The Golden Retriever, God, and a Slap
After parting ways with Dave, Eason wandered the streets alone.
His mind was still circling that one word—cousin—like a moth trapped in a lamp.
Who was it? Where was he? Why did it even matter? He didn’t know. But he was obsessed.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice rang out from across the corner:
“Wilson! Don’t run off too far!”
Eason’s eyes lit up.
Wilson? That sounded… human. That could be something.
He darted around the corner like a man chasing fate—
Only to find a chubby golden retriever squatting mid-pee.
The look on his face collapsed.
“Motherf—”
He grabbed a rock. Threw it.
Not to kill the dog. Just to vent.
But before the stone could even land, a massive man emerged from the alleyway.
Full beard. Tank top. Muscles like overinflated tires.
Eason froze. Their eyes met.
Then—
He ran.
No hesitation. Full sprint. Gone.
Somewhere down the street, still gasping for air, Eason leaned against a pole.
That’s when he heard a calm, soothing voice behind him:
“Hey… You look lost.”
He turned.
There stood a guy. Clean white shirt, khaki pants, good posture.
Looked like someone who handed out church flyers for a living.
Or ran a cult.
“Name’s Sonic. S-O-N-I-C. I walk in the name of God.”
Eason stared at him for a moment.
The letters hit him: S… O… N… I… C…
He didn’t know what to think.
So he went for it:
“Wait… are you my cousin?”
Sonic smiled like he had rehearsed this in the mirror a hundred times:
“We are all God’s children. Brothers and sisters. Cousins in spirit.”
Eason’s face fell flat.
“Don’t give me that crap.”
Sonic’s smile didn’t fade—it just shifted.
Something about it got… brighter. Too bright.
He pressed his palms together, lifted his chin, and said:
“Then I shall strike you down… in the name of the Lord.”
WHACK!
Before Eason could even react, Sonic landed a slap that spun his head like a pinwheel.
Then came the kick. A clean front kick to the stomach.
Then a palm to the chest.
Another slap.
A knee.
A weird spinning backhand that felt both gentle and traumatizing.
And throughout it all, Sonic kept muttering:
“Love thy enemy…
But kick his ass when needed.”
Eason ended up on the ground, limbs tangled, breathing like a dying donkey.
He looked up at the sunlight.
Sonic was still standing tall, haloed by the light like a divine idiot.
“That guy’s not my cousin,” Eason groaned.
“He’s just… mentally gone.”
The Pajama Alley Brawl
It was nearly sunset. Shadows stretched down the alley like lazy dogs.
Eason shuffled forward, head low, sipping his bubble tea like it was the only thing keeping his soul intact.
Then—bam.
Someone was walking from the other end. Same pace. Same angle. Same miserable posture.
They stopped, face to face.
Both were in hospital-striped pajamas.
Both had messy, bird’s nest hair.
Both looked like they hadn’t been loved in years.
Eason took a polite step to the left. So did the other guy.
He stepped right. The guy mirrored him again.
Eason narrowed his eyes. “You messin’ with me?”
The guy snapped back, “I was about to ask you the same damn thing.”
A full three seconds of tension.
Then they both lunged.
No stances. No style. Just straight-up chaos.
They clawed each other’s hair. Slapped like toddlers. Tripped over trash bags and fell into puddles.
Eason tried a knee strike and ended up kneed in the balls himself.
The other guy—later revealed to be Benson—managed to pull Eason’s sleeve over his head like it was a hockey fight.
A homeless man peeked out from a cardboard box and shook his head.
“Two damn pajama roaches fighting in my alley. Pathetic.”
By the third minute, both of them were gasping, tangled on the ground like a crumpled pile of dirty laundry.
No blood. No honor. Just sweat, snot, and shame.
No one won.
No one even knew who the hell the other was.
They were just two lonely nobodies, colliding in a forgotten corner of the city—because fate thought it’d be funny.
And in a way, it was.
Another pointless detour in Eason’s ever-stupid journey to find his mysterious cousin.
The Battle of the Weaklings – Part 2
The alley was still ringing with the pathetic sound of two pajama-wearing men rolling around like knocked-over laundry hampers.
This wasn’t some high-level duel. No kung fu stances. No energy waves. No hidden power levels. Just raw, unfiltered weakness.
Eason and Benson were still fighting—if you could call it that.
