The Devil in Broad Daylight
It was a sunny afternoon. From the shadows of a dark alley, a gangster in a hoodie slowly stepped out, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His name was Canelo—the infamous evil villain of the streets. People called him “The Peeing Man.” Just hearing his name was enough to make hands go numb and cold sweat break out for miles around. As soon as people saw him, they stiffened. No one dared to make eye contact. The air grew tense, like a storm was about to hit.
That’s when it happened—a short, pajama-wearing young guy named Benson, rocking a goofy watermelon haircut, walked straight toward Canelo with his head down, completely focused on his phone. He didn’t notice a thing. Not the tension in the air. Not the devil standing right in front of him. He bumped into Canelo’s arm by accident.
Startled, he looked up and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Canelo took a slow drag from his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and said, “Nah, it’s fine. Just give me all your money before I smash that watermelon head of yours.”
Benson’s legs went weak. His hands trembled as he pulled out everything he had—five dollars. Canelo snatched the cash, looked at it, then grabbed Benson by the collar and lifted him clean off the ground. Benson dangled mid-air, legs still moving as if he were trying to find his footing while suspended. He was just walking in place—completely off the ground. It was pathetic—and kinda funny.
Then without warning—bam, bam, bam!—Canelo slammed three punches straight into Benson’s face. Fast, brutal, and unforgiving. In seconds, Benson’s head turned into a swollen, bleeding wreck. His jaw bent sideways, his nose was crushed, and even his lips looked shredded. His face was so busted up, even his mom wouldn’t have recognized him. He burst into tears mid-beating, sobbing and screaming like a toddler getting dragged to the doctor. He let out a loud, high-pitched scream—shock and panic.
As if that wasn’t enough, Canelo followed up with one final move. He swung a heavy kick from below—his foot crashing into Benson’s gut and launching him nearly seven feet into the air. As his body flew like a ragdoll, the whole street rang with one last scream, sharp and piercing. It sounded exactly like a woman screeching in terror.
Knight in Shining Armor
Benson flew through the air for a few seconds—flailing, crying, completely defeated—before landing perfectly in someone’s arms. That someone was Sean, a well-known street hero in the neighborhood.
Almost everyone around here knew him. He was that guy—the one who rescued stray kittens from flooded drains, chased down purse-snatchers, beat up local punks, and helped old ladies cross the street when the traffic light wasn’t working. In this part of the city, people called him a real-life hero.
Sean was tall and skinny, with slightly messy, side-swept bangs hanging over one eye. A silver earring dangled from one ear. He wore a button-up shirt, only half-buttoned to show off his slim but defined chest. His jeans were ripped and trendy—the kind young people wore when they wanted to look cool without trying too hard. On his feet, he wore shiny leather shoes, stiff and polished like he could kick through concrete if he wanted to. And draped across his back, flapping slightly in the breeze, was a bright red cape. But if you looked closer, it wasn’t a real cape—it was a Chinese flag, something he had conveniently taken from a public flagpole and just started wearing like part of his heroic outfit.
As soon as people saw him, whispers spread like wildfire.
“Is that Sean?”
“Yo, it’s Sean! He showed up?”
“We’re saved…”
Some of the older folks even clapped quietly. A little kid tugged at his mom’s shirt and whispered, “Mom, that’s the guy who saved Mr. Fluffy from the sewer!”
Sean stood calmly in the middle of the street, holding a bloody, pajama-clad Benson in his arms like it was just another Tuesday. Benson lay quietly, his arms gently wrapped around Sean’s neck, holding on like he didn’t want to fall. His head rested against Sean’s manly chest, tilted slightly upward, just enough for his eyes to lock onto Sean’s face. He stared up with a soft, glassy gaze—completely silent, completely locked in—as if the world around them had disappeared. His soft, moistened lips were slightly open. His expression was quietly tender. He seemed so helpless—somehow, yet it stirred a quiet, deep urge to protect him, buried somewhere in the back of the mind. Sean gently caressed the side of Benson’s face, his fingers slowly gliding down to his chin. Then, in a low, gentle voice—almost like a whisper meant only for him—he asked, “Are you okay?”
The Unspoken Past of the Local Hero
Just then, while Sean was still checking on Benson, Canelo suddenly spat with force—aiming straight at Sean’s face. But Sean didn’t even raise his head. He casually tilted it to the side, and the spit shot past him like a bullet. A wet splat echoed behind them.
“Holy fuck! Right in my eye!” someone from the crowd screamed.
Canelo stepped forward slowly, a mix of emotions written across his face—half amused, half bitter. “Long time no see, Sean. You turned your back on all of us. What the hell do you think you look like now? A clown… in a fake-ass cape?”
Fear crept up in Sean’s chest—not from Canelo’s threats, but from what he might say next. If Canelo brought up his past, everything Sean had worked for—his image, his reputation—could come crashing down. His face stiffened. His jaw tightened.
“Shut up, Canelo. That’s enough.”
With that, Sean flung Benson aside like a sack of laundry. From Benson came a sudden high-pitched scream—sharp and girly—as he flew through the air.
