Cracker Bonding
It was late evening. The sun was low, the air warm, and the sky over Flushing City carried that kind of lazy pink haze that makes everything feel like a scene from a tired sitcom.
Park benches were mostly empty. The trees didn’t move much. Water trickled from the edge of a nearby fountain like a background track set to “barely trying.”
And that’s where he was.
A red scooter was parked right beside the fountain. It leaned slightly, like it was tired too. Slouched against it was a pudgy man in a white T-shirt with one bold, unapologetic word printed across the chest:
“FUCKLIN”—no spaces.
That was Frank.
He hummed to himself—some lazy, tuneless melody—and idly picked at his nose like he was searching for treasure. No rush. No shame. Just… chillin’.
He didn’t have any orders to deliver. Business had been dead all day. So now he was here, doing what unemployed kings do best: absolutely nothing.
Then something caught his eye.
A big, fluffy Alaskan Malamute trotted by. No leash. No collar. No tag.
Frank squinted.
“Huh… stray?”
He whistled lazily.
The dog looked up.
Frank leaned over, popped open his scooter’s rear box, and pulled out a single packet of crackers. His dinner. He held it out like a peace offering.
“C’mere, big guy. You hungry?”
The dog walked over with zero hesitation. Tongue out, tail swaying like it hadn’t seen a bad day in its life.
Frank peeled open the pack and offered a piece.
The dog took it gently—didn’t bark, didn’t flinch. Just munched happily, eyes bright, tail still wagging like he was made of joy.
Frank chuckled.
“Damn, you’re just… pure good vibes, huh?”
He handed over another cracker. Then another.
The dog chomped away, and Frank started petting its forehead, rubbing behind the ears, repeating the same thing over and over again:
“Good boy. Good boy. Good freakin’ boy.”
Before he knew it, the entire pack of crackers was gone.
All of it.
He blinked.
Looked down at the empty wrapper in his hand. Then slowly… looked at his own stomach.
It rumbled. Loudly.
“Oh… no…”
He pressed his hand against it.
“Shit. That was my dinner.”
He sighed deeply, stomach groaning in protest. Looked around like maybe—just maybe—someone would throw a pizza at him from a passing car.
No luck.
Then—he noticed something.
Down the street, across a narrow road, the neon sign of a Korean barbecue joint flickered to life. Smoke rising from the back kitchen. Meat sizzling in someone’s dreams.
“Damn…” he muttered. “Been way too long since I had grilled anything…”
He pulled out his wallet. Opened it.
Two bucks and a metro card with negative balance.
He exhaled. Long. Loud.
Then turned to the dog.
“Well… guess I’m not eatin’ tonight.”
“Barbecue’s for people who can afford taxes.”
He gave the pup a final pat.
“That’s alright. I’ll just eat… my feelings.”
The dog looked up, tongue out, still smiling.
Didn’t understand a word.
Didn’t need to.
He was full.
And happy.
And absolutely clueless about Frank’s starving, pitiful life.
Frank looked at him and laughed under his breath.
“Lucky bastard.”
A Barbecue Party by Coincidence
Frank was still chilling beside his red scooter, patting the head of the Alaskan dog. The cracker bag was empty now. The dog had eaten every last crumb, tail wagging happily with its tongue flopping out. Frank was hungry too—his stomach growled, reminding him that the crackers were supposed to be his dinner.
He sighed. Looked up.
Across the street, a man emerged from the deli.
Red cape fluttering behind him.
Half-buttoned white shirt. Thick chest hair proudly on display.
One hand carried a bundle of groceries. The other gripped a full bag of charcoal.
Sean—the Local Hero—had arrived.
Frank’s eyes narrowed.
Wait a second… charcoal?
An idea slithered into his brain. Dark. Wicked. Practical.
I got no food. But I do have meat…
He looked at the dog. Still smiling. Still clueless.
“Maybe I…”
He reached out—both hands cradling the dog’s head gently.
“Good boy… real good boy…”
Then—snap.
A brutal, smooth twist.
The dog’s spine cracked with a dry pop.
Its body stiffened instantly. Legs stuck straight. Eyes wide open.
Frank stood there, holding the limp body in silence.
Then, casually:
“Hey! Yo, Local Hero guy!”
Sean turned, confused.
“Huh?”
Frank waved the dog in the air.
“You got charcoal. I got meat. Let’s make a night of it!”
Sean blinked. Looked at the dog. Then at Frank. Then back at the dog.
“Damn… I was just gonna grill some buns and fishballs. But now… you’re offering real meat?”
He nodded, impressed.
“I don’t see why not.”
