Poop Karma
Norman was still shaking Benson’s body when he heard it.
A voice. Low. Smug. Like the devil himself had just woken up from a nap.
“I’m back, baby.”
Norman froze mid-shake.
Then he saw it—Benson’s body rising. Not in a sudden jolt, but slowly, smoothly… like something inside was unfolding.
The guy was taller now. Pale as a ghost. His hair had turned long and bone-white, swaying gently like silk threads. His nails—no, claws—were at least ten inches long, sharp as knives. Two fangs peeked from behind a crooked little grin.
Norman’s heart dropped.
“No way…”
This wasn’t Benson anymore.
This was Dark Benson.
Before Norman could react, Kimmy—the big black dog who’d been nearby the whole time—lost her mind. She started barking like crazy, every woof echoing off the alley walls like an alarm.
But Dark Benson didn’t even glance at her.
In the blink of an eye—he vanished.
No sound. No blur. Just gone.
Then, out of nowhere, he was crouched right in front of Kimmy.
“Hey. There you are,” he said softly. “You’re such a little cutie.”
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was greeting a kitten, not a barking, pissed-off street dog.
Norman staggered back, eyes wide.
“W-What the hell? I didn’t even see you move. You just disappeared and popped up over there. How’s that possible?! What kind of sick trick is this?!”
Dark Benson turned his head, still crouched by the dog, still smiling.
“It’s not movement,” he said. “It’s instant transmission. Anywhere within twenty meters. No windup. No delay. I just… go.”
Norman stared at him.
“That’s not kung fu,” he muttered. “That’s cheating.”
But before he could process what he’d just seen—his gut twisted.
Something felt off.
Really off.
His eyes shot toward Kimmy.
“Kimmy—RUN!”
He threw out his hand like he could somehow snatch her out of danger from across the alley.
Too late.
Dark Benson’s claws moved.
So fast they didn’t look real.
SLASH. SLASH. SLASH. SLASH.
By the time Norman blinked, it was already over.
Kimmy was… gone.
Not entirely.
What was left of her looked like someone had dropped a meat grinder on a stuffed animal.
But one piece remained untouched.
Her butt.
Perfect. Pristine. Sitting there on the pavement like nothing happened.
Dark Benson stood over the mess, brushing his claws off casually on his pants.
“You liked to poop so much,” he said, almost sweetly. “So I let you keep the part that poops.”
Norman dropped to his knees.
His whole body shook. His face broke.
Tears spilled out of his eyes as he let out a guttural, raw scream.
“KIMMY!!”
His head snapped toward Dark Benson, eyes filled with disbelief and betrayal.
“How could you…?”
Dark Benson didn’t answer.
He just smiled.
The Unforgettable Pink Shirt
Norman stood up.
His knees shook. His jaw clenched. Blood still dripped somewhere behind him—but he didn’t care anymore.
He glared at the white-haired monster in front of him and said, through gritted teeth:
“I won’t forgive you. You douchebag demon.”
Dark Benson just chuckled.
He wagged his finger in that signature mocking way—wrist loose, elbow cocked, head tilted just enough to make it condescending.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no… That little punishment was just a friendly lesson for your dog. I was simply teaching her when and where to poop. Can’t just go defecating wherever you like, now can you?”
His voice was cold, almost surgical. Like he believed it.
Norman couldn’t hold it anymore.
He lunged.
Dark Benson casually stepped back, swaying side to side like a dancer, confident he could dodge everything. That smug, taunting grin never left his face.
But he misjudged.
Norman wasn’t the same guy from last time.
His speed—unrecognizable.
His claws—faster than the eye.
Dark Benson’s body tore open in a dozen places before he even registered the attack.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
Blood sprayed everywhere—ribbons of red bursting from his chest, shoulders, arms, neck.
He staggered backward in disbelief, panting, blinking.
“You… You’re faster. Way faster.”
