The Frying Pan of Faith
The three judges sat at the table, still tearing into plates of dog meat, grease dripping down their fingers, not even bothering to glance at the fight.
Then the next round started. Auntie H walked onto the field, holding nothing but a frying pan. She lifted it proudly and gave a big grin.
“This frying pan,” she declared, “is made of titanium alloy. It can block any attack in the world. It’s never failed me before.”
But before the crowd could even process her words, chaos erupted. From behind the wall of spectators, a sports car burst out of nowhere. The car plowed through the stands like a bowling ball smashing pins, sending a dozen people flying into the air. Some landed with their bodies bent into impossible shapes, others slammed headfirst into the ground, and one auntie literally split into two pieces on impact. The exhaust roared loud enough to shake the arena.
Behind the wheel was Jack—the strongest driver alive. He floored the pedal, eyes locked on Auntie H.
Khan jumped up in protest, shouting, “This is against the rules!”
But Mr. Wei leaned into the mic without blinking. “No, we allow it. Continue.”
Auntie H tightened her grip on the frying pan. Her face didn’t flinch, though her stomach twisted a little. A sports car… that’s something else.
Jack slammed the accelerator, and in one second the car was already flying at 100 kilometers an hour, charging straight at her.
Auntie H planted her feet, lifted the frying pan, and muttered to herself with complete faith:
“It has never failed me before.”
The Dog Leg Dispute
The whole arena roared with chaos. Tires screeched against the floor, engines howled like wild animals, women screamed, and the crowd cheered. All the noises tangled together into one insane background track.
And yet, at the judges’ table, the three referees didn’t even glance at the fight. They were still huddled over their bubbling dog-meat hot pot, slurping away like nothing else existed.
Mario fished out a fat, juicy dog leg from the pot. He sniffed it deeply, eyes watering with joy. “God, the aroma’s incredible. This is too good. I don’t even want to eat it—it smells that amazing.”
Then—poof—the leg vanished. Across the table, Khan was grinning, holding the same steaming thigh in his hand.
“What the fuck was that, Khan?” Mario barked.
Khan shrugged, calm as ever. “It’s mine now. Don’t worry.” He picked up a random chunk of meat from the pot and dropped it into Mario’s bowl. Mario stared at it—it was a dog’s penis.
His face twisted. “The hell is this? You can even eat this?”
Joshua leaned in, nodding like an expert. “Of course. It’s good for stamina—good for your manhood. Eat it.”
Mario sighed, frowned, and shoved it down his throat. “Fine…”
Khan, meanwhile, held the dog leg close, drooling as he sniffed it. “So good… too good… I almost don’t wanna eat it.”
“Then give it to me, asshole,” Mario snapped, reaching again.
Joshua rested a hand on his shoulder. “Mario, forget it. You can’t beat Khan.”
Mario groaned, gave up, and dug back into the pot. This time he pulled out a dog’s tail. He stared at it, unsure. “Can you even eat this?”
Joshua smirked. “Sure. That’s good too. Keeps you hooked. Eat it.”
Mario squinted at the tail, then sighed and swallowed it whole.
He was still muttering under his breath, “Damn it… I still really want that leg,” when—suddenly—a frying pan came crashing down from the sky.
It bounced twice on the ground, clanged loudly, and though one handle bent off at an awkward angle, the thing was still perfectly usable.
Tom and the Dog Head
Right in front of the judges’ table, a tall, pot-bellied man appeared. He bent down and picked up the frying pan that had fallen from the sky—the very same pan Auntie H had lost when the car sent her flying. In his other hand, he held a dog’s head.
“Finally,” he said with a satisfied grin, “something I can use to cook this.”
He dragged over a short stool, sat himself down like he owned the place, and started piling scraps of wood from the garbage heap into a makeshift fire. Within moments, the pan was balanced over the flames, the dog’s head simmering inside.
When it was done, he lifted the steaming head, stared into its eyes, and leaned in close. He kissed the socket gently, then sucked out the eyeball in one sharp pull. He swallowed and sighed. “Oh… tasty. Haven’t had meat in so long.”
