Love at Gunpoint
It was three in the afternoon. The weather was perfect.
Lawson and Monica were strolling aimlessly down the street, casually chatting.
“I had a dream last night. Some pervert broke into my room.”
“What, like a cat with a knife again?”
“No, a real pervert. Oiled up, completely naked, wearing sunglasses. He pinned me down and moaned, ‘You like that, baby?’”
“…You should probably talk to someone about that.”
“Honestly? When I woke up, I kinda missed him.”
Monica giggled like she’d just gotten paid. She wore a red crop top, denim shorts, and a loose side ponytail. Her face carried that glowing smile—the kind that says, “I’m emotionally available to literally everyone.”
Lawson didn’t say anything. His face looked like someone who’d lived through this same conversation too many times.
Suddenly, there was commotion up ahead.
They turned to look.
At the corner of the street, someone was getting their ass beat.
It was a man in striped blue pajamas with a giant watermelon-shaped haircut—round, lumpy, like someone jammed a cooking pot on his skull.
He looked confused, helpless, and half-asleep.
That man was Benson.
He was face-down on the concrete, limbs sprawled like a starfish.
And standing over him was Canelo—black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
His face looked bored, like he was doing chores.
But his hands were brutal.
He gripped Benson’s greasy hair with one hand and used the other to press his face into the sidewalk, scrubbing it back and forth like he was cleaning a stain.
“Bro… This your wallet? You serious? You got five f**king dollars?”
“You disrespecting me with this broke-ass energy?”
“I oughta smack you ’til your grandma feels it.”
Then he yanked Benson up by the hair like a shopping bag and delivered two heavy slaps—one from the left, one from the right.
Benson just hung there like a wet towel.
Canelo spat on the ground and tossed him against a nearby wall. Benson hit it with a soft thump and slid down like a dying lizard.
Monica stared, wide-eyed. Her lips parted slightly.
“Damn… he’s hot.”
“What?”
“That guy. The one in the hoodie. The one beating people. I don’t know… there’s just something about him.”
Lawson turned to look at her.
“You said I was hot. Yesterday.”
“You are! But… he’s got that dangerous vibe, y’know? Like… he could protect me, or choke me. Or both.”
Monica smiled like she was watching a K-drama.
Lawson said nothing.
He glanced once more at the guy on the ground—Benson.
Nose bleeding, cheeks swollen, pajama pants halfway off.
Somewhere in his brain, Lawson thought:
That name sounds familiar.
The Can Collector
Lawson and Monica kept walking.
Even though they’d just witnessed a public beatdown a few minutes ago, Monica didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, she looked a little… delighted.
She hummed a tune while walking, slapping her denim shorts with each step.
“Did you see the way he slapped that guy? I swear, even the violence had rhythm. Like choreography.”
Lawson didn’t respond.
He just wanted to get as far away from all this nonsense as possible.
A block later, they saw someone crouched by a trash bin.
It was a man—absolutely filthy—kneeling on the sidewalk and picking up a crushed soda can with two long, grimy fingers. His fingernails looked like they belonged to a stray animal. His sleeves were so blackened they blended into his skin. His whole outfit was a mystery of stains and wear. He looked less like a person and more like a sentient garbage bag.
That was Tom.
He didn’t say a word. Just quietly picked up cans one by one and stuffed them into a ripped plastic bag like he’d been doing it forever.
Then—
He paused. Frowned.
Something was off.
His nose was itchy.
Without hesitation, he raised his right hand and shoved two fingers straight up his nostrils, twisting around like he was stirring tea. Then he flicked the air, as if casting out invisible spirits.
Next, he reached straight behind him, slipped his hand into the back of his shorts, and casually scratched his asshole.
Clean. Professional. Decisive.
He pulled his fingers out, gave them a quick wipe on his thigh—
Then paused again.
Slowly… thoughtfully…
He lifted those fingers to his nose, and sniffed them like perfume.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
There was no disgust on his face. Just calm… appreciation.
Like it actually smelled kind of nice.
He nodded slightly, as if satisfied with the bouquet, and went right back to picking up cans—whistling as he worked, light on his feet.
Monica froze.
Her eyes locked on him.
“Wait… look at him.”
“He’s scratching his ass.”
“No, no—I mean, look how hard he works. He’s filthy, he’s broke, he’s probably got every disease in the handbook… But he’s still out here. Still collecting cans. He hasn’t given up on life.”
Lawson looked at Tom.
Then at Monica.
Her cheeks were slightly red. Her lips were curling into that familiar, dangerous smile.
“You’re not… falling for this guy too, are you?”
“I don’t know… but there’s something in my chest. Like, a… flutter.”
Lawson looked up at the sky.
His eyes were empty.
His soul was starting to float away.
Is That Blood or Foot Cheese?
Lawson and Monica kept walking.
At this point, it was unclear whether they were on a date or in the middle of some cursed street-level psychological experiment. Monica was glowing—like she was the lead in a romantic reality show where every stranger was a potential soulmate.