They picked a grassy patch by the sidewalk. Sean poured out the charcoal and crouched down.
Then froze.
“Shit… I forgot one thing.”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Sean rubbed the back of his neck.
“A lighter. I quit smoking last year.”
Frank stared at him.
“You what?”
Sean shrugged.
“Health reasons.”
Frank pointed at him with full scorn.
“What kind of gangster doesn’t smoke? You… you should be ashamed you don’t have a lighter!”
Sean snapped back:
“Hey, hey, hey, HEY! Who the hell are you calling gangster?! I ain’t a gangster! Are you the gangster here?! Fuck you!”
Before Frank could fire back, a third voice cut in.
“Yo, what’s the commotion?”
It was Robinson, walking out of the store with a cigarette dangling from his lip.
He lit it casually and exhaled.
“Need a light?”
Sean and Frank turned in perfect unison:
“YES.”
Robinson strolled over and lit the charcoal like a pro. Sparks danced. Flames roared to life.
The three men got to work.
They skewered the Alaskan’s legs with scavenged sticks. Roasted them slow over the open fire. A thin line of grease hissed into the flames. The smell filled the air—rich, meaty, sinful.
No one said it was dog.
No one had to.
It was just dinner.
Frank sat back, licking his lips. Sean chewed thoughtfully. Robinson leaned on a tree, looking way too relaxed for a man who just helped grill an Alaskan.
They clinked their soda cans.
“To coincidence,” Frank said.
“To dog meat,” Sean added.
“To flavor,” Robinson finished.
Barbecue Interrupted
The wind shifted.
It was subtle—just a change in the air. But with that shift came a scent.
A smell Norman knew too well.
Faint… greasy… charred.
Cooked dog meat.
His steps stopped cold. His eyes narrowed. The breeze carried more than just smoke—it carried a crime. One that struck straight to his bones.
He closed his eyes, dropped to a knee, and inhaled with absolute focus.
Total Concentration Sniffing.
In that instant, his mind pinpointed everything—location, distance, the type of meat, the number of humans involved. Three men. Roughly three kilometers east. Roasting one of his kind over open flame.
His body reacted before his mind could finish processing.
He sprinted—blazing through the narrow paths of Flushing City at nearly 100 kilometers per hour.
At the barbecue site, the three men were still enjoying themselves like it was just another weekend evening.
Sean had removed his cape and draped it across his front like an apron. He sliced thick strips of dog meat using his spring-loaded blade, the knife gleaming in the glow of the fire.
Frank took each cut, skewered them with scavenged sticks, and laid them over the fire—careful not to let the grease drip too fast. He whistled while turning them.
Robinson stood nearby with a lazy grin, phone in hand.
“Yo, man. Dog meat. Real shit. You coming or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, corner of Roosevelt and 38th. You can’t miss the smell.”
“Aight. We’ll keep a leg warm for you.”
He hung up and grinned.
“Homie’s on his way. We’re gonna need more charcoal.”
The three of them laughed. Frank flipped a leg with theatrical flair.
“This one’s got a little extra fat. You can smell the flavor building up.”
Then—
A gust of wind swept across the firepit.
And standing just a few feet away—silent, sharp-eyed, jaw clenched—was Norman.
No one had seen him arrive.
But he was already there.
His voice was low. Dangerous. Carried by the smoke and the rising heat.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You’re cooking one of my own kind.”
All three men froze.
They turned slowly.
Frank blinked.
Sean looked confused.
Robinson stepped forward, palms raised.
“Wait, wait, wait—bro, you got this all wrong.”
“This ain’t human meat. It’s dog. Just… dog.”
Frank added:
“Yeah! We don’t eat people! What the hell do you think we are?”
Norman’s eyes dropped to the fire. He stared at the sizzling meat, then back at the men. For a brief second, doubt flickered across his face.
Right. He wasn’t actually a dog. He had just been living like one.
But that flicker was brief.
It didn’t matter.
These men had cooked one of his people.
It was unforgivable.
Without another word, Norman lunged forward—
Screams in Agony
Frank and Robinson had no idea what was happening.
To them, Norman was just some wild-eyed lunatic storming out of nowhere, barking like a man possessed.
But Norman had already locked onto his next target—Frank.
He looked vulnerable. Lazy stance, belly out, arms swinging at his sides. His wide-legged posture practically invited an ambush.
Norman didn’t hesitate.
He charged forward at full speed, claws flashing.
Swipe! Swipe!
His razor-sharp claws shredded Frank’s oversized shirt in two precise cuts. The fabric peeled away, exposing his round belly and sweat-streaked chest.