He stared at Norman like he was seeing a ghost from a nightmare. That same kid from before…
“Oh… pink shirt,” he muttered. “I remember you. You were the one dressed in a pink shirt. You crawled away like a little dog. And now… you’ve become something else.”
Norman didn’t even blink.
He nodded—slow and proud.
“That’s right. I am the dog man now.”
The two locked eyes.
Dark Benson gently stroked his chin, seemingly amused. His lips curled.
“Interesting…”
And then, just like that—his wounds closed.
Every single one.
The slashes stitched together in seconds, leaving behind flawless skin. Not even a scar.
His grin widened, colder now.
“I remember now. You were the one who spit at me that day. Not that skinny gangster beside you.”
“You lied to me. You betrayed your teammate… just to save your own skin.”
He stepped forward slowly.
“Pathetic.”
Norman didn’t flinch.
“Yeah. That was me. Not my teammate.”
“I’m the one who spit.”
He held his ground.
Behind him, the alley was quiet—except for the breeze brushing through.
He was still wearing that same shirt from back then.
Once pink.
Now sun-bleached, dirt-stained, dulled into a gray that barely held onto its old color.
But it was still there.
Proof that he’d survived.
That he’d come back stronger.
That he hadn’t forgotten.
And in this alley, in this moment…
That shirt still lived.
Not as fashion.
But as memory.
As pride.
As proof that no matter what he’d done in the past—Norman had changed.
He’d become unforgettable.
Just like the shirt.
The Silver Slashstorm
One second, they were just standing there.
The next—
Boom.
Both of them lunged forward at the exact same moment. Norman. Dark Benson. Arms out. Claws up. No words.
Just pure motion.
Their claws tore through the air like blades in a blender, slicing and counter-slicing. The alley lit up with flickers of silver—so fast they looked like lightning bolts.
They both went in for their signature: Claw Gale.
Each slash met another slash. Each move cancelled by the other. They were moving at such a blistering pace, their claw strikes were grinding against each other in midair—sparks flying like someone was welding metal at full power.
The ground trembled. Nearby trash bags exploded from the shockwaves. But the damage?
Zero.
Not a scratch on either of them.
They locked eyes, both still panting, both still holding their stance.
Then—
Dark Benson smirked.
“Not bad,” he said.
And vanished.
Just poof—gone.
Norman didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared just a bit.
There.
He caught it—the shift in the breeze, the faint change in scent.
Norman didn’t even look.
He just slid his back foot, pivoted, and—
SWIPE!
Dark Benson’s head went flying.
Clean. Decisive. Beautiful.
But right before it hit the ground… a pale hand caught it.
Benson smirked from his own decapitated mouth.
“Good as new.”
He slammed the head right back onto his neck like a magnet snapping into place. No blood. No fuss. Just click—reconnected.
Then—gone again.
He reappeared right in front of Norman.
The clash resumed.
Claws against claws. Swipe after swipe. They were throwing wild gales again, silver sparks flashing every half-second. They weren’t even fighting anymore. They were dueling for dominance. Testing reflexes. Testing limits.
Still even.
Still no one bleeding.
“Dead even,” Dark Benson muttered. “Like two sides of a cursed coin.”
Before he could finish that thought—
CRACK!
Norman’s foot swung through and chopped off his arm.
Just like that.
Gone.
Dark Benson staggered.
His grin? Gone too.
“What the—”
Before he could say more, he caught his own arm, slapped it back onto the socket like plugging in a USB stick, and jumped away—this time appearing on top of a dented trash bin, way down the alley.
Far enough to breathe.
Far enough to think.
He looked at Norman from a distance now, sizing him up. That speed… that power… it wasn’t the same guy from last time. Not even close.
No more crawling dog.
Norman had become something else.
And Dark Benson finally realized—
He might not win this one.
The Undying Smile
Dark Benson’s eyes narrowed.
He had a thought.
“If I give up defense completely… pour everything into attack…”
He grinned slightly.