The crowd fell silent. No more talk. It was time to settle it once and for all.
But even in such a suffocating tension, whispers and chuckles broke through the quiet.
“Damn… I thought they were in love,” someone muttered.
“Bro got princess-carried and discarded like a banana peel,” another added.
The Thugs’ Fight
Very quickly, the two were locked in a brutal street brawl. Their fighting styles were nearly identical—raw, dirty, and straight out of gangland. No formal stances, no elegant moves—just ruthless punches, kicks, elbows, knees—anything that could hurt. They exchanged blow after blow, the sound of flesh-on-flesh ringing out with each connection.
Then, in one clean motion, Sean grabbed Canelo’s right arm and spun—executing a brutal over-the-shoulder throw. Canelo’s back slammed hard onto the pavement with a sickening thud. The impact alone could’ve ended a lesser man. But Canelo shot back up like a spring and darted backward a dozen steps, retreating fast—his eyes locked onto Sean with deadly focus.
Sean saw it immediately. Canelo was trying to build momentum—his signature move was coming: the Skyfall Kick. But Sean wasn’t about to let him pull it off. Without hesitation, he dashed forward and closed the gap, giving Canelo no room to charge. The two collided again, grappling and throwing wild hits at close range. Sean was clearly the better fighter. His technique, though just as brutal, was cleaner—sharper. And it showed.
With one textbook sweep kick from the ground, Sean’s leg struck Canelo’s ankle, knocking him off balance. Canelo crashed to the ground again, landing flat and stunned. Sean knew—it was time to end this. Everyone who knew Sean knew what was coming next.
He backed up slowly, eyes locked on his target. Then—he sprinted forward, building momentum with each step. At full speed, he leapt into the air, body twisting sideways. It was his signature finisher: the Horizontal Execution Kick. His left leg bent close to his body; his right leg shot out—extended straight like a spear. The toes of his stiff, gleaming leather shoe pointed forward, sharp as steel. This wasn’t just a move—it was a weapon. Rumor had it, this kick could punch through tree trunks, concrete walls, even heavy metal plating. And now, it was flying straight at Canelo.
The Justice Execution
Sean’s signature kick came flying in like a missile—straight at Canelo. In that split second, as the shining leather shoe tore through the air, Canelo saw death itself charging at him. A cold sweat burst from his forehead. On pure instinct, he dove to the side, tumbling hard across the pavement. He just barely escaped.
Behind him, a deafening crash rang out. Sean’s foot slammed into a large industrial metal trash bin, punching a gaping hole through it. The force was so violent, his leg became lodged deep inside. Gritting his teeth, Sean yanked hard, but it wouldn’t budge.
Canelo stood up slowly, dusting the grime off his clothes with eerie calm. A sly, dangerous grin spread across his face as he walked toward Sean, step by deliberate step. “Justice is for victors,” he said coldly. “Let me give you an execution, Sean.”
Trapped and frustrated, Sean glared back, jaw tight. “You wouldn’t dare,” he muttered.
Canelo stormed in, grabbed Sean by the collar, and slapped him—hard. Then again. And again. Each hit cracked through the alley like gunshots. Then came the fists. He pummeled Sean without mercy—punches and kicks flying in with full force, every strike thrown like he was trying to kill him. Knuckles slammed into Sean’s face, ribs, gut—brutal, unrelenting. There was no holding back. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He was punishing.
Sean, still stuck, couldn’t dodge or block. The crowd stood frozen, watching in horror as their local hero—once proud and unshakable—was beaten down, blow by blow, stripped of his power. Within seconds, Sean was barely moving, his breath shallow, eyes dazed, blood dripping from his chin. He was one breath away from collapsing.
Finally, with one last savage move, Canelo lifted his leg and delivered a straight, brutal kick to Sean’s chest. The impact was thunderous—Sean flew backward, dragged nearly ten feet across the pavement with the massive metal trash bin still stuck to his leg. The screech of scraping metal echoed through the alley as man and bin skidded violently along the ground.
When it stopped, Sean lay there—unmoving. Unconscious. Defeated.
The Public Humiliation
Canelo walked up to Sean’s crumpled body and let out a loud, triumphant laugh. Then, with a twisted grin, he reached down and unzipped his own pants, shamelessly exposing his junk in front of everyone. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“What the hell is he doing…?” someone muttered in disbelief. Even the most hardened bystanders looked stunned. A few parents turned their children away. One man covered his face, half in horror, half in awe.
Canelo stood tall over Sean’s motionless frame, took a wide stance… and let loose. A steaming stream arced through the air, splashing directly onto Sean’s face and chest, soaking the once-proud red cape that still clung to him. It pooled over his ribs, trickled down his sides, and mingled with the blood on the pavement.
For a moment, the entire alley held its breath. Then came the murmurs—shocked, disgusted, amused.
“He’s pissing on him.”
“No way…”
“That’s the hero? That’s Sean?”
Canelo zipped up like nothing happened, slid his hands into his pockets, and strolled off slowly—like he’d just finished a cigarette break. At the end of the alley, he paused, lit a real cigarette, took one long drag… and vanished into the city smoke.