Just Another Tuesday
A young man walked through the mall.
His Zhongshan suit hung loose, not a single button fastened. His sharp abs and chiseled chest were fully exposed. He had long, straight bangs covering his forehead, and his eyes looked hollow—bored beyond belief.
This was Dinello.
He strolled without purpose until he reached a soda vending machine. Suddenly, he crouched down, clutching his stomach. His face twisted in agony.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I think I’ve got diarrhea…”
He clenched his abdomen tighter. “My intestines… they’re flipping around. My guts feel like they’re tearing apart. The pressure in my butthole… it’s unbearable…”
He stayed crouched, moaning, clearly in pain.
A young couple passed by and noticed his suffering. They hesitated, then walked over and leaned in with concern.
“Sir, are you okay?” the girl asked. “You look like you’re in a lot of pain. Should we call you an ambulance?”
The two of them peered closer, trying to assess his condition. Just as they leaned in—
Dinello sprang up.
He stuck out his tongue, pulled his mouth wide with both hands, and shouted:
“LILILILILILILILI!”
A full-on jump scare.
The couple screamed and stumbled backward, hands clutching their chests.
“Holy fuck! What the hell—this guy’s insane! A pervert! A freak! A lunatic with some twisted fetish!”
They cursed him out with every word they could think of, then quickly ran away.
Dinello stood still, watching them disappear into the crowd. Then he sighed.
“…Too boring.”
He had hoped the weekly prank would bring some excitement, but it just wasn’t enough. Life had grown dull. Day after day—it was the same.
Wake up. Brush teeth. Eat breakfast. Watch TV. Eat lunch. Work. Eat dinner. Go on a date. Have sex.
Repeat.
Every single day, on loop.
As he walked further, he passed a clothing store called Urban Apparel. The place was packed, as always. Customers bustled in and out. Employees stood at the entrance greeting guests, folding shirts, restocking hangers, handling cash, bowing politely, and thanking everyone who walked in or out.
Dinello paused and watched them.
The repetition. The motions. The polite smiles.
He stared for a long time.
“How does anyone live like that?” he wondered. “What’s the point of it all?”
The next morning, at exactly 9 AM, Dinello stood in front of that same store.
Same Zhongshan suit. Same unbuttoned chest. He yawned.
“Why does everyone start work this early?” he muttered.
“Can’t we just stay home? Eat, drink, sleep, repeat?”
He sighed again.
“Guess another busy day begins.”
The Goofy Greeter
Dinello stood at the entrance of the clothing store, smiling brightly at every customer who walked in. But unlike the other employees, his greetings had… a bit more personality.
Sometimes he’d say, “Hey, what’s up, dude?”
Other times: “Hey, loser. How’s it going?”
And occasionally—while grinning like a total maniac—he’d drop a line like:
“Don’t steal anything in there, or I’ll break your kneecap.”
Then came a young woman. Beautiful, elegant, dressed in sleek office wear. Dinello noticed that one of the buttons on her blouse wasn’t fastened, exposing the soft white curve of something round beneath—partially hidden by her bra.
Dinello grinned and leaned in with a goofy tone:
“Hey sexy, your button’s undone. Now, I get it—you’re trying to tempt me for a discount, right? Not gonna happen…
Unless you give me a kiss.”
Before she could respond, a female staff member quietly whispered into the floor manager’s ear. The manager—frowning—waved Dinello over.
“Hey, new guy,” the floor manager said. “You don’t need to stand by the door greeting people. Go over there and fold that pile of clothes.”
He pointed toward a towering, chaotic mountain of unfolded clothes in the corner.
Dinello turned his head and muttered, “F**k me…”
“Go. Right. Now.” The manager scowled.
With a reluctant sigh, Dinello strolled over and began folding—slowly, lazily, but obediently.
An hour passed.
Finally, Dinello stepped away from the pile and left the area unnoticed. But when the floor manager walked by and looked at the pile of clothes—his eyes went wide.
