The Barbecue Party Continues
The fire popped quietly, casting soft flickers across their faces as they sat around it—eating dog meat, sipping warm Coke, and talking about life like they weren’t all low-level gangsters with bounties on their heads.
Norman kept to himself, quietly grilling a plain bun on a stick over the fire. He didn’t touch the meat, didn’t say much either. Just listened.
Robinson leaned back, wiping grease off his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Frank,” he said, turning toward him. “Didn’t you used to be somebody? I heard you got into some heavy shit, then swore off fighting for good. That true?”
Frank didn’t answer right away. He was focused—rubbing a booger between two fingers, slowly drying it out with gentle pressure, like he was prepping it for flight.
“Man… that was a lifetime ago,” he muttered. “I don’t even remember how to throw a punch anymore. Let’s not dig that up.”
Robinson squinted at him, chewing slowly.
“So that’s it? You’re just gonna drift around doing delivery runs forever?”
Frank shrugged. Without looking, he flicked the now-dried booger straight into the fire. It sizzled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Honestly? That’s not a bad way to live.”
That got a laugh out of Canelo, who clinked his Coke can against Robinson’s.
“Well, I’m still aiming to be the top dog,” he said. “Strongest boss in the game.”
“Please,” Robinson scoffed. “You’ll be second. I’ll be the top dog.”
They grinned at each other like old rivals who hadn’t tried to kill each other last week.
Around the fire, with smoke in their eyes and meat between their teeth, they weren’t enemies anymore. Just dudes sharing a weird little peace.
Then Canelo turned to Norman.
“Hey, Pink Shirt. You’ve been off the grid for months. You coming back to the crew or what?”
Norman looked up at the moon. It was big tonight. Quiet.
“I think I’m stepping away from all that. For a while. Maybe… indefinitely,” he said.
He didn’t mention what he really meant. Didn’t tell them about the plan forming in his heart—to fight for dog rights in this twisted city. Even in his own mind, it sounded kind of ridiculous.
Canelo raised an eyebrow.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Norman gave a soft smile.
“I’ll tell you some other time.”
No one pushed it. The night was too calm. The fire too warm. They just kept eating, kept talking.
Then Robinson turned his head.
“What about you, Sean? Still playing the unlicensed local hero? Maybe it’s time to come back to the dark side. You were a beast, man.”
But Sean didn’t answer.
No sarcastic laugh. No smug reply. Nothing.
That’s when they remembered—Sean was still unconscious on the ground. Norman had knocked him out not long ago.
Canelo, who showed up late, had no idea. He looked over at Sean’s limp body and shook his head.
“Hey man… eating and crashing like that? Not good for your stomach. You’re gonna get fat.”
Qi on Autopilot
The fire had burned low now. Just glowing red charcoal and occasional pops of heat rising into the night. The conversation had thinned out, replaced by slow chewing and the sound of crickets in the grass. For a while, nobody said anything. Just the quiet hum of full bellies and fading adrenaline.
Then—
Robinson leaned in, still rubbing his stomach after that heavy meal.
“Hey, Frank. Earlier when Norman was going off on you—like, full beast mode—I noticed something. You kept yelling like you were in pain, but… you didn’t take a single hit. What’s up with that?”
Frank scratched his head, a little sheepish.
“Ah, that’s… kinda hard to explain,” he said. “I’ve got this thing. It’s like I was born with qi flowing all around me. Constantly. Automatically. Like an autopilot defense system or something. I don’t even control it—it just wraps around me on its own. So… usually, I don’t really get hurt.”
He paused for a second, then added quietly,
“Only downside is… my nervous system’s still active. So yeah—it still hurts like hell.”
Robinson blinked, processing it.
“Okay… but still. You could’ve at least fought back. Why didn’t you even throw a single punch?”
Norman looked at Frank too now—curious, maybe even a little suspicious.
Frank gave a shrug.
“Honestly? I made a promise. I swore I’d never use martial arts again. So I didn’t fight back.”
But deep down, he wasn’t being fully honest.
What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t say—is that he was scared of what would happen if he did fight back.
His qi wasn’t just a shield. It was monstrous. Overwhelming. Violent.
If he let it loose, even just a little, he could level an entire street.