They turned into a filthier backstreet.
The air smelled like burned plastic mixed with cheap massage oil.
Above them, a faded red sign read:
“Hand Technique Only – Pain-Free Bone Unlocking – Free Medical Consultation”
Suddenly, a man burst out from the shop’s doorway, half-dressed, limping, and terrified.
His pants were down to his knees, one shoe missing, and his wallet flew out of his hand as he stumbled.
A moment later, someone followed him out.
That someone… was Lindsey.
She wore a grey Zhongshan suit, but not a single button was fastened.
Her entire chest was exposed except for a pink bra, straps sliding off her shoulders like loose seatbelts.
Her face was completely neutral. Cold. Robotic.
Both hands dangled at her sides—and her fingernails were long, curved, and sharp, like the claws of a hawk. Natural. Not fake. Not cute. Just deadly.
The man turned around mid-run, still trying to explain.
“I swear I’ll pay next time, sister! I just forgot my wallet, I’m good for it—”
Lindsey didn’t respond.
She walked up—silent—and raked her right hand across his chest, from shoulder to hip.
Skin split.
Blood sprayed like busted plumbing.
Then, with her left hand, she gripped his face, and slashed twice across his cheeks like she was trimming a hedge.
By the time he hit the ground, he was already a pile of meat chunks, at least ten distinct pieces, with three extra ear-sized bits stuck to the wall like decorative stickers.
Monica stood frozen, watching the carnage.
Her lips slowly parted.
Her eyes shimmered.
“She’s… so hot.”
“She’s in a bra.”
“Exactly,” Monica whispered. “That’s real confidence.”
Lawson exhaled through his nose like a man whose lungs were giving up.
But it wasn’t over yet.
A few blocks later, they passed under an old tree.
Sitting beneath it was a man.
Shirtless.
Wrinkled skin. Patches of hardened chest hair. A flip-flop string hung around his neck like a necklace.
And down below—
He wore nothing but a soggy adult diaper, swollen in the front and slightly yellow, like it had been through too many Tuesdays.
He sat there cross-legged, casually digging between his toes with one finger, humming a random melody while flicking skin flakes into the breeze.
Lawson tried to speed up, but Monica stopped again.
Her eyes lit up like she’d found a holy man.
“He’s so free…”
“He’s wearing a diaper.”
“Yeah. But look at him. He doesn’t care. He’s just being himself. He’s not hiding anything. He’s pure.”
“I think I might be falling in love again.”
Lawson stared at the sky.
His pupils stopped focusing.
Somewhere, deep in his brain, a wire began to snap.
Lust in the Distance
Right after Monica had nearly cried over the old man digging between his toes in a diaper, two new figures appeared in the distance.
They were still about ten meters away—walking side by side, approaching in the golden evening light.
The one in front was Dave.
A beast of a man.
Chest like concrete slabs, abs lined up like a cutting board.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Only a pink lace-trimmed women’s thong, hugging his hips like a secret weapon holster.
Up front, the fabric was visibly struggling—bulging hard like he had a fire extinguisher hidden inside.
His face? Emotionless.
Eyes cold.
Focused straight ahead.
Then he paused.
His giant dick was itchy.
Without hesitation, Dave slid his hand down the side of the thong and reached in deep, fingers wrapping underneath, fully committed.
He adjusted something.
Gripped it.
Twisted his wrist slightly—like he was realigning a loaded weapon—then pulled his hand out and casually flicked his fingers.
That was the moment Monica broke.
She stared in awe.
Her tongue slowly slid across her lips.
Her eyes scanned from his shoulders, down past his pecs, over his abs, and finally landed on that monstrous bulge outlined beneath the tight pink fabric.
“I… I think I actually wanna f**k him.”
“His arms, his chest, his control… He could lift me into the air and just—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
But in her mind, it was already happening.
She imagined Dave holding her midair, lifting her up like gym equipment.
Her legs hanging off the ground, arms limp.
He’d grip her thighs and use pure bicep power to thrust her body back and forth, in and out, in and out, with heavy rhythm and absolute domination.
Slapping sounds.
Echoes.
Air humping like war drums.
Monica’s face flushed.
Her breathing grew shallow.
She looked like she was on the edge of climax just from thinking about it.
Then—
A voice, cracking, dry, defeated.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m literally standing right next to you. I’m your boyfriend. Hello?”
It was Lawson.
His voice trembled.
His dignity was visibly crumbling.
Monica didn’t even turn her head.
She just kept staring at Dave like he was a living sculpture designed for destruction and breeding.
Meanwhile, a second figure emerged behind Dave.
It was Eason.
He wore a loose, oversized striped pajama set.
His hair was spiked into a crispy pineapple shape, and he looked like he had just been dragged out of bed and given a deadline.
He was walking slowly, head tilted down, scrolling through something on his phone, completely unaware of the energy radiating around him.
Lawson glanced at Eason, then looked back at Dave’s bulge, then back at Eason.