They were gasping for air, grabbing at each other’s collars, sleeves, anything they could reach with their trembling, noodle-like arms.
“You… filthy rat…”
Eason wheezed, slapping Benson’s ear like he was swatting a fly.
“You’re the rat! I swear I’ll rub your face into the pavement until it turns into cement!”
Benson lunged, but his foot landed on a banana peel (God knows where it came from), and he slammed into the wall with a heavy thunk.
Eason saw his chance. He dove forward and started squeezing Benson’s cheeks together like he was folding a dumpling.
Benson retaliated—not with a punch, but by poking Eason right in the bellybutton with his finger.
“What the hell?! That’s… that’s tactical!”
Eason shrieked and backed off, only to trip over his own feet.
Benson tried to follow up but ended up tangled in his own pajama pants.
It was a full-blown catfight now.
Slapping. Hair-pulling. Face-mushing. Nose-flicking. Ear-flicks.
One of them even tried to spit into the other’s shoe.
At one point, they both ended up pulling each other’s ears and screaming like toddlers in a sandbox.
A passerby saw the scene, paused for a second, and then quietly dialed a mental health hotline.
There was no rhythm. No flow. No form. Just desperation and the soft, pitiful paps of slaps landing like soggy toast.
Eventually, both of them collapsed from exhaustion—shoulder to shoulder, heads hanging down, looking like two dead fish left out in the sun.
“…Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Eason muttered, still panting.
“…I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
Then they both spat weakly in each other’s direction and slowly rolled back up, somehow ready for round three.
Shared Humiliation
It was late. The alley was damp and dark, littered with trash and silence.
On the cold concrete lay two men—flat, beaten, and dressed identically like matching clowns who just got tossed out of a circus.
Eason and Benson were both wearing wrinkled pajamas, faces swollen and bruised, limbs sprawled out like used laundry.
They were barely conscious, eyes empty, breath shallow.
Then came the footsteps.
Cocky, uneven, a full crew of trouble.
Canelo swaggered into the alley with his little gang, laughing like they already knew how the story ended.
“Well, well, what do we have here? A matching pair of psych ward escapees?”
They stepped closer. Canelo squatted down, looked at the two beaten figures lying side by side.
“You two look way too damn similar. Like—what, were you conjoined twins who got separated with scissors from the dollar store? You guys look like twin freaks.”
Eason’s eyes twitched. He immediately threw Benson under the bus.
“I don’t look like him! We’re not even related!”
Canelo grinned.
He held out his hand.
Eason, trembling, fumbled for every bit of cash he had—bills, coins, even his last piece of gold chain—and handed it over like tribute to a warlord.
“I-I gave everything. Please, no more.”
Benson, barely able to move, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill from his sock and handed it over, ashamed but desperate.
Canelo looked at the money, then at them. He chuckled and said with fake sincerity:
“Hmm… one of you at least tried. The other one? You’re a damn joke.”
He raised his foot and kicked Eason straight in the ribs.
Eason rolled across the pavement, coughing and groaning.
Then he turned to Benson with a devilish smirk.
“You? You think five bucks can save your ass?”
He snapped his fingers.
Two of his goons stepped forward and beat Benson senseless. The punches came hard and fast, until Benson was a crumpled mess.
And then—the grand finale.
One of the goons squatted down, casually scooped up a fresh pile of dog shit from the alley floor, and shoved it straight into Benson’s mouth. Like he was packing a lunchbox.
Benson tried to resist, but his arms were jelly. All he could do was whimper as the filth filled his mouth.
Eason watched, horrified. His face went pale.
“I… I gave you money. Why hit me too?”
Canelo shrugged, as if explaining basic math:
“Hitting you? That’s just policy. But look at him. Five bucks? Yeah, he deserves the deluxe punishment.”
The alley echoed with cruel laughter.
Two pajama-wearing losers lay broken on the ground—one coughing blood, the other choking on literal shit.
And above them, Canelo and his boys lit up cigarettes like it was just another Tuesday.
Could You Be My Cousin, Grayson?
They let Eason go.
Apparently, throwing money at your problems still worked in this city—just not that well. The goons gave him a few lazy kicks and told him to piss off, muttering something about “premium beatdown tiers.”
Behind him, Benson was still getting his soul rearranged. Eason glanced back. One of the thugs had just picked up a steaming pile of dog shit and shoved it into Benson’s mouth like it was some kind of punishment pudding.
