The Peeing Man
A short man, wearing a dirty hoodie and a pair of wrinkled jeans, stood in front of a streetlamp. Cigarette in hand, head tilted back, eyes closed—like he was really enjoying himself.
He was pissing on the lamppost.
He didn’t care about being called out for public obscenity—not even a little. The piss hit the pole with a sharp splatter. The corner of his mouth twitched. You could imagine how good it felt—just that stupid, raw comfort when the body lets go.
He was none other than the infamous gangster of the town—Canelo. People saw him all the time, pissing on lampposts, trees, fire hydrants—every single day, in different parts of the city.
He earned his nickname: The Peeing Man.
It sounded dumb, but when people heard it, their faces turned pale, their hands shook—and some even wet their pants. Canelo was cold, violent. Some said he wasn’t just a criminal. They called him the embodiment of absolute evil.
High Knee Tom
Tom—also known on the streets as High Knee Tom—was homeless. He made a living by collecting empty soda cans off the street.
He was tall—really tall. At least 6’5″, towering one or two heads over Canelo. His clothes were torn and filthy, exposing his big round belly. But don’t be fooled by how he looked. Beneath the fat around his gut, his muscles were tight and solid.
The weather was nice that day. Tom was on the move, busy trying to earn enough for dinner. He needed to collect a lot of cans—just enough to buy himself a meal.
He was having a pretty good day—until near a mailbox, he spotted a twisted Coca-Cola can on the ground. As he moved to grab it, someone stepped in his way.
A hunched, bony old woman glared at him and snapped, “Such a fine young man like you—not working a real job, and instead competing with old folks for recycling? You have no shame.”
Tom didn’t argue. He reached down and took the can anyway.
The old woman stormed up and slapped him. Hard. More than once. Then she shouted, “Look at you, young man. Big body, empty brain. Utterly useless.” She snatched the can from his hand and walked off, still muttering under her breath.
Still, Tom didn’t get angry. He just sighed and kept looking.
Then, near a streetlamp, he spotted a dented Pepsi can. He looked both ways. No one around. He ran, snatched the can, stuffed it into his pocket—and then noticed someone standing beside the lamp post.
That someone was… actually… peeing.
Wrong Place, Wrong Can
Canelo immediately sensed someone had stepped into his territory. He let out a casual whistle, then turned around—with his dick still out—and aimed it straight at Tom’s face.
The stream hit dead on.
Tom was caught completely off guard. He flinched back, stunned, his eyes blinking fast. Then, slowly, he stood up, wiped the urine off his face using the hem of his filthy shirt, and mumbled, “That’s not cool, man.”
His face looked a little dazed, like he couldn’t tell if it had really happened. Then, without saying anything else, he turned and started looking for more cans.
Canelo slowly zipped up his pants. He looked at Tom, expression flat and cold, and said, “You think you can just walk away?”
Tom turned around, still a bit confused, and replied, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Canelo didn’t say another word. He suddenly rushed forward and slapped Tom across the face—hard. Then again. And again.
Tom just stood there, blinking, completely lost. “What was that?” he mumbled.
Canelo didn’t answer. He spun around and kicked, aiming straight for Tom’s belly. But Tom reacted just in time—his hands came down and blocked the hit. Still, his face looked even more dazed than before.
He stared at Canelo and said, “Hey, bro… if you’re mad at me for… stealing your can, then… I’ll give it back. No need to get… physical.”
The Skyfall Kick
Canelo suddenly took a few slow steps backward. Tom watched him closely, unsure what Canelo was about to do.
He scratched his head—then accidentally let out a loud fart. The sound echoed for a few seconds, but no one seemed to notice… or maybe they just didn’t care.
Then Canelo burst forward, charging a few steps with explosive speed—then launched himself into the air, soaring nearly three meters high.
As he rose, his left leg curled inward while his right leg shot out straight, toes pointed like a spear. His whole body angled downward at 45 degrees as he plummeted straight toward his target.
It was his signature move—the Skyfall Kick. A brutal, precision strike aimed directly at Tom’s chest like it was meant to end him.
Tom threw his arms up and crossed them over his chest—just in time.
Canelo’s Skyfall Kick slammed down on him like a hammer from the heavens. The moment their bodies collided, a shockwave exploded outward. Sparks flew in every direction. The ground trembled beneath them, as if the very street shook from the impact.
The Powerful High Knees
The force sent Tom sliding backward—his feet scraping along the ground until he finally stopped.
Then came a sharp, clean snap. One of his arms broke right there, on the spot. The pain hit him like fire. Tom roared—raw, loud, and full of rage.
Even someone like Tom—clumsy, slow, dense, almost never sure of anything—could sense it: Canelo was a real threat. And that alone was enough to make him strike back.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the agony, and with both arms—one already broken—he grabbed Canelo out of the air and yanked him in close.
Then, without thinking, he started running in place. High knees. One after another. Each one smashing into Canelo’s gut—hard.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Canelo’s body jerked with every hit, like his guts were getting jackhammered over and over. Using the last breath in his body, Canelo coughed—hard—and blasted a thick wave of blood straight into the air.
The spray burst upward, and the droplets scattered in every direction, hanging like red mist across every corner of the empty street.
His eyes flashed white and rolled back as all strength left his body. He was completely knocked out cold. He hung there—limp, heavy, and lifeless—like a discarded puppet in Tom’s arms.
Tom casually flung Canelo’s body down next to one of those giant trash containers—the kind with wheels and a metal lid.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, let out a tired sigh. Then, as if nothing had happened, he casually turned and got back to work.
He still hadn’t made enough money for dinner.
Life on the streets wasn’t easy, not even for such a fierce fighter like Tom.