Fuck and Dash
Dave stood on the sidewalk, brushing dust off his body.
His heart was still racing.
Those two massage girls had been way too intense. Way too touchy. If he hadn’t slipped out in time, who knows what might’ve happened?
They were this close to violating him. Not even emotionally—physically.
He let out a shaky breath, muttered to himself:
“Good thing I got outta there when I did… I’d call that a clean escape.”
But just as the words left his mouth—
A deep, steady voice came from behind him.
Low, sharp. No anger, just… gravity.
“Escape, huh? You escaped the parlor without paying. That much is true. But you won’t escape from me.”
Dave froze.
He turned slowly—real slow.
And there he was.
Michael. Golden-rimmed glasses. Pressed slacks. Leather briefcase in one hand. Calm, composed, terrifying as ever.
Dave’s eyes widened. He took a step back.
“Oh—oh no, no, it’s not what you think,” he stammered, hands waving nervously. “I wasn’t—look, I didn’t even finish the massage, okay? Technically, I left before anything happened.”
He paused. Thought about it for a second.
Then added quietly:
“…Kind of.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
He took a moment. Then slowly stood up straight, lifting the briefcase as if it weighed nothing.
“Dine and dash?” He shook his head. “Nah. That’s not the phrase. The correct term is—fuck and dash.”
Dave’s face turned pale.
He stiffened. Literally.
A cold sweat ran down his back. His whole body tensed up—especially his—
“No! No no no!” he blurted. “That’s not what happened! Don’t say it like that—it sounds so bad!”
Michael blinked once, slowly.
Then, as if realizing he’d gone a bit too far, he softened ever so slightly.
“You’re right,” he said. “My bad. I shouldn’t have used such crude language. I meant: ‘Enjoyed the special service and dashed.’”
Dave’s jaw dropped. His lips quivered. He couldn’t take this anymore.
Suddenly, he pointed behind Michael and yelled:
“LOOK! There’s some weirdo pooping on the sidewalk!”
Michael didn’t turn.
Didn’t even flinch.
But Dave was already gone—spinning on his heel and sprinting like his life depended on it.
Because for him, it usually did.
Every day was just a new variation of the same routine: Stretch. Dash. Run like hell.
Michael stood still.
Watched Dave running off, arms flailing, knees pumping—but didn’t bother chasing.
He just stood there.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The Ruthless Humble Enforcer
Michael stood still, watching Dave run.
Something was off.
That speed—wasn’t the same old slow, clumsy Dave he remembered. The guy was actually fast now. Like, really fast.
But what stood out even more?
The ridiculous triangle-shaped pink laced underwear riding up against Dave’s lower back. So bright. So feminine. It clashed violently with his sun-darkened skin.
Michael sighed.
“He looks even more ridiculous than usual…”
He didn’t chase.
Didn’t need to.
Instead, he crouched slightly, adjusted his footing, and swung his briefcase behind him—
then hurled it forward like a discus.
The thing spun in the air like a whirling blade—
and cracked into the back of Dave’s knee.
“AGHH—!”
Dave’s leg buckled instantly.
He faceplanted hard on the pavement.
Michael walked forward calmly, lips curled into a faint smirk.
“Of all people… you tried to trick me? With a line like that?”
He was, of course, referring to Dave’s last-second shout:
“LOOK! There’s some weirdo pooping on the sidewalk!”
Michael rolled his eyes—until, out of pure reflex, he turned to glance behind him.
And there it was.
Tom.
Squatting on the sidewalk.
Expression focused.
Pushing something… solid… out.
Michael’s jaw dropped.
“What the fuck…”
He shook his head and muttered,
“Jesus… whatever.”
Turning back, he now stood face to face with Dave—who had just pushed himself off the ground, still wincing from the blow.
They were chest to chest, barely an inch apart.
Michael had to tilt his head up slightly—Dave was half a head taller.
But Michael didn’t care.
He stared straight into Dave’s eyes.
“Hey, big guy. You remember a few months back? You kept begging me for a fight.”
His voice was calm. Measured. Cold.
“Well, today’s your lucky day.
But this time, you don’t need to challenge me—
I’m challenging you.”
He took a breath. Then added—
“If you win, I’ll let you go.
But if you lose… I’m taking your head.”
Dave’s face went pale. He knew what that meant.
Michael wasn’t bluffing. Not even close.
This was Captain Lam—the most ruthless enforcer in the entire Humble Organization.
And skipping out on payment from their massage parlor?