He knew—because it had happened before.
Years ago, during a moment of panic, he’d accidentally released too much of it… and killed his own fiancée.
That was the day he vowed to stop.
To never hurt anyone again.
Even if that meant taking a beating in silence.
The others didn’t press. They just nodded and let the topic drift off into the night.
A moment later, Robinson gave his belly a light slap—it was round and tight with food.
“Oh man,” he groaned. “Haven’t had a meal this good in forever. That Alaskan dog meat really hits. We should catch another one next time.”
Norman’s smile twitched. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes darkened a little.
Canelo chimed in, licking sauce off his fingers.
“Oh yeah, man. Alaskan dog meat’s the best.”
Then he casually slapped Norman on the shoulder.
“Right? You know what I’m talking about.”
Norman forced a crooked smile—part out of habit, part out of respect.
Canelo had once been his master. That was the only reason he didn’t explode right then and there.
With full bellies and greasy hands, Robinson and Canelo finally stood up.
“Alright, we’re heading back,” Robinson said.
Norman nodded, but quietly added,
“I’ll go the other way.”
Truth was, he had no interest in going home. He had other plans.
He wanted to follow Frank.
He had questions. Big ones.
What kind of body did Frank have? What kind of defense was that? Was it really unbreakable?
Norman wasn’t convinced. Not yet.
He wanted a second round.
And this time, he wouldn’t hold back.
Far ahead, Frank hopped onto his scooter and rolled off into the night, its tiny engine buzzing softly under the streetlights.
Norman took a breath, then broke into a light jog—effortless, steady.
His speed?
Exactly the same as the scooter.
Not faster. Not slower.
Just enough to keep Frank in sight… and stay completely silent.
The Infamous Tormentors
Frank turned his scooter into a narrow alley—a damp, shadowy corridor that reeked of garbage and bad decisions. The hum of the engine echoed off the walls. He was just looking for a shortcut. Or maybe just a quiet way home.
That’s when four figures stepped out from the darkness, blocking his path.
Frank blinked, sighed, and propped one foot down to stop the scooter. His voice was flat, almost bored.
“I don’t have any money. Please don’t hurt me.”
But they weren’t interested in negotiations.
One of the men blurred forward with alarming speed and snatched Frank’s wallet straight out of his pocket. He opened it, shook it, and let the cash fall into his hand—exactly thirteen dollars.
Disgusted, the man hurled the empty wallet at the ground.
The moment it hit, the thing burst apart like a paper flower soaked in gasoline—scattering fabric and threads in every direction.
Even Frank had to blink at that one.
About twenty meters away, Norman lay flat on the ground behind a trash can, curled low like a hunting dog. He was watching everything. Silent. Focused.
He knew who those four were.
The Tormentors.
A global gang. Notorious. Ruthless. Feared everywhere they went.
They didn’t just rob people. They tormented them—mentally, physically, spiritually—until there was nothing left. Their name wasn’t just for show. They were walking nightmares.
Norman didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. He had no idea how this would go.
But he wanted to know just how far Frank’s “qi shield” could go.
And more importantly… could he break it?
Back in the alley, Frank still had no clue who he was dealing with.
“That’s all I’ve got,” he said meekly. “Please don’t hurt me…”
He didn’t even finish the sentence.
One of the Tormentors stepped up and stabbed his hand straight into Frank’s stomach. No weapon—just fingers turned into a human drill. His palm twisted and churned like he was trying to bore a tunnel through Frank’s gut.
But… nothing happened.
His fingers couldn’t penetrate past the outer layer. It was like punching a rubber tire filled with iron sand.
Frank screamed.
“MOM—! FUUU—AHH! IT HURTS! HOLY SHIT, IT HURTS SO BAD! WHY THE FUCK DOES IT HURT?!”
The guy yanked his hand back, stunned to see it completely intact—and totally ineffective.
He stared. Eyes wide. Silent.
Then another Tormentor shoved him aside.
“You’re too soft,” the second man said. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He raised both fists.
His knuckles were lined with embedded metal spikes—nails, screws, jagged bolts, like DIY torture gear.
And then—
He unleashed one hundred punches in ten seconds, each blow slamming into Frank’s abdomen like a thunderclap.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM—
The sound was deafening.
