Cemen Must Pay
Dinello wandered out of Jessica’s apartment and onto the main street. His steps were slow, aimless. Eventually, without realizing it, he passed the entrance of a sketchy-looking church. On the worn-down sign above the door, faded letters read:
Humbleism Church.
His body was still sore.
Last night, he and Jessica had battled in bed almost until dawn.
He yawned a little, not really caring about anything around him.
But as he shuffled forward, he overheard two guys talking nearby.
“I donated fifty grand to this church last year,” one said proudly.
“Fifty grand?!” the other gasped. “You only make forty a year!”
“Yeah,” the first guy nodded. “I took out a bank loan. I had to give myself fully to Pastor Simon. He’s like a second father to me.”
The other guy looked stunned.
Then asked, “Well… what about you? How much did you donate?”
The second guy lowered his head, a bit ashamed.
He held up a hand and made a circle with his fingers. “Zero.”
The first guy stared at him in disgust. “Say what? How could you?”
But the second guy raised his chin, suddenly proud.
“I didn’t donate money,” he said. “I gave something else. Something maybe even more important.”
He paused dramatically, then declared:
“I donated my wife to Pastor Simon.”
The first guy’s eyes went wide. Then he placed a respectful hand on his shoulder.
“Oh my God… you’re on another level.”
Dinello, still soaked in the afterglow of love and exhaustion, suddenly froze.
That line—“donated my wife to Pastor Simon”—shook something loose inside him.
He pictured Jessica, under Simon’s filthy thighs.
His mind went dark.
He didn’t let the image continue.
His body moved before he could think.
He stormed up to the second guy, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him into the air with one hand.
The guy’s feet kicked helplessly, like he was jogging in midair.
“Hey—what are you doing, man?!” the guy cried out. “Are you crazy?! I don’t even know you!”
Dinello looked up at his face.
That same innocent, naive expression…
It reminded him of Kyle.
That old friend—
The one who’d blocked him just this morning.
Something softened in Dinello.
He gently set the guy back down.
But his fists were still clenched.
His eyes burned as he stared at the doors of Humbleism Church.
He muttered under his breath, low and furious:
“Cemen. That bastard pastor Cemen… I’ll beat him up and fuck you good. Right here. Right now.”
You didn’t mishear.
He didn’t say Simon.
He always called him Cemen.
Partly because he mispronounced it.
Mostly because he meant it as the deepest disrespect.
The Pastor Gets Lifted
Dinello marched straight into the church like he owned the place.
The doors creaked open, and the air inside was weirdly humid—like a gym mixed with incense. Right at the front of the sanctuary, standing beneath a giant golden symbol of “Humbleism,” was a man.
Short hair. Glowing, almost steamed-looking face.
Thick black-rimmed glasses.
A tight white dress shirt that couldn’t hide the absurd bulk of his chest.
Rumor had it that Pastor Simon had C-cup pecs.
Looking at them now, Dinello wasn’t so sure—
Those things looked like Ds, maybe even Es.
And the rest of his body? Carved muscle lines everywhere.
There was no doubt.
That had to be Simon.
Dinello wasn’t thinking about Kyle anymore.
Not directly.
What enraged him now was what he had heard on the street.
A man who made only forty grand had donated fifty to the church.
Another had given his wife to Pastor Simon like she was a damn offering.
This wasn’t faith.
It was fraud.
It was degeneracy in the name of righteousness.
And Dinello had seen enough.
Without a word, he stormed up to the pulpit, grabbed Simon by the collar, and lifted him into the air.
Simon’s legs kicked helplessly, twitching like he was jogging in place.
“Help me! Help me!” Simon shrieked.
“Somebody help me! There’s a pervert over here!”
Dinello’s expression darkened.
“Who the hell are you calling pervert?”
Then, without hesitation, he grabbed Simon’s white shirt and ripped it wide open.
Fabric tore like paper.
Muscles bounced free.
But that wasn’t the shocking part.
Underneath… was a padded pink bra.
Dinello blinked.
Simon was wearing a large, glossy pink bra—tight around his sweaty chest, the straps digging into his shoulder meat like lingerie on a Thanksgiving turkey.
The sight was…
Stupid.
Strange.
Deeply wrong.
Simon gasped. The moment was too much.
Too fast.
Too exposing.
A strange noise slipped from his throat.
His eyes fluttered.
And then—
He moaned.
Dinello stood there, frozen. “…Did you just moan?”
Simon’s glasses slid down his nose.
His face was turning red.
His voice cracked, rising into a high-pitched shriek:
“Help me! Help—! Help—!”
But it was too late.
His vocal cords gave out.
The constant screeching had shredded them raw.
Now, even his screams were just air.
Silent, wheezy air.
He dangled in Dinello’s grip like a broken puppet with boobs.
Dinello looked him up and down—pink bra and all—and shook his head slowly.
“One grown-ass man. Screaming like a teenage girl. Wearing a damn pink bra.”
“You call yourself a pastor?”
Pink Bra’s Final Sermon
Dinello didn’t hesitate.