Eason rolled his eyes.
“I gave you money. Why am I still getting hit?”
“’Cause that’s standard procedure,” one goon grunted. “But he paid less—so he eats shit.”
Fair enough.
Eason limped down the block, muttering to himself.
“People say we might be twins, cousins, some shared DNA crap. Please. I don’t look like that. We’re not related. Not even spiritually.”
He was still muttering when a group of cops shouted from across the street.
“Chief Grayson! Chief!”
That name stopped him.
From behind a police cruiser, a man emerged.
Short. Pudgy. Face like melted plastic. He adjusted his belt, smacked his lips, and had that look—that look—like he just got a whiff of someone’s used bathwater and decided he liked it.
Eason froze.
He knew that face. Or at least, the type.
The greasy stare. The twitchy smile. That air of moral rot wrapped in a badge. It was like watching a parody of himself on TV. The kind of guy who gets bribed for a living and thinks it’s a public service.
He walked up to Grayson slowly, cautiously. Studying him.
“You ever get the feeling,” Eason asked, “like there’s a dark version of yourself? Like… deep down, you’re not a cop—you’re a parasite in uniform?”
Grayson blinked slowly. Then smiled. Not with his mouth—with his teeth.
“Dark version, huh?”
Eason leaned closer, voice lowering.
“I’m serious. That stare, that crooked vibe—you remind me of me. Same sleaze. Same appetite. You ever think we might be… cousins?”
Grayson didn’t answer at first. He just kept smiling.
Then he whispered,
“Oh yeah? You wanna see my Dark Mode?”
Eason took a step back. He wasn’t sure if he was scared or aroused.
Grayson planted his feet wide. Lifted his arms to the sky. His body started shaking—like he was summoning something ancient, evil, and extremely unnecessary.
“Behold!”
A gust of wind stopped midair. A soda can rolled backwards. A pigeon fainted.
Cut to black.
Dark Mode Activated
Grayson had just shouted, “Behold!”
Eason leaned forward slightly, eyes hopeful. Was this going to be it? A transformation? A demon emerging? A sudden shift in aura?
…Nothing.
Grayson just stood there, mouth half open, twitching like he had mild indigestion. The only transformation was that his armpit stains got noticeably darker.
Eason frowned. “Wait, was that it?”
But then—Grayson’s eyes shifted. He spotted something across the street.
His expression changed instantly. Pupils shrank. Mouth curled into a greasy smirk. He whispered like a creep in a confession booth:
“Robbery… and seduction.”
Eason blinked. “Excuse me?”
Across the street, a girl had just stepped out of a boba shop.
Normal outfit. Normal day. But Eason recognized her instantly.
Cecilia.
Also known in yoga class lore as “Leaf Girl.” Not because of her lifestyle, but because of a legendary day when she showed up wearing only two leaves and pulled off the full split without blinking.
Today, though, she was dressed perfectly normal. Leggings. Hoodie. A backpack. But to Grayson, apparently, that didn’t matter.
He crouched slightly, doing a weird stretch like he was loosening up for a football game—or a crime.
“Dark mode… engaged,” he whispered.
Then he sprinted.
Eason panicked. “Dude! WHAT THE HELL—”
Grayson darted across the street like a man possessed. He approached Cecilia from behind like a cartoon villain about to do something profoundly stupid.
Cecilia heard the steps. Turned.
WHACK!
Without hesitation, she delivered a textbook hand chop right into Grayson’s neck.
Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement.
Grayson’s body locked up like he’d just had a full-body seizure.
His eyes rolled. Legs gave out.
Collapse.
A pathetic thud echoed through the block.
Eason walked over slowly, staring down at the unconscious mess of a man.
Grayson didn’t move for a full minute. Not even a twitch.
His body was stiff, face twisted in a pervy grin, like a corrupt cop who got caught sniffing evidence.
“There’s no way this guy’s my cousin,” Eason muttered.
Cecilia dusted off her hands, then looked at Eason.
“…You wanna grab a bubble tea or something?” Eason asked, trying to salvage the mood.
She stared at him for a moment. Then nodded.
The two of them walked toward the nearby tea shop.
Behind them, Grayson remained on the ground, limbs awkwardly sprawled, mouth slightly open.
From inside the boba shop, a soft romantic track played faintly:
🎵 “Can’t Help Falling In Love…” 🎵