That was a death sentence.
Dave clenched his teeth. There was no way out.
Nowhere to run. No more excuses.
He exhaled, lowered his stance, and said:
“Alright.”
Then he added—
“I’ll try my best.”
Golden Poop
Michael tilted his head slightly.
Then he gasped—not scared, just full of exaggerated surprise.
“Holy shit… that dude’s poop is golden. It’s glowing. Never thought I’d see something like that in real life.”
His voice was loud enough to echo across the street.
Dave, driven by pure dumb curiosity, instinctively turned his head to look.
Bad move.
WHACK!
Michael’s hand snapped out like a blade—clean chop to the side of the neck.
Dave’s whole body jolted.
His muscles tensed up like a machine locking down. Pain exploded in his neck. But somehow, he didn’t fall.
His absurd, overtrained body absorbed the hit. The muscles around his neck flexed so hard, they formed a deep crack—like a spiderweb the size of a palm—etched right into the skin.
“AH—shit!!” Dave roared. “You bastard! I totally didn’t see that coming!”
His voice cracked from pain and frustration.
He totally forgot who he was dealing with.
Michael. The most annoying kind of fighter—precise, calm, sneaky as hell.
This wasn’t even the first time.
Last time? Michael sucker-kicked him right in the crotch.
Time before that? A straight kick to the chest—launched him clean into a wall while he was distracted.
And now?
Faked a poop glow just to land a neck chop?
Humans forget pain too easily. Dave had definitely forgotten.
Michael just brushed the air with one hand and replied, calm as hell:
“Standard procedure.”
Dave stumbled back, still holding his neck. Furious.
“That guy?! That poop?! There’s nothing golden about that! It’s black! It’s a normal turd! Jesus Christ!!”
Michael didn’t even flinch. Instead, he cracked a grin—like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“You know what’s funny?” he said, chuckling. “I just decided to name that move… The Golden Poop.”
He let out a quick laugh. Like he was proud of it. Like he thought it was the most brilliant thing anyone had ever come up with.
Then—just like that—his smile dropped.
His fist came flying.
Dave didn’t even see it.
BOOM.
Michael’s punch slammed into him like a truck. Dave threw his arms up just in time, crossing them across his chest—but the force still blasted him off his feet.
He slid.
Concrete sparks flew.
He skidded a full ten meters—arms scraping the ground—until his whole body finally thudded to a stop.
Right beside Tom.
And what’s worse—
His bare right foot landed squarely on the poop.
A fat, greasy, still-warm pile of it.
He looked down in horror.
Yellow. Brown. Sticky. The color of death. The texture of regret.
It oozed into his toes and underfoot—slipping into every gap like molten tar.
He closed his eyes for a second. Took a breath.
Then muttered, dead serious:
“Oh God… just my luck.”
Still Amateur Petty Street Fighter
Dave yanked his foot out of the steaming mess—thick, tar-like sludge dripping from his toes.
His face twisted with rage.
“You son of a bitch!”
With a full wind-up, he launched a soccer-style kick straight at Tom’s ass.
The kick connected clean.
Tom shot up into the air like a ragdoll curled into a ball—knees tucked in, arms wrapped around them. He spun wildly, flipping dozens of times before crash-landing headfirst into a giant trash bin across the street.
His legs stuck straight out. Yellow slime still streaked across his thighs.
He didn’t move.
Knocked out cold.
Right then, an old man walked by. Slight hunch in his back, a thin gray goatee curling under his chin. He wore a faded Qing dynasty-style robe, dragging a grocery cart behind him.
He paused when he saw the strange scene—someone’s legs poking out of a trash can like a cartoon.
He raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly.
“Oh… not you again, High-Butt Tom.”
That old man was Mr. Sang.
Before Dave could even react, Michael was already in motion.
He dashed up, lightning fast, and drove a punch right into Dave’s gut.
Boom—Dave was blasted backward, flew across the street, and landed hard on the asphalt. He rolled twice before stopping near the opposite curb.
Dave groaned and spat out blood.
He coughed, wiped his mouth, and growled:
“Fuck… this is getting annoying.”
But this time, he didn’t let down his guard.
No more distractions.
He locked his eyes on Michael—steady, alert. Not letting even a single second slip.
Because now, he remembered who he was up against.
And he knew: one careless moment could be the end.
Michael walked toward him slowly, cold and calm.
“The underwear,” he said, voice low. “It’s been a while, but you’re still the same. Still wide open. Still an amateur.”
