable before.
But the next day, Marvel ended up in the ER.
The real hospital doctor told him, “I don’t know what happened to you, but your skin has developed a severe infection, and now you’ve got a high fever. Good thing you came in when you did. This could’ve been fatal. Where did you even catch such a strange bacteria?”
Marvel sat still, staring blankly.
He didn’t answer.
Public Statement
The next evening, Marvel sat slumped on his couch. His fever still hadn’t gone down completely. Weak and drowsy, he leaned back and stared blankly at the TV. It happened to be tonight’s news broadcast.
The first segment showed the country’s top leaders visiting the poor and offering aid. The news anchor described a powerful speech delivered at a large public square. Marvel glanced at the screen and muttered casually, “Boring…”
He grabbed the remote and switched to another channel.
This time, it was a press conference—and the speaker was none other than Mildy.
A reporter asked, “Regarding today’s deceased patient… Sources say he died during a tooth extraction surgery because you forgot to administer anesthesia. He went into cardiac arrest from the intense pain. Do you accept responsibility for this medical incident?”
Mildy remained calm and professional.
“In this city,” he replied, “there are people who die from medical accidents every year. But those numbers fall within the expected margin. Take last year’s records, for example—we had over a million surgeries, and only nine people unfortunately passed away. That’s a very low probability.”
He paused meaningfully before continuing.
“But just because the odds are low doesn’t mean surgery is risk-free.”
Another reporter chimed in, “But according to last year’s data, out of those nine deaths, eight were your patients. How do you explain that?”
Mildy didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard the question—or more likely, he simply ignored it. He carried on, wearing his signature professional look, speaking with the tone of a motivational speaker.
“Our society is progressing every day. I sincerely hope that, in our lifetime, we can bring that number even lower. One in a million. Maybe even zero. Every doctor, every citizen in our society is working toward that goal. And for that collective effort, we should all show the deepest respect.”
At the end of his speech, he gave a ceremonial bow and turned to walk backstage.
As he left, a few men in black suits came forward and announced, “Thank you all for attending today’s press conference.”
Despite the statement being over, the room was still filled with unanswered questions. Some reporters tried to break through the security line to ask more, but Mildy had already disappeared from view.