The Undeniable Combover
It was Sunday.
The rain had come and gone, leaving the air cool and soft, like a fresh towel after a sweaty day. The city, usually tense and overheated, finally exhaled.
Pastor Simon sat alone in a small bakery—nothing fancy. Just clean, quiet, and warm. A half-bitten croissant in one hand. A lukewarm coffee in the other.
For once, he had peace.
But his mind wasn’t still.
He kept replaying the report he’d received the day before—the one that said Chief Grayson had quietly slipped hundreds, maybe a thousand, undercover officers into the recent turf wars.
Officially, Grayson was “neutral.”
Unofficially? He fed his own brother Robinson a private army.
That’s how Robinson kept winning.
Not strategy.
Not luck.
Just dirty help from family.
Simon chewed slower, watching the steam curl out of his cup.
Then the door jingled.
The man who walked in had a hairstyle that felt like a prank.
Long strands swept over a shiny bald dome, combed dramatically from one side to the other. A combover that didn’t hide the truth—it amplified it. A greasy flag waving over a defeated battlefield.
It was Grayson.
No badge. No gun. Just a pale green polo shirt stretched over his stomach. But even without the uniform, no one could miss that head.
That dome. That combover.
No disguise could erase it.
Grayson ordered a coffee.
When the owner asked for payment, Grayson waved a hand.
“Just count this as your protection fee.”
The owner paused. Smiled tight. Then quietly made the cup.
What else could he do?
He placed it on the counter and walked off, shoulders slumping like he’d just paid rent to a rat.
Grayson grabbed his drink and strutted to a table like he owned the place.
From across the room, Pastor Simon stood up—abrupt and loud.
He walked straight over.
“A coffee costs what—three bucks? You can’t even pay that?”
“You’re cheap as hell.”
Grayson turned. Stiffened.
He recognized the voice.
The subway. The kneeling. The humiliation.
Panic clicked in.
“Wh-what? Me? Nah—you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just a regular uncle, man.”
He gave a weak laugh. Tried to lean back like he was joking. Maybe scared.
Didn’t matter.
Simon didn’t blink.
“You are Grayson,” he said flatly.
“And if you don’t admit it in five seconds… I’ll punch your head into soup.”
Public Humiliation
Simon stood behind him—silent, but lethal.
His voice cut the air.
“Five. Four. Three. Two—”
That was enough.
Grayson spun around like the words themselves had weight.
His hands pressed together, prayer-style. He bowed repeatedly, combover flapping with each movement.
“Please! Please—I admit it! I’m Chief Grayson! Don’t smash my head!”
His voice cracked on the way out.
Simon didn’t move.
“Why’d you lie?”
“We agreed—no interference. No favors.
So why’d you sneak your boys into Robinson’s crew?”
Grayson shook his head like a wet dog.
“I didn’t! That report’s wrong! I swear I—”
Simon didn’t let him finish.
He raised his hand and slapped.
Five times.
Left, right, left, right, left.
Crisp. Rhythmic. Brutal.
Grayson’s knees gave out. His arms flopped like noodles. His mouth opened—
PFFFRT—
A wet fart broke free.
And then—
PSSSSHK.
He pissed himself.
Right there by the pastry display.
He was wearing shorts.
The pee dripped straight down in sad, deliberate drops.
Forming a perfect little puddle on the tile—glistening in the bakery’s warm lights like performance art.
Everyone froze.
A man in the corner nearly choked on his raisin bun.
One guy pointed.
“Bro… your downstairs must be real loose for it to just fall out like that.”
Another slapped the table, gasping.
“Funniest shit I’ve seen all week!”
Laughter erupted. Exploded.
Grayson’s face changed colors—red, then purple, then gray.
He had no moves left.
Except one.
He slapped back.
A limp, slow-motion backhand aimed at Simon’s cheek.
It didn’t land so much as it… wafted.
Simon didn’t dodge. Didn’t block.
Not because he couldn’t.
But because he truly didn’t think Grayson would dare.
And the second it made contact—
Simon’s face darkened.
He was done.
Without a word, he grabbed Grayson by both ankles.
Lifted him like a gym towel.
Spun once.
Twice.
Let go.
Grayson flipped midair like an abandoned suitcase.
CRASH.
He smashed straight through the bakery’s front glass wall.
Shards flew like glitter from hell.
He hit the street hard. Rolled. Bounced.
Stopped next to a storm drain.
Unmoving.
Inside, glass settled onto scones.
Simon blinked. Looked around.