Frank screamed in horror:
“AAHH!! My shirt!! My nipples!!”
He flailed backward, grabbing what was left of his tattered clothes.
But Norman squinted—confused.
No blood. No wounds. Not even a scratch.
Only fabric damage.
Norman muttered under his breath.
That’s… not right.
He backed up, then lunged forward again. This time, using a new tactic.
Body slam.
Norman hurled himself shoulder-first into Frank, knocking him off balance and launching him about six meters backward. Frank rolled across the grass like a bowling pin and slammed into a curb, groaning.
“OH GOD IT HURTS! MY SPINE! MY SPLEEN! STOP!!”
He curled into a fetal position, kicking his legs like a child mid-tantrum.
But again… no visible injuries. No bruising. No blood.
Just theatrical screaming.
Norman’s eyes narrowed.
He dove low again—this time, jaws bared.
He latched his teeth onto Frank’s neck and spun into a full death roll, twisting and thrashing like a predator finishing off prey.
Frank shrieked with everything he had:
“AAAAAAAAHHHH!! MY NECK!! MY SKULL!! I’M GOING BLIND!! MAKE IT STOP!!”
Norman finally let go.
Frank flopped to the side, wheezing, eyes wide in panic.
Still intact. Still alive.
Norman backed away slowly.
What the hell is this guy made of?
Then… Norman went for broke.
He ducked under Frank’s arm, clamped his jaws around his lower abdomen, and bit down hard—right on the center of gravity.
Frank’s scream pierced the sky.
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! YOU MONSTER!! THAT’S MY MANHOOD!! YOU’RE TEARING IT OFF!! I’M BEING UNMADE FROM EXISTENCE!! THIS IS THE PAIN OF TEN THOUSAND DEATHS!!”
He flailed wildly. His voice cracked in ways no human voice should. The agony in his tone sounded like an ancient curse being ripped from his soul.
Norman released the bite, gasping for air.
Then he stood over Frank’s twitching body. Covered in sweat. Breathing hard. He had given it everything—every move he learned in the wilderness, every savage, primal technique.
Frank lay limp for a moment.
Then…
He stood up.
He dusted off his pants. Tugged at the remnants of his shirt. Rolled his neck once and sighed.
“Whew. That hurt. Sorry if I screamed too loud just now. Hope I didn’t scare anyone.”
Norman just stared at him—mouth open.
Frank added:
“But yeah, I’m fine. Feels like nothing happened.”
Norman’s eye twitched.
His claws slowly lowered.
Not even bruised… He’s completely immune…
Not to pain—clearly not—but to actual damage. His body was wrapped in an invisible shield. A dense, flawless bubble of Qi that deflected every attack without fail.
Even worse?
Frank had always known.
He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t shocked.
He just didn’t like being hurt.
From the side, Robinson tilted his head and mumbled:
“Yo… he’s like a big whiny baby who can’t be hurt but screams like hell anyway.”
Norman didn’t respond. He was still processing the absurdity.
Frank yawned, plucked a twig from the ground, and casually scratched his armpit with it.
“So… are we done?”
Norman said nothing.
His muscles were sore. His teeth ached. His vision swam.
And Frank?
Frank was still standing.
The Familiar Hoodie
Robinson stood to the side, watching everything unfold. He scratched his chin and muttered under his breath:
“Yup… still a legend.”
Frank hadn’t thrown a single punch. But his body — wrapped in an invisible coat of Qi — had absorbed Norman’s barrage like it was nothing. All that screaming, all that drama… and not even a bruise.
Robinson nodded to himself.
“Even if he’s retired… even if he’s weird now… that guy’s still a goddamn fortress.”
Frank, meanwhile, wasn’t thinking about combat. He stared down at the grilled skewer still waiting on the stone beside the fire. He sighed.
“Man… still got one dog leg left. And my Coke went flat.”
He glanced sideways at Norman, who was now frozen in place, panting, confused, and probably reconsidering his entire worldview.
“What the hell’s this guy even mad about?”
Frank looked down at his half-eaten meal. Then at Norman. Then back at the meat.
This dude’s got issues…
He stood there, unmoving, arms dangling. The fire crackled behind him. Somewhere nearby, Sean was still knocked out on the ground, his chest barely rising.
Norman, too, was stuck in his thoughts.
What is this man…? He looks soft. Dumb. Barely alert. Like he wandered into a fight by accident.
But everything Norman tried had failed. He scratched his head. The mystery only deepened.
Then—footsteps.
From across the street, a loud voice echoed:
“YO, ROBINSON! What’s up? You called me, right?”
It was Canelo.