With the man still suspended in the air, he reached out and yanked off the pink bra in one violent motion.
The padded garment snapped free like a rubber band.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, Dinello hurled it into the air.
It spiraled across the sanctuary like a flying piece of shame.
The moment it left his hand, the entire church gasped.
Dozens of stunned believers had gathered at the edges of the hall, drawn by the shouting.
The man was still flailing in the air, chest exposed, mouth open, but no sound came out anymore.
His throat was wrecked from earlier. His screams had died into silent wheezes.
But he didn’t stop struggling.
In fact, he fought even harder.
Dinello’s grip tightened as the man thrashed violently in his hand.
Even Dinello—built like a street-brawler ox—felt the weight.
“Damn… this one’s heavier than expected.”
He stared at the sweaty, twitching figure.
At the sagging, overinflated pecs.
Then he said aloud:
“You worked so hard to build up your chest… for what?”
“What are you? Trying to pretend you’re a woman?”
He narrowed his eyes, took a closer look.
Holy shit.
The “pecs” were sagging.
Soft.
Round.
And the nipples—dark, swollen, ridiculously oversized.
This wasn’t a chest.
It was a pair of breasts.
But not firm, athletic ones.
These looked like aged, drooping milk bags—the kind worn down by gravity, time, and maybe too many prayers.
Dinello’s face twisted in horror and confusion.
“Wait a minute… what the hell is this…”
Before he could finish the thought, a voice cried out behind him:
“What the fuck are you doing here?!”
Dinello turned.
It was Kyle—storming toward him, eyes wide with fury.
“You just beat up Betty! What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“She’s one of the most loyal members of our church!”
Dinello’s expression froze.
His confusion turned into disbelief.
“Say what?”
“You’re telling me… this short-haired, muscle-packed, square-jawed man… is a woman?”
“Isn’t this bastard Pastor Cemen?!”
Kyle pointed to the far end of the sanctuary.
There, standing calmly in glowing light, was another figure.
White shirt.
Black slacks.
Big-framed glasses.
Short hair.
A calm, radiant presence.
He didn’t flinch.
He just glowed.
Kyle said, with almost reverence in his voice:
“That’s our real pastor.”
“That’s Simon.”
Dinello slowly turned back toward the figure still hanging in his grip.
He looked at the sagging breasts again.
Then the face—sweaty, twitching, smeared in makeup.
No matter how he looked at it…
It didn’t feel like a woman.
It didn’t feel like a man either.
It felt like something else entirely.
Something unnatural.
Something wrong.
Dinello’s face darkened.
He drew all his Qi into his fist like stormclouds gathering behind a mountain.
And then—
BOOM.
He punched upward, slamming his knuckles directly into the person’s head.
There was a crack.
A shudder.
And then—
Pop.
The skull exploded.
Like a water balloon full of soup.
Blood sprayed upward like a broken firework.
Chunks hit the ceiling.
Flesh rained down over the pews.
The church fell silent.
Dinello stood there, breathing heavily, his fist still clenched.
He muttered coldly:
“If he was a woman… why didn’t he tell me from the start?”
Then, through gritted teeth:
“Fuck him.”
QR Code Redemption
Dinello didn’t walk toward the real Simon.
Instead, he took two slow steps forward, turned to Kyle, and without a word, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air.
Kyle’s legs kicked wildly, flailing like he was jogging in place.
“What are you doing?! Are you crazy, Dinello?!” he shrieked, his voice cracking.
But Dinello’s rage was boiling—not just from the mistaken identity, not just from the fake pastor, not even from the pink bra incident.
It was this guy.
Kyle.
The guy who blocked him just this morning.
“You blocked me?!” Dinello shouted. “You really blocked me?! You son of a bitch!”
Kyle’s eyes went wide. His body tensed. And then—
His pants darkened.
A long, shameful stream flowed straight down the inside of his legs, soaking through the bottom of his pants. It wasn’t subtle. It was a full spray, dripping to the floor in loud splashes.
The puddle formed quickly beneath him, spreading like an inkblot of fear.
Kyle’s voice quivered.
“I—I didn’t mean to! It was a slip finger! I didn’t mean it, I swear!”
Dinello squinted.
“Slip finger…?”
He wasn’t that gullible.
Who the hell accidentally deletes someone from their friend list and blocks them?
But just as he was about to yell again, Kyle, still trembling in midair, reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a brand new smartphone.
“H-h-here! Just scan me again!” he said, voice cracking. “Let’s add each other back! Please, man! Please!”
He tapped frantically, and a bright QR code popped up on the screen.
The churchgoers all around them began to chant.
“Add him back! Add him back! Add him back!”
Their voices grew louder.
Their hands raised high.
They swayed like a cult choir high on groupthink.
“Just be friends again, man!” someone shouted.
“It’s no big deal! Just accept the friend request!”
“Forgiveness is power!”
The pressure of the crowd pushed inward.
Dozens of eyes stared at Dinello.
Dozens of hands pointed to the glowing QR code in Kyle’s trembling hand.