Then he turned to the other eye, slurped it out just as easily, and—without hesitation—locked lips with the head itself. What followed looked like a twisted kiss, his teeth tearing apart its tongue mid-embrace before he gulped it down.
To anyone watching, the man looked like some deranged pervert making out with a corpse. But to him, it was nothing more than pure enjoyment—just a man savoring his meal.
Frank’s Return
Tom had already finished the dog head, but he was still licking the bones, gnawing like he hadn’t eaten in years. Joshua watched him for a moment, shook his head, then kindly tossed a chunk of dog meat onto the ground in front of him.
Tom immediately dropped down on all fours, licking it up without hesitation.
Joshua chuckled and said, “He’s just like a good dog.”
And just then, a red scooter screeched to a halt at the judges’ table. The rider hopped off, dropped a full crate of Coke onto the table, and shouted cheerfully, “Hey! Your delivery’s here. The Coke you ordered has arrived!”
The judges’ eyes lit up instantly. They all shouted in joy, “Finally! Coke! How can you eat hot pot without Coke?”
When they looked up, their smiles froze. The delivery guy was wearing a white shirt with seven big letters printed across the chest: F-U-C-K-L-I-N.
It was Frank.
The three referees jumped to their feet, faces full of shock.
“Frank?! How could it be you? We haven’t seen you in over ten years! How have you been? How did you end up as a delivery rider?”
Frank just picked at his nose with one hand and answered casually, “Eh, couldn’t find any proper job these last ten years. So I’ve just been doing deliveries.”
From the other side, Khan, known as the Pinnacle of the Kung Fu World, stood up, eyes misty with emotion.
“Big brother… I’ve missed you. Where have you been all these years? What happened to you? You used to be so badass—now look at you. A belly this big? What the hell happened?”
The Short Stool
Frank gave a lazy shrug. “Oh, long story.”
Khan smiled. “Big brother, please sit. It’s been so long—let’s talk. We’ve got dog meat, Coke, and a little booze.”
He glanced around—no spare chair. With a casual flick of his hand, he pulled the short stool out from under Tom, like the air itself grabbed it.
Tom dropped straight onto the floor. “Ouch, it hurts! What the hell was that?!”
Khan set the stool neatly by the table and bowed a little. “Please, big brother.”
Frank sat down. From a distance, it looked almost normal—four people at a table, chatting and eating. But the stool was so short that Frank looked like a kid among adults, his head more than a full level lower than everyone else’s.
They dug into the dog meat, passed bottles of Coke, and laughed through old stories. None of them even glanced at the arena.
At one point, an auntie’s body came crashing down from above and slammed onto the floor right beside their table. She died instantly.
Nobody at the table flinched. They just kept eating, drinking, and talking like nothing happened.
The Nameless Dog
Dozens of meters away from the chaos of the arena, hidden in a small patch of bushes, two figures were hard at work. Norman clutched a dog leg tightly in his hands while Dave dug into the ground with all his strength. The hole was already half a meter deep.
Dave sighed. “It’s time to say goodbye. I hope in your next life, you’ll be a happier dog.”
Norman hesitated, eyes full of reluctance. But finally, he tossed the dog leg into the pit. Together, they shoveled dirt back over it, patting the ground until the grave was sealed. Then they stuck a wooden marker into the soil. Carved into it were the words:
“My good child, the nameless dog.”
The two of them bowed in silence for a full minute, paying solemn respects to the makeshift grave. Then, without a word, they turned and walked back toward the arena. It was their final farewell.
And yet, even as Norman and Dave lingered in grief, just a short distance away four others were feasting happily on the very same dog’s meat. Around a steaming hot pot they laughed, guzzled Coke, and reminisced about the past—stories from ten years ago.
Then the camera pulled back from the banquet table, panning fast, and the scene snapped back to ten years earlier.
What really happened a decade ago?
Find out in the next chapter.