Dinello had somehow folded all the garments into the shape of… a hideous Statue of Liberty.
“Impossible…” the manager whispered.
Who folds clothes into a damn sculpture?
Veins bulged on his forehead. He shouted:
“DINELLO! Get over here! Are you here to work or to waste everyone’s time with your nonsense?!”
Dinello trudged back, head slightly bowed, shaking it in mock regret.
“Sorry… I got a little carried away. I promise I’ll do my job properly. Please don’t fire me.”
The manager looked like he really wanted to fire him—but he didn’t have the authority. So instead, he cleared his throat and said:
“Fine. Go help the customers. See if they’re looking for something specific. Help them find the right fit. Go now.”
Dinello spun around like a figure skater, then strutted off with a little dance in his step—gliding into the next section of the store like he was waltzing into a party.
Best Customer Service Ever
Dinello stood casually in the women’s section, one hand resting on a clothing rack, one foot tapping rhythmically. He made the motion of whistling but didn’t produce a sound.
A young woman approached politely.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “What kind of outfit would look good on someone like me? Could you maybe help pick one or two styles that suit my body and complexion?”
Dinello gave her a once-over—from top to bottom, then bottom to top—and locked eyes on her chest. He stared at it for a solid ten seconds without blinking.
The girl, clearly a little embarrassed, asked softly, “Have you decided yet, sir?”
Snapping out of it, Dinello realized he had been too busy estimating her cup size to remember the question. But since he thought her figure was decent, he smiled and said,
“No problem, follow me. I’ll pick out something that really suits you.”
He reached into the rack and pulled out an extremely revealing top—barely more fabric than a bikini. It was a lightweight, cropped tank that exposed the navel, the entire back, and showed off the full side profile of the breasts.
He handed it to her confidently.
“With your figure, you should be wearing stuff like this.”
The girl looked at it and hesitated.
“Isn’t this a little too sexy? I mean… wearing this to work might be inappropriate. Even walking down the street in this… people would stare.”
Dinello gave a dismissive wave and said,
“Come on, no big deal. Half the girls on the street wear this. I dress like this sometimes too. Trust me, it’s totally fine. Want to just change right here? There’s a mirror.”
The girl looked nervous. “Here? But… there are a lot of people around. Can I use the fitting room instead?”
Dinello shrugged, went back to leaning against the rack and tapping his foot. “Whatever. Suit yourself.”
The girl inspected the outfit again, flipping it back and forth, then finally shook her head.
“No, I don’t think this is right for me. It’s a little too bold. If I wear this home, my mom might break my legs.”
She returned the item to the rack and walked away. Dinello stood there, shook his head, and muttered,
“Kids these days really don’t know how to dress themselves. Geez…”
Moments later, another customer came up. She looked to be in her early thirties—average face but generously endowed. Dinello greeted her casually.
“Hey, midlife bunny. Anything I can help you forget today?”
She blinked at the strange line and replied,
“I’m looking for a woman’s coat. Probably size large.”
Dinello strolled into the racks and randomly picked out a black Zhongshan jacket—technically men’s wear—and handed it to her.
“Here. Try this one on. Should be okay.”
The woman slipped it on and buttoned it up. It actually looked decent—suited her outdated fashion sense. But she frowned.
“It feels tight around the chest. I can’t breathe properly. I thought I picked the right size…”
Dinello glanced up and said,
“Yeah, new clothes always feel like that. Just wear it for a few days—you’ll get used to it. Honestly, it looks great on you. Totally matches your retro vibe.”
Just then, the floor manager walked up behind Dinello, face dark like a demon. His voice was low but seething.
“Dinello, someone just destroyed the bathroom. The floor is covered in shit. Go clean it. Now.”
Dinello wasn’t even sure what he had done wrong this time, but he nodded and walked off without protest.
The manager turned back to the woman and apologized with a tight smile.
“I’m sorry, our staff made a mistake. That’s a men’s coat, not women’s. Let me take you to the right section and help you find something more appropriate.”