Windows across an entire block shattered.
Storefronts cracked.
Cars rocked from the pressure.
And with every single hit, Frank howled.
“AAAH! AHH—FUCK! MY STOMACH! AHHHH—WHAT THE—STOP—AAAHHHHHH—”
One hundred screams, each more tortured than the last.
And then silence.
The Tormentor finally lowered his fists, panting.
“He’s done. No one’s internal organs can survive that. He’s probably mush inside.”
But Frank was still standing. Upright. Face red. Hands clutching his belly.
He gently tapped his stomach with one hand.
“Oh my God… that really, really hurt.”
Then he looked up at them, eyes watery.
“Are you done? Can I go home now?”
The four gangsters stared at him.
Then at each other.
Then back at him.
And, in perfect unison, they said:
“What the fuck is going on?”
Hakki Unleashed
One of the four gangsters—the one with the long scar stretching down his cheek—suddenly stepped forward.
With a single, sharp motion, he flung his arm out and knocked the other three Tormentors to the ground like bowling pins. They landed hard, skidding on their butts.
“Useless. All three of you,” he growled. “Let me show you how to really torment someone.”
He stepped toward Frank, who was somehow still standing—hunched slightly, clutching his gut, but on his feet.
Frank looked like he was about to say something, but the boss wasn’t in the mood for talking.
The scar-faced man raised his arm slowly. His fist began to swell—growing larger and darker. In a matter of seconds, it ballooned to the size of a basketball, pulsing with veins and coated in something black and metallic.
“This… is my Hakki,” he declared proudly. “Just like One Piece.”
The entire fist turned pitch black, like polished iron. Then his arm began spinning. Once. Twice. Ten times. A hundred times—so fast it blurred, building force like a turbine engine.
And then—he unleashed it.
BOOM!
One punch.
Frank’s body rocketed through the alley like a cannonball.
He smashed through two walls, then a third, then disappeared from view entirely—his trajectory tearing through old concrete and drywall like wet paper. He finally landed with a dull crash somewhere in the middle of a main road.
The boss exhaled and rolled his shoulder.
The other three Tormentors caught up and stared in awe.
“Boss… that was insane.”
He flexed his fist and watched the color slowly fade from black back to skin tone, shrinking back to normal.
Then he blew gently on his knuckles.
“See? Just that easy. Easy peasy.”
From twenty meters away, Norman had crept closer—moving from a trash bin to a nearby utility pole. He was still crawling low, dog-like, his stomach brushing the ground. His eyes locked onto the scene unfolding in the street.
Frank lay completely still in the middle of the road.
That’s it, Norman thought.
That boss might actually be the real deal.
The Tormentors began walking away—slow, casual, satisfied.
“Too weak,” the scar-faced boss muttered. “One punch. That’s all it took. Boring.”
But they’d barely made it five meters…
A delivery truck came rolling down the street.
It didn’t slow down.
Didn’t swerve.
Didn’t even honk.
THUMP-THUMP.
The truck ran directly over Frank’s body—front wheels, then back wheels. Then it kept driving, unaware, disappearing into the distance.
The Tormentors turned back to look—expecting to see a blood smear, maybe chunks of bone or bits of cloth.
Instead, they saw Frank… standing up.
Slowly. Calmly.
He brushed himself off.
“Ugh… That really hurt,” he muttered. “Can I go home now?”
The four of them froze.
Turned.
Stared.
Eyes wide. Mouths twitching.
One of them finally said what they were all thinking:
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Frank scratched the back of his head like he’d just been scolded for staying out too late.
“Alright, alright… enough is enough. I just wanna go home and sleep. You guys done hitting me?”
The boss’s face twisted with rage.
Behind him, one of the underlings whispered with wide eyes:
“Boss… don’t tell me… you’re gonna use the forbidden technique?”
Explosive Annihilation
The scar-faced boss didn’t say a word.
He reached into his coat pocket… and pulled out a fist-sized stick of TNT—old-school, bright red, with a fuse already wired in.
Before anyone could react, he jammed it into Frank’s mouth—shoved it deep—until the whole thing was sucked straight down into his stomach.
“What the hell?!” Frank gagged. “Did you just stuff dog shit in my mouth?!”