“Let’s see if this dog man can handle it.”
He stood still for a beat on top of the trash bin—then vanished.
No flash. No sound. Just gone.
A blink later—he appeared right in front of Norman.
No warning.
No words.
Just claws.
All offense. No defense.
The two collided instantly, claws flashing like silver blades under moonlight. Their arms blurred, clashing in a relentless storm.
CLANG. CLASH. SLASH.
But this time, Dark Benson wasn’t playing careful. He was going all in. Pure attack. He let Norman’s claws rip into him—skin tearing, blood flying—just so he could land hits of his own.
Norman didn’t hold back either.
Every step. Every angle. Every strike. Precise and brutal.
But Benson’s wild offense was relentless.
A few swipes landed—gashing deep into Norman’s ribs, across his chest.
Norman flinched. Just a little.
But it was enough.
He stepped forward—low, fast—then SLASH.
Both of Benson’s hands dropped to the ground.
His claws bounced off the pavement like broken blades.
Still, Benson didn’t even blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Just stood there.
Blood pouring freely from his arms.
That same smug grin still sitting on his face.
“Think that’s enough?” he whispered.
Norman narrowed his eyes.
He crouched low again.
Then said it, calm and deadly:
“Claw Gale Meteor Shower.”
And it rained.
Hundreds of silver arcs slashing through the air like falling stars. The alley filled with a shimmering blur of movement, the wind howling as Norman tore through what was left of Benson’s body.
Flesh. Bone. Mist.
Nothing was spared.
By the time it was over, there was almost nothing left—just floating particles in the air like scattered ashes.
Norman stood there.
Chest rising. Breath shaking.
“That has to be it…”
But just as the wind settled, he saw it.
The particles were pulling back together.
Gathering.
Twisting.
And then… the shape reformed.
Limbs. Torso. Head.
Whole again.
Untouched.
Still smiling.
“Good as new.”
Norman stumbled back, blinking hard. His heart pounding now—not from rage—but from disbelief.
Benson took a step forward, slow and steady.
His tone was calm. Even casual.
“You’re faster now. Stronger.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“But you take damage. And that damage stays with you.”
A pause.
“Me? Every wound I take…”
“It heals instantly.”
Norman clenched his fists.
That chill again.
Not from the wind.
From the realization.
This thing… might be truly unstoppable.
“This fight?” Benson said, still smiling. “You’ve already lost, pink shirt. You just don’t know it yet.”
And in the silence that followed—
Norman said nothing.
But deep down…
He knew the bastard might be right.
The Myth of Godlike Regeneration
Norman adjusted his stance.
He wasn’t going to win with brute force. Not like this.
So, he shifted tactics—both hands up now, fully on defense. No more slashing. No more charging. Just focus. Block everything.
Dark Benson lunged in again, grinning like a maniac, claws flashing in the dim light.
Their claws collided.
Sparks flew.
But Norman held his ground. Every attack was met, deflected, neutralized.
Benson laughed as their claws tangled in a flurry of slashes.
“Not bad! We could keep going like this forever! Let’s see how long you last!”
But what Benson didn’t realize… Norman still had one more weapon.
His bite.
His jaw wasn’t just strong—it was a monster.
In the middle of a clash, Norman dipped down suddenly and chomped onto Benson’s forearm.
A violent twist—death roll style.
Flesh tore. Tendons popped. And just like that—the entire forearm came off.
Blood splattered.
They broke apart for a beat.
Norman stood there, panting slightly. Then, with a casual flick of his neck, he spit the severed arm onto the ground.
“Here. You can have it back.”
The arm, as if pulled by a magnet, zipped across the dirt and reattached to Benson’s stump.
Click.
It snapped in like Lego. Instantly sealed.
“Good as new,” Benson whispered, flexing his fingers.
Another round kicked off.
This time—same rhythm. Same claw barrage. But Norman saw his moment.