Toilet Nap, Chaos Outside
Dinello stepped into the restroom and immediately noticed how clean it was—sparkling, pristine, even more spotless than his own bathroom at home.
He muttered to himself, “Why would this even need cleaning?”
Shrugging, he closed the door behind him, locked it, and took a seat.
“Might as well enjoy the environment.”
What he didn’t realize was that he had mistakenly entered the women’s restroom. The men’s bathroom, in contrast, looked like a war zone. The floor was covered in filth, and even the walls and mirrors had been smeared with it. It was as if someone had exploded—literally. Whoever used it must have released their feces like a high-pressure bomb, blasting it in all directions—floor, ceiling, mirrors, everything. The stall looked like it had survived a biochemical attack.
But Dinello, blissfully unaware, relaxed completely.
His rectum sighed with relief.
His entire body went limp, and a strange warmth filled his bones. It felt like every burden in life had been flushed away. He wasn’t just pooping—he was transcending.
He floated in place, as if on an enormous cloud of marijuana.
The kind of high that couldn’t be bought—only gifted by the universe.
Within minutes, Dinello had drifted into the deepest, most peaceful toilet nap of his life.
Suddenly, loud commotion erupted outside. Shattering sounds. Heavy thuds. Screams.
It sounded like a brawl was breaking out.
Dinello’s eyes flew open.
He wiped himself in a frenzy, tore off some toilet paper, gave his butt a military-grade polish, flushed, pulled up his pants, and sprinted out.
What he saw first stunned him—and then made him burst out laughing.
A man in a hoodie, cigarette dangling from his lips, was holding the floor manager by the collar.
The man was Canelo—a local gangster with a reputation for chaos.
The manager dangled midair like a limp puppet. His legs were kicking wildly, like he was trying to run on invisible ground.
The employees and customers had formed a circle around them, watching in horrified silence.
Dinello stood there, both hands clutching his belly, laughing uncontrollably.
The way the manager flailed—it was too ridiculous. He couldn’t breathe from laughing.
The manager shouted down at him, furious:
“HEY! You asshole! Stop laughing and DO SOMETHING!”
But Dinello couldn’t stop.
Through his giggles, he raised his phone and took a photo.
“Man, your pose right now is comedy gold.”
Canelo growled at the room:
“Bring me all the cash from this store! Last month you missed your protection payment!”
The scene was absolute chaos.
And Dinello?
Still laughing.
Identity Crisis
Just as the tension peaked, someone in the crowd yelled out:
“Yo—isn’t that the real Canelo?! That gangster from our neighborhood? I can’t believe we’re seeing him rob a place in person!”
Dinello snapped.
His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the voice.
“Who the hell just called me Canelo again?!” he barked, his voice sharp with insult. “My name is Dinello. D-I-N-E-L-L-O. Get it right. Who the fuck said that? Come out here and apologize!”
Canelo, still holding the floor manager midair by the collar in the center of the crowd, glanced over with a bored expression.
“Chill out,” he said. “That guy wasn’t talking about you. He was talking about me. My name’s Canelo.”
Dinello froze.
Wait… Canelo is real?
He had always assumed it was just a nickname people threw at him to mock him. A mispronunciation. A joke.
But now—he was staring at a hoodie-wearing gangster who genuinely introduced himself as Canelo.
Dinello’s eye twitched. Something inside him boiled over.
“Hoodie guy… how dare you.” He pointed a stiff finger straight at him. “You stole my nickname. That name’s been haunting me for years. And now you just… casually be it?”
Canelo squinted.
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
Dinello didn’t hesitate.
He swung his hand down like a blade—chopping Canelo’s wrist. Canelo’s grip released instantly.
The floor manager dropped to the floor, spine-first, ass-second.
“AAAHHH—MY PELVIS!!” he howled, rolling across the ground in pure agony.
But Dinello didn’t even look down.
He took a calm step forward.
Now chest-to-chest, face-to-face with Canelo.
He tilted his chin just slightly upward—asserting himself.