The boss didn’t answer.
He simply stepped back. Slowly. Calmly.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
PFFFFFT—BOOM.
A thick column of black smoke blasted out from Frank’s throat.
He dropped to his knees, coughing violently. Chunks of ash, charred dust, and twisted metal fragments shot from his mouth like a possessed chimney. He looked like a human barbecue pit on meltdown mode.
The boss crossed his arms with a smug expression.
“I haven’t used that kind of dirty trick in ten years,” he muttered. “No matter how tough your defense is… the inside’s still soft. I’m guessing his organs are now just a soup of regret.”
He turned away, satisfied.
Frank wiped his mouth.
“Whew… at least it wasn’t dog shit. What the hell was that?”
The boss froze.
He slowly looked back.
Frank was still alive. Still talking. Still casually kneeling in the middle of the street like he’d just finished a long nap.
He survived.
Again.
Frank got to his feet and sighed.
“Alright… I think I’m gonna head home now. Let’s talk again some other time, yeah?”
That was it.
The last straw.
The phrase that shattered the boss’s sanity.
Behind him, the other three Tormentors scrambled toward him.
“Boss! Enough!”
“Let’s just go home!”
“Don’t do it! Not the final move!”
But the boss didn’t listen.
“I have to.”
The three underlings looked at each other in horror.
They knew what came next.
They turned and ran—full sprint—away from Frank. Away from him.
Because when the boss said final move, he didn’t mean metaphorically.
He rushed forward like a beast and grabbed Frank in a full-body hug, arms and legs wrapped around him like a desperate ex-lover.
Then he looked up to the sky and screamed.
A flash of golden light erupted from within his body—pulsing, expanding, vibrating with unnatural heat.
Self-destruction.
In less than a second, the entire city block vanished.
Everything—buildings, cars, signs, windows—obliterated into powder and fire.
And above it all, a mushroom cloud bloomed slowly into the night sky.
Silent.
Beautiful.
Unstoppable.
The Last Torment
At the exact moment of detonation, the leader of the Tormentors was instantly vaporized—gone without a trace. His three underlings, who had just been sprinting away in panic, were also turned to mist in the blink of an eye.
Buildings collapsed. Power poles snapped. Trash cans were reduced to dust.
When the smoke finally cleared, at the heart of the destruction… someone was moving.
Slowly… groaning… coated in a thick layer of gray dust, Frank stood up.
His clothes had been completely shredded. Ash and debris covered his skin like he’d just crawled out of a collapsed mine.
“Man… that hurt like hell,” he muttered, coughing. “Hurt as hell… hurt as fuck.”
Not far from him, where his little red scooter used to be parked…
Nothing remained.
Just a scattered patch of glowing dust.
Frank stared for a few seconds, blank-faced. Then he sighed.
“…Damn. I liked that scooter.”
“And shit—I don’t even have money to buy another one.”
He scratched the back of his head, smearing more dust into his already ash-covered hair.
Later that night, on television screens all over the country, the same emergency bulletin played:
Breaking News:
A powerful explosion has rocked the center of the city earlier today.
Officials are still investigating the cause of what some speculate may have been a small-scale nuclear event.
Among the confirmed casualties are four known international criminals—the group infamously known as the Tormentors.
While the full damage report is ongoing, authorities believe the threat posed by this group is now officially over.
The world, for once, rejoiced.
Most of the people in the blast zone were instantly killed—reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye.
But somehow… a handful survived.
By luck. By fate. Or by some unexplainable force.
Among them was Norman.
He lay in a hospital bed, body completely bound in tight, white medical wraps—like a man-sized dumpling. Only his mouth was free.
With a faint, dry whisper, he mumbled to himself:
“I don’t need to challenge that guy again…
He’s not a man. He’s a god.”
Back at the now-abandoned barbecue pit, in the very ashes of the broken campfire, a shadowy figure was crouched down—tall, heavy, dressed in torn clothing. A homeless man.
He hunched over the blackened remains, gnawing on leftover bones and scraps of half-burnt meat.
That homeless man was Tom.
And without a word, without a care, he sat comfortably on top of Sean’s unconscious body…
Chewing happily.
Enjoying the taste of Alaskan dog meat.