“Oops. My bad.”
And just like that—he bolted. No glance back. No farewell.
Just gone.
Bottomless in Public
A few days later, the wall was fixed.
Again.
The bakery owner—Raymond—ate the cost with silence. This time, he wasn’t taking chances.
Right next to the counter, above the tip jar, he taped a fresh, hand-painted sign:
No Fighting Inside the Bakery
The place was crowded that day.
That’s when Jessica walked in.
Full Zhongshan suit, tight to the collar. Ponytail down her back. Katana strapped across her shoulders like it was just part of her outfit.
She moved like she had choreography.
She ordered a fruit tea. Sat down near the window. Training had left her sore and overheating. She needed rest.
She thought the bakery would be quiet.
It was.
Except for Dave.
He sat at the opposite table—still, stiff, staring at nothing. His tea was untouched.
Face wooden. Eyes hollow. Not blinking.
Dave—once known as The Underwear—hadn’t recovered from his last loss.
Two customers whispered from the back:
“Yo, isn’t that the underwear guy?”
“Yeah. That’s him. Dude… I thought he was just a rumor.”
Dave heard them.
Turned his head slowly.
Voice like a ghost:
“What a joke…
Mario shredded my underwear.
Turned it into scraps.”
He looked down at his lap. Then back up.
“I’m not wearing anything right now.
The ‘Underwear’ you knew… no longer exists.”
The room fell dead quiet.
Jessica looked up.
That name—Dave.
She remembered. The guy who twisted her classmate’s neck 180 degrees in a bubble tea shop.
Her eyes dropped to the chair.
And saw exactly what he meant.
No underwear.
No pants.
Just a giant junk.
But let’s be clear—this isn’t that kind of story.
So for everyone’s sake, the narrator will place a thick mosaic over the scene.
Jessica flinched.
Even through the blur, she felt her stomach twist.
“Who shows up to a public place… like this?”
She reached over her shoulder.
Pulled her blade.
Pointed it at his neck.
“You disgusting freak.
Put on some damn pants.”
The Pink Boxers
“I don’t have any pants,” Dave said flatly.
His tone didn’t change. Still hollow. Still drifting somewhere between dead and dreaming.
Jessica exhaled slowly through her nose.
Then raised her voice to the room:
“Does anyone have spare pants? Underwear? Anything this guy can wear?”
She pointed to the two guys in the back.
“You two. Help him.”
One of them practically leaned out of his chair.
“Uh… no offense, but that guy’s got… rules.
He only wears pink underwear. Like, religiously.”
Dave didn’t blink.
Didn’t react.
Just stared at the wall like it owed him something.
From across the room, someone stood up.
A girl. White blouse. Tight jeans. Zero hesitation.
“I’ve got pink underwear.”
Jessica didn’t miss a beat.
“Perfect. Bring them here.”
The girl calmly unbuttoned her jeans. Stepped out. No fanfare.
She wore pink boxer-style underwear—simple, rectangular, nothing flirty.
And with one practiced tug, she pulled them off.
The gates of heaven creaked open—and the narrator, not taking chances, blurred her bottom immediately.
Then, with a clean toss, she flung the underwear across the bakery.
They landed in Jessica’s hands with a soft, defiant slap.
She stepped forward. Held them out to Dave.
“Here. You’re covered.”
Dave looked down.
Then up.
Then down again.
“These aren’t triangle-cut.
I only wear pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.
Sorry. I can’t accept this.”
That was it.
The moment Jessica’s soul cracked.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… broke.
“You’ve been bottomless in a public bakery,” she said, voice tightening,
“and you’re rejecting help because the cut isn’t right?”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
Her blade came out with one motion and sliced toward his neck.
CLANG.
It bounced off.
No cut. No bruise. No reaction.
Jessica stepped back, jaw tightening.
“What the hell are you made of?”
She jumped.
Two meters into the air.
Katana raised high.
Spun midair like divine judgment.
“PUT ON SOME DAMN PANTS!”
WHACK.
The blade came down full force.
It struck Dave’s body—
—and shattered.
SNAP.
The broken half spun like a cursed frisbee and buried itself in the bakery’s front glass wall.
A perfect, cursed bullseye.
Everyone stared.
One voice whispered:
“Safe…”
Then—
CLINK.
The broken blade slipped from the glass.
THUNK.
It stabbed the ground—five centimeters from the girl’s bare foot.
She screamed.
Not a cute scream. A horror-movie shriek.