Keep Your Hands Off My Girlfriend
The four of them ran into each other at a street corner.
Dave stood upright and pointed to the pale, expressionless guy next to him — the one dressed in a faded old railroad worker uniform.
“His name’s Lawson. Ends in S-O-N. Maybe you two are cousins or something?”
Eason took one look at Lawson’s withered face and scoffed.
“Cousins? Bro, if anything, that guy’s my grandpa.”
But he didn’t give Lawson another glance. His eyes had already locked onto Monica.
She was standing there with her arms crossed, looking a little impatient. But the golden sunset behind her gave her face a glowing, filtered look — like some overly edited shampoo commercial.
Eason’s eyes lit up. He stepped forward with a smile and turned on what he thought was full gentleman mode.
“Hi, I’m Eason.”
He slowly extended his hand — not like a normal introduction, but like he was about to ask her for a ballroom dance.
Monica hesitated, then reluctantly reached out. But as soon as their hands touched, her face froze.
Eason’s fingers lightly slid across her palm — not quite a handshake, more like a flirty trace. It felt creepy. Gross.
She pulled her hand back in disgust.
SMACK!
A sharp hand chop landed clean across Eason’s outstretched hand. Lawson’s hand.
“Back off my girlfriend, you freak.”
Eason flinched, totally caught off guard. One second he was flirting, the next, his hand was numb.
He glanced back and forth between Monica and Lawson, then sneered.
“You’re dating him? Seriously? You’re so young — and he looks like he’s already got one foot in the grave.”
Lawson didn’t blink.
“I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen? You’re younger than me?” Eason blinked in disbelief. “No way. You look eighty-eight.”
Lawson reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out an ID.
Eason took a look. His jaw dropped.
“Shit… he really is eighteen.”
But even that didn’t stop him.
He shamelessly dropped to one knee, plucked a tiny flower growing through a sidewalk crack, and held it out to Monica.
“Hey, pretty… I love you.”
Monica recoiled.
“Even if we were the last two people on Earth, I still wouldn’t pick you.”
That one line hit harder than any punch.
Eason’s face darkened. The flower in his hand wilted on the spot.
He stared at the ground, mumbling like a ghost.
“Why… why have I never scored in my life…”
Dave leaned toward Lawson and whispered,
“Is that ID even real?”
Lawson didn’t answer. He just stood there quietly, fixing the loose folds of his old uniform, completely unfazed.
Just Knock Him Out and See
Eason was still kneeling on one knee, holding the wilted flower like a Shakespearean tragedy.
“Why? Why has nothing ever worked out for me in this life…”
Dave walked over, grabbed the back of his collar like lifting a stray cat.
“Alright, enough goofing around. We’ve got real business to do. Aren’t you here to find your cousin?”
“Come on, man, there’s a beautiful girl standing right here. Why rush?”
“Let’s move. I’m not wasting the whole day on this crap.”
Eason cleared his throat and put on a fake formal tone.
“Mr. Lawson, I have serious reason to suspect we’re cousins.”
Lawson glanced over with a cold, tired expression.
“Get out of here. I don’t have an ugly cousin like you.”
SLAP!
Eason instantly snapped.
“Don’t you ever say I’m ugly! You look like some old corpse halfway to the grave, you bastard!”
Lawson grabbed his wrist. They started scuffling in the middle of the street—grabbing shirts, tripping over each other like two stray dogs fighting over a banana peel.
Lawson yelled between breaths:
“Who the hell are you calling old?! I’m eighteen years old, you douchebag!!”
Eason shouted back:
“Eighteen?! If you’re eighteen, then I’m eighteen months old, jackass!”
They kept tumbling, punching, clawing.
Monica sighed and crossed her arms:
“How old are you guys, seriously? You fight like you’re in kindergarten.”
Dave stood with arms folded, deadpan.
“If I wasn’t seeing this with my own eyes, I’d never believe an eighteen-year-old is out here brawling with someone who looks eighty.”
He thought for a second.
Then he remembered something: Eason said his cousin would transform if knocked unconscious.
Without warning, Dave calmly walked up and delivered a karate chop to the back of Lawson’s neck.
THWACK.
Lawson collapsed like a dropped mannequin—eyes white, body limp.
Monica screamed and rushed over.
“Hey! Are you okay? Talk to me!”
Everyone froze.
One second…
Two seconds…
Thirty seconds…
One full minute.
Nothing happened.
Eason walked up, spat directly on Lawson’s face, and muttered:
“Guess he’s not my cousin after all. Been out cold for a while and still nothing.”
He turned to Monica with a bright, hopeful smile.
“Anyway, where were we? You and me, destiny, soulmates or something—”
Before he could finish, Dave yanked him backward by the collar and started dragging him away like a mop.
Eason slid along the ground, flailing, yelling behind him:
“Babe! I love you! I miss you!!”
Monica stood still, staring at the sky like someone reconsidering her entire life.