Another bite—this time the other hand.
He twisted again, harder. And this time, something went wrong.
He swallowed it.
It wasn’t intentional, but it happened. The severed palm went straight down Norman’s throat mid-roll.
He froze, standing upright, blinking like, Wait… did I just eat that?
Benson backed away and raised his arm. His face tensed.
No regeneration.
The wrist sealed, the bleeding stopped—but… no hand.
Nothing grew back.
Norman stared. Then slowly smiled.
Benson looked confused, even a little nervous.
“What the hell…”
Inside, he was panicking.
“Oh shit… I’ve got strong healing. I can fuse pieces together, but to create new mass—real flesh, bone, tissue—that needs raw materials. Protein. Fibers. Nutrients. I can’t just pop a hand out of thin air…”
He managed to stop the bleeding, yeah. But the hand?
Gone.
Still digesting somewhere inside Norman.
And Norman saw that hesitation.
That crack in the armor.
He smiled wider.
“Looks like I might not lose after all…”
Then, with teeth still stained red, he muttered:
“I think I’ll eat the other one too.”
Retreat of the Dark Shadow
The fight wasn’t over.
Not yet.
But something had changed.
Benson only had one claw left. Norman? He had two—and one hell of a jaw.
The final exchange hit like a storm.
Norman rushed forward. Fast. Brutal. Surgical.
Within seconds, Benson’s last remaining arm was gone. Then his thigh. Then his shin. Then—
His neck.
One final desperate swipe from Benson barely landed—a deep slash across Norman’s neck. Blood gushed out. A real one.
But Norman didn’t fall.
He kept moving.
As Benson’s limbs scattered through the air—trying to return to him like puzzle pieces—Norman leapt up and bit one of the forearms right out of the air.
Took off like a dog with a chew toy.
He ran several meters away, sat down, and started eating.
A calm, focused chew.
He stripped every inch of meat off that thing, like he was enjoying a steak at a backyard barbecue. Once it was nothing but bone, he chucked it aside like it was nothing.
The clean bone zipped right back toward Benson’s torso—snapped into place.
But now?
It was just… a bone. No meat. No muscle. No strength.
It looked ridiculous—like a cartoon skeleton stuck onto an otherwise mangled corpse.
For the first time in this whole battle…
Benson didn’t smile.
He stood there, bloodied, limbs half-attached, breath shallow. He looked at Norman—who was now leaning against a wall, panting, but grinning.
Norman wiped the blood off his chin and muttered:
“Man… I’m so full.”
Benson narrowed his eyes.
He wasn’t going to win this.
Not with one claw.
Not with half his strength.
Not with Norman still standing.
And in the blink of an eye—
ZIP.
He vanished.
A streak of faint static light remained—then nothing.
Norman blinked. He looked around, ready to chase—
But the pain in his neck hit all at once.
The bleeding hadn’t stopped. It was deep.
He dropped to his knees and clutched his shirt against the wound. There was no chasing now.
He sat down.
Exhaled.
Across the street, inside a nearby apartment building…
A flash of static light zipped into the living room.
It was Benson.
He tumbled across the carpet and collapsed face-first onto a stranger’s leather couch.
The place was empty. Probably on vacation. Lucky for him.
He didn’t move for several minutes.
Just laid there—face buried in the cushions—muttering:
“…Goddamn dog…”
Then he slowly began regenerating.
One nerve at a time.
One bone. One tendon.
It took half a day just to regrow his two arms.
And when it was finally done…
“Good as new…”
He whispered.
And passed out cold.
Hours later, the normal Benson woke up groggy, face smashed into the couch armrest.
He blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Confused.
Panicked.
He sat up fast and shouted—
“Holy shit! Where the fuck am I?!
Did someone kidnap me!?”
Nobody answered.
Just the sound of a leaky faucet and birds chirping outside the open window.
The Dark Shadow had survived.
But for the first time in his cursed, invincible life…
He ran.