Wearing his signature gray hoodie, flapping open over his mesh tank top, Canelo strutted up, licking his lips as he sniffed the air.
“Damn… that smell. That’s dog meat, right? You know that’s my favorite!”
Frank raised an eyebrow. Robinson nodded casually.
Norman turned his head—and froze.
That voice.
That tone.
That hoodie.
His eyes widened. His chest tightened.
He looked again.
It was Canelo.
Master…?
Norman’s legs gave out.
He dropped to his knees. His hands trembled.
“M-Master… it’s really you…”
His voice cracked. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Canelo blinked, confused for a second.
Then recognition hit him.
“Wait… you’re that mutt with the pink shirt! Damn, where the hell you been? Why your shirt look gray now?”
Norman’s face twisted with emotion. He touched the faded fabric on his chest — the once-pink shirt now worn and bleached by wind and dirt.
“I… I’ve missed you, Master. So much.”
Canelo, unfazed, reached over and picked up one of the skewers.
He took a huge bite and moaned.
“Oh YEAH, baby. That’s the good stuff.”
Then, without skipping a beat, he held out another skewer toward Norman.
“Eat up, brother. Come sit. Let’s talk.”
And just like that, Norman sat back down with the others — right there by the fire, surrounded by the scent of roasted meat and cooling soda.
They all crouched low around the flames.
Frank scratched his belly.
Robinson leaned against a tree.
Canelo tore into another chunk.
Nobody mentioned Sean, who was still lying on the sidewalk like discarded laundry.
They just… talked.
A weird, quiet peace settled over the group.
And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like everything was normal.
Just Another Campfire Night
Norman declined the dog skewer.
He waved it off gently.
“I’m good… I’ll just drink this.”
He cracked open a half-empty can of warm cola he’d found on the ground, then quietly sat beside the fire.
Robinson rummaged through Sean’s grocery bag and pulled out a pack of plain buns.
“You can roast some bread if you’re not into meat.”
He handed a couple to Norman.
Norman nodded. He stuck a bun on a twig and held it over the glowing charcoal.
The fire hissed softly. Someone coughed. The night was calm.
For a strange, suspended moment, all the violence from earlier felt distant—like a bad dream from a different life.
They just sat there.
Roasting food. Sharing drinks. Laughing softly.
Even Sean—still unconscious nearby—had been completely forgotten.
Then Canelo leaned back and started talking.
“You know where the hell you’ve been, Norman?”
Norman blinked.
His roasted bun was starting to turn golden brown. The scent mixed with the faint sweetness of cola.
Canelo continued.
“Your three old buddies? The ones who dropped out of high school with us to join the streets? Yeah… they’re gone. All three of them. Dead. That was three months ago.”
He took a swig from his bottle.
“I thought you were dead too, man. For real. Told everyone you probably got eaten by coyotes or some shit.”
Norman didn’t respond. He stared into the fire.
He hadn’t told them what had happened out in the wild.
He didn’t say he’d lived among dogs.
Didn’t say he’d fought lions.
Didn’t say he’d led an uprising and become the King of Dogland.
Because now—sitting here roasting bread in the city—it all sounded too insane.
Too absurd.
Too far away.
Then Robinson casually shifted the conversation.
“Hey, did y’all see that story on the news?”
“Something about a wild pack of dogs fighting to protect their land. Said they were being led by some crazy guy who thought he was one of them.”
Canelo snorted.
“A grown man barking orders at dogs? Like they actually understood him?”
“Bro was probably on meth.”
Robinson added:
“They said he even gave speeches. Like… full speeches. Wearing rags. Covered in dirt. Acting like he was some kind of four-legged general.”
Canelo burst out laughing with his mouth full.
“What kinda dumbass pretends he’s a dog?”
“Like dude, I get loving animals… but forming a kingdom?!”
“That’s straight-up Looney Tunes.”
All of them laughed.
Meanwhile, Norman sat completely still.
The man they were mocking… was sitting right beside them.
He looked down at his cola. Took another sip.
Smiled weakly.
“Right… that guy sounds nuts.”
Not one of them noticed.
Not one of them realized.
Then Robinson added:
“And get this—Chief Wayne’s the one who crushed that whole Dogland shit.”
“Flattened everything. And now he’s in our city. Promoted to Deputy Chief. Replaced Johnson.”
Frank, still chewing on his greasy skewer meat, muttered:
“Oh, is that so? I don’t care.”
That’s when Norman’s hand trembled.
His roasted bun fell from the twig, landing in the dirt.
He slowly looked up.
Eyes wide.
“Say what?”
His voice was quiet, barely a whisper.