Dinello sighed.
Sometimes, crowd energy is stronger than rage.
He slowly lowered Kyle to the ground.
Kyle’s legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees—but still held the phone high above his head, like a sacred offering.
Dinello pulled out his phone.
One beep.
One scan.
Friend request accepted.
The app flashed:
“You are now friends with Kyle.”
Just like that… the tension vanished.
Two childhood friends, now reconnected.
One soaked in his own pee.
The other still full of unresolved rage.
But friends, nonetheless.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
Friendship, after all, is stronger than fists.
Long live friendship.
Long live the QR code.
The Fury Punch
From the back of the crowd, a voice rang out—booming, righteous, and unnatural.
“I am the absolute righteousness.
I am your faith.
I am the embodiment of the holy light.
I am your destiny.”
Everyone turned.
Some disciples stepped to the side with solemn reverence, parting like curtains to reveal a glowing figure hovering in midair.
There he was—Simon.
Arms gently spread like an open embrace.
Body floating two meters off the ground.
Every inch of him radiated with golden light.
Dinello blinked.
“What the fuck is that?”
A nearby disciple whispered with trembling awe,
“That… is our divine pastor.”
Dinello stared in disbelief.
A floating man. Glowing skin.
A holy presence straight out of a fantasy novel.
He narrowed his eyes.
“No way… is that one of the Golden Techniques?”
He thought about it again.
Maybe that’s why even a dumbass like Kyle would donate money.
Hell—donate his wife.
But then Dinello looked closer.
Two nearly invisible wires were attached to Simon’s hips.
From above, blinding spotlights blasted downward.
And the robe—some kind of synthetic material that reflected every photon it touched.
He squinted.
Then slowly, a smirk crawled across his face.
“I see.”
He bent down, channeling all his qi into his right arm.
His body tensed.
Fist tight.
Eyes locked.
Then—boom.
He launched forward, sliding across the floor like a missile—his qi pushing his body like rocket fuel.
Simon was still floating, still basking in his self-made glory.
Still posing.
Still cool.
He had no idea what was coming.
Dinello’s fist slammed into his chest.
Crack.
The impact echoed through the sanctuary like a gunshot.
Simon’s fake holiness shattered in an instant.
His whole body flew backward like a ragdoll, smashing through the stained-glass window behind him.
Glass exploded outward in a halo of shattered light.
In the air, Simon spit a mouthful of blood, his limbs twitching mid-flight.
Then—gone.
Dinello stood still, eyes fixed on his own fist.
He could still feel the aftershock in his knuckles.
That wasn’t just a punch.
That was rage. That was justice.
That was 150% of his power.
If an ordinary man had taken that hit,
They’d be dead.
Survival chance: 1% or less.
He exhaled softly, turned his head.
The entire congregation had vanished.
Just moments ago, the disciples were shouting. Chanting.
Now they were scattering like ants—desperate to flee the crumbling illusion.
Within seconds, Dinello was the only one left.
He stood alone in the center of the ruined church.
He looked toward the broken window where Simon had vanished.
Then he whispered, calm and final:
“It’s done for the day.”
Son of a Glitch
In a narrow alley behind the church, near a pile of trash,
a figure lay crumpled—his clothes torn, his skin bruised.
It was Simon.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
He slowly stood, swaying slightly, clutching his ribs.
“If it weren’t for my man boobs,” he muttered,
“I would’ve been killed by that punch.”
“These things absorbed at least 70% of the impact.”
He spat again and wiped his mouth.
“I didn’t expect that bastard to sucker punch me.
Next time… if it’s one-on-one,
I’m not so sure I’d lose.”
Meanwhile, across the city…
Dinello had returned to Jessica’s apartment.
He stepped inside to find her in the kitchen,
wearing an apron, stir-frying dinner like a picture of calm domestic bliss.
He walked up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Hey babe,” he whispered.
“You know what good news I got today?”
Jessica raised an eyebrow without turning around.
“Hmm… you won the lottery?
Or scored a new girlfriend?”
Dinello chuckled.
“Kyle added me back.”
Jessica turned, confused.
“What? That doesn’t make sense…”
He pulled out his phone and showed her.
There it was—Kyle’s name, right there in the contacts list.
Jessica blinked, surprised.
“Whoa… it’s real. I can’t believe it.
I don’t know what happened between you two,
but seeing you this happy… I’m happy for you too.”
Dinello opened his chat with Kyle.
He began typing:
“Hey Kyle, I’m home now, getting ready to eat.
Have you eaten yet, my old friend?”
He pressed send.
The screen froze for a beat.
Then—
a massive red exclamation mark popped up.
Below it, in brutal familiarity:
“Message not delivered.
You are no longer in the recipient’s friend list.”
Dinello’s face darkened instantly.
His fingers clenched.
His jaw locked.
Then, trembling with fury, he shouted:
“Onii shou ragiaaan! Gou lagi rabu kou!!”
“Son of bitch!!”
Even Dinello was speaking alien nonsense out of rage.