A Good-Looking Freeloader
It was one of those brutally hot summer days, the kind that turned the sidewalks outside into frying pans. But inside the shopping mall, the air conditioning was maxed out—cool, dry, and almost luxurious.
On one of the wide pedestrian walkways, seated peacefully against a marble column, was a familiar monk-like figure.
Dinello.
He wore his signature Zhongshan suit—not a single button fastened. His bangs drooped over his forehead, and his eyes looked tired but oddly serene. In his hands, he held a stainless steel rice bowl, gently shaking it with a soft rattle. The bowl was empty.
A tall, striking young woman passed by. She wore a fully buttoned Zhongshan suit, and a katana was strapped diagonally across her back. Her long ponytail swayed behind her as she walked.
It was Jessica.
She paused in front of Dinello and knelt slightly to his level, noticing the empty bowl.
“What are you doing here, Canelo?” she asked with a playful smirk.
Dinello’s eyebrow twitched.
“Come on. We’ve been having sex for months, and you’re still calling me the wrong name?”
Jessica grinned.
“I’m just teasing you.”
She gently pinched his cheek, then pulled a folded twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and dropped it into his bowl with a crisp plop.
“There. At least now you’ve earned something. I think I saw a couple coins stuck in your bangs too.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t stop there. With a flirty glint in her eyes, she leaned in a bit closer and whispered,
“If you’re really that bored, you can always come to my place. You know… for fun.”
Dinello looked up at her, completely unfazed—as calm as a monk in meditation.
“Didn’t we already have a fearless battle in bed for hours last night?” he said flatly. “I’m still recovering. Rain check.”
Jessica pouted, then reached out to brush aside his messy bangs. She planted a soft kiss on his forehead, then turned and walked away.
“Fine. I’ll wait,” she said with a smile.
Dinello watched her figure fade into the crowd. For a moment, he felt genuinely warm inside.
Jessica really was one of his better girlfriends.
Then silence.
Dinello stayed seated for nearly half an hour, gently shaking his bowl, but no one else dropped in a single coin.
Just as he began questioning the entire point of this little stunt, he heard a loud voice approaching.
A short, older-looking man with a scruffy beard and a camera slung across his chest came jogging up. His fashion sense was confused at best, and his face was still dotted with stubborn acne scars.
It was Kyle. Dinello’s former middle school classmate.
Kyle froze when he saw him.
“Jesus Christ! Is that you, Canelo?” he shouted.
It still bothered him. Deep down, it always would. But today, he didn’t even care—not bothered to react to the wrong name.
Two old friends. After all these years, they were face to face again in the middle of a mall.
They just looked at each other for a moment—no rush, no words—like time had pressed