He stopped a few feet away and stared him down.
“Real fights? Every second is life or death. You still haven’t learned that. That’s why you’ll never be a warrior. At best… a petty street fighter. An amateur, that is.”
One-Sided Fight
The moment they clashed, it was obvious.
Michael’s punches came fast—so fast Dave could barely react. His speed had improved, sure, but not enough. Not enough to match Michael.
For every ten exchanges, Dave took one hit—clean and solid. A punch to the ribs. A kick to the gut. A backhand across the face. Each strike forced blood out of his mouth like a punctured bag.
Within sixty seconds, they’d already exchanged over a hundred blows.
And Dave? He looked like a half-dead man on his feet.
Staggering back a dozen steps, Dave suddenly slammed one foot into the ground with full force.
Boom.
The concrete cracked beneath him, spiderwebbing out like broken glass. His legs coiled with tension.
Then—boom—he launched forward like a human rocket, arm cocked back for one devastating punch aimed straight at Michael’s face.
This was it—his trump card: Muscle Dash.
A brutal, straight-line, full-body blow powered by raw strength and momentum. A move so fast and heavy it could destroy steel gates.
Watching from nearby, Mr. Sang quietly stroked his goatee.
“Hmm… beneath all the twisted perversion and poor form, this guy’s actually got some serious power,” he murmured. “That momentum… like a freight train.”
Then he chuckled to himself.
“With some proper training, these types… they could actually be quite formidable.”
Back on the street, Michael didn’t even move.
His hands were still in his pockets.
He just glanced at Dave coldly and muttered—
“Amateur.”
Then, in one smooth motion, Michael ducked slightly and swept his leg low.
Crack.
His foot slammed into Dave’s ankle mid-charge.
Dave flew.
No resistance, no chance to correct. He spun through the air like a missile, slammed straight into a concrete wall ten meters away.
His head embedded halfway into it.
Only his ass and legs were left hanging outside.
But it wasn’t over.
Not even one second later, Dave’s arms exploded outward—smashing the wall apart from the inside. He dropped back to the ground, panting, blood dripping from his lips.
Still standing.
Barely.
Friend to the Rescue
Michael raised his right hand—fingers straight, stiff, forming a razor-sharp knifehand.
His body shifted. The air grew heavy.
That wasn’t just a strike.
That was a finisher.
Even Mr. Sang, standing off to the side, could feel it. He stroked his goatee, watching closely.
“Tch… what a shame,” he muttered. “This guy could’ve been something. Steel muscles, decent instincts… If someone had trained him properly… he’d be a real contender.”
He slowly turned around, shaking his head in mild regret.
“Captain Lam… so strict, so cold. Sometimes I wish he could ease up a bit.”
Then, almost immediately, his tone flipped—
“But those two girls in the massage parlor… damn. Amy and Coco, right? I’m definitely coming back for them.”
Back in the ring of tension, Dave braced for death.
His arms lifted—slightly shaky, but steady. He poured all his strength into guarding his neck.
He knew.
A clean cut to the neck, and it was over.
Michael saw it too.
And just like that—he adjusted.
No hesitation.
He dropped his aim, shifting from the neck… to the waist.
“Fine,” he thought. “One clean cut, and I’ll slice this meathead in half.”
But right then—
“HEY!! You haven’t paid yet!”
Several girls from the massage parlor came storming out behind them. Their voices echoed through the street.
A sudden gust of wind kicked up.
Michael instinctively shielded his face.
Three quick claw marks appeared on his forearm. Thin, red.
He looked up, eyes narrowing.
Norman stood right there—next to Dave.
Calm. Loose. Almost casual.
“Yo,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d still be breathing after all that. Guess you’re tougher than I thought, buddy.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed further. He wiped the blood on his sleeve and took a deep breath.
“So it’s you…”
He recognized that face.
“You’ve been dodging payment for months. Fuck and dash—over and over. You think I don’t remember?”
Michael’s voice was cold. Cutting.
“I clocked your speed. You move at 150 kilometers an hour. I couldn’t catch you. Not once. And because of that, you got away. Every time.”
He took a step forward.
“But not today.”
“You’re staying.”
“And I’m taking your head.”
For a split second, no one moved.
The air thickened.
Tension hit its peak.
It felt like even the molecules between them were vibrating.
On one side—Michael, calm and deadly.
On the other—Dave and Norman, side by side, hearts pounding, eyes locked on the storm in front of them.
And between them…
The spark of war.