High enough to cause physical pain.
And the glass—
BOOOOM.
Shattered.
Again.
Glass rained like knives.
Crumbs flew.
Chairs flipped.
Someone’s lemon tart got obliterated mid-bite.
Jessica stood in the middle of it all—breathing hard, katana ruined, patience destroyed.
And in the chaos, there it was again:
All because one man refused…
…to wear the pink boxers.
Three New Sacred Rules
Two days later.
Raymond fixed the wall.
Again.
He didn’t talk about the cost. He just taped three new handwritten signs beside the door:
NO FIGHTING
NO NUDITY
NO SCREAMING
These weren’t suggestions. They were final prayers.
His regulars noticed.
They’d seen him endure it all—blood, glass, nudity, slaps, swords, screams.
It was enough.
That afternoon, a retired gym teacher stood near the counter and spoke:
“This bakery’s taken enough damage.
If anything starts again—we shut it down fast.”
There were nods all around.
The Community Bread Defense Pact was born.
Unwritten. Unofficial. Absolute.
And not a moment too soon.
During the lunch rush, two elderly men sat near the center table, eating soup and toast.
Their conversation was calm… at first.
Then one leaned in:
“Gender isn’t binary anymore.
There are at least seventy recognized identities.”
The other man frowned.
“You’re full of shit. Two genders. That’s it.
What’s next—gender includes helicopter?”
Not loud. But sharp.
And sharp words in this bakery?
Dangerous.
The volume rose.
One man stood up, grabbed the other by the collar.
Soup sloshed.
Chairs screeched.
“Outside! You wanna fight, you do it outside!”
Someone pushed furniture aside.
The men agreed.
“Fine.
We’ll settle it like men.”
They stomped toward the entrance.
But before they reached the door, a young man sprinted ahead.
“NOT HERE!
Not in front of the glass!”
Everyone froze.
He was right.
Even fighting near the glass was a risk.
The two men cursed. Kept walking.
By the time they reached the end of the block, the entire bakery was watching through coffee steam and pastry crumbs.
And then—applause.
Not for the argument.
Not for the win.
But because—for once—the glass was still intact.
Raymond stepped out from the kitchen.
Walked to the center of the shop.
And bowed.
“Thank you.
For keeping this place safe.
For not letting it fall apart again.”
He straightened up, eyes misty.
“I’ll keep giving you the best bread and coffee in the city.
This place… is ours.”
And for the first time in a long time—
The three sacred rules remained unbroken.
Fate of the Glass Wall
The two old men were still yelling as they walked.
Still arguing about gender.
One said there were 71 identities.
The other insisted on “male, female, and angry.”
They didn’t stop.
Didn’t notice the danger coming.
A car.
Flying down the road—80 kilometers per hour.
Horn screaming. Tires smoking.
People dove out of the way.
Behind it—chasing at full sprint—
Dinello.
His Zhongshan suit flapped behind him like a cape.
Hair streaming. Legs pounding the pavement like jackhammers.
He was running 60 km/h. Easy.
“HEY!
YOU STOLE MY WALLET!”
The car zigzagged through traffic, trying to lose him.
It didn’t work.
Up ahead, a man squatted in the street, picking up a soda can.
His shirt was stained. Belly hanging out. Pants ragged.
It was Tom.
He didn’t move. Didn’t look.
The driver swerved.
Hard.
The car lost control.
CRASH.
It flew off the street.
Slammed full-speed into—
The bakery’s front glass wall.
Inside, Raymond had just stepped forward with a tray of scones.
He saw headlights.
Dove.
Rolled hard.
Barely survived.
But two customers didn’t.
The car skidded across tile.
Dragged them under.
Flattened them.
Blood fanned out beneath the counters.
By the time the wheels stopped turning—
They were just meat and denim.
The airbags blew.
The driver slumped unconscious.
The room was dead silent—except for the radiator hissing and a single chair tipping over.
Dinello arrived.
Breathing hard.
Didn’t check for survivors.
Didn’t shout.
Just yanked the door open, dragged the man out, and pulled something from his coat.
“That’s mine.”
His wallet.
He turned around and walked away.
Behind him—
Carnage.
And at the center of it—
Raymond knelt.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
He just stared at the wreckage.
At the broken wall.
At the blood.
At the car parked where the pastry shelf used to be.
His pupils were black.
His hands trembled.
His lips were pale.
Because he knew:
He couldn’t afford to fix it again.
The bakery was finished.
And something inside him—
finally, and forever—broke.