Dominating.
The tension was thick enough to slice.
Canelo, without warning, swung a slap toward Dinello’s face.
Dinello’s hand shot up and caught the slap in midair. Effortlessly.
He smiled.
Then snapped his knee straight into Canelo’s crotch.
Canelo jolted, his eyes bulging as both hands shot down to grapple his crotch, thighs pinched together in pure agony.
And Dinello followed up immediately with a brutal front kick to the chest—launching him through the glass store entrance.
CRASSHHHH!!
The door shattered like sugar.
Canelo’s body flew across the street and smashed into a trash bin. He slumped to the pavement beside it—completely motionless.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Dinello raised both fists in the air, turning toward the stunned onlookers.
Then with a slow, theatrical pause, he shouted:
“I… am the one and only… true Canelo. And anyone else who says otherwise… gets kicked in the dick.”
Best Employee of the Year
As the shattered glass settled and Canelo lay crumpled outside, the crowd that had gathered in a circle around the store burst into applause.
“Best employee of the year!” someone shouted.
“Yeah! You’re amazing, man!” another added.
The cheer spread quickly. Dozens of customers, workers, even random bystanders joined in the chant, clapping and hollering with genuine excitement. Dinello, standing in the center, raised both hands and waved humbly to the crowd.
“Thank you, thank you all for your support,” he said. “I’ll keep working hard next year!”
The floor manager, who had just recently been dangling in mid-air and then slammed to the ground ass-first, slowly climbed to his feet. One shaky hand on the counter, the other rubbing his bruised hip. Despite the pain, he managed a tired smile.
“Never thought someone like him would actually save the store,” he muttered under his breath.
Just then, the front doors swung open again—this time not from violence, but from someone hurrying inside.
A middle-aged man with thick, curly hair rushed behind the counter, panting slightly.
The store owner.
He had clearly just heard the commotion and come racing back. After scanning the room and seeing no blood, no weapons, and no more flying bodies, he let out a deep breath of relief.
Then he turned to Dinello.
Everyone was still clapping and talking about “the best employee,” but the owner squinted.
“Wait… who the hell are you?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “You look kinda unfamiliar.”
He looked Dinello up and down.
“And where’s your uniform? All my employees wear the standard pink polo. You’re wearing… what is that? A Zhongshan suit? And you’re not even buttoned up!”
Dinello’s smile froze slightly.
A single bead of sweat ran down his temple.
Then he straightened up and replied coolly:
“I’m Dinello. Sales… Associate.”
The owner raised an eyebrow and, without a word, pulled out the employee schedule from the drawer. He flipped through it—once, twice, a third time.
Then shook his head.
“There’s no Dinello working here.”
He stepped forward and grabbed Dinello by the wrist.
“You’re an impostor. I’m calling the cops. You’re not leaving this place today—my hand’s staying on you until the police arrive.”
Dinello’s expression twitched slightly. Another bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
He took a deep breath.
His cheeks puffed out like balloons, swelling with pressure.
Then, with a sharp exhale—PFFFFFTTT—he unleashed a powerful gust of Qi.
The wind shot out from his mouth and blasted directly upward… hitting the store owner’s thick curly hair.
Which immediately lifted off his head.
A wig.
It spun once in the air and flopped onto the floor.
The entire store went silent.
Dozens of people turned to stare at the owner… now bald… now completely exposed under the fluorescent lights.
His face turned bright red.
He scrambled to the floor in shame, grabbing the wig and slapping it back on—but backwards.
The silence broke into scattered giggles, then full-blown laughter. The crowd no longer looked at him with authority—they looked at him like a walking punchline.
The store owner, humiliated, let go of Dinello’s wrist and crouched down, hiding his face.
By the time he looked up—
Dinello was gone.
He had slipped out silently, disappearing into the wind like a ghost. No one even saw him leave.
Outside, on the way home, Dinello walked slowly under the evening sky.
He looked up, let out a long breath…
And muttered to himself:
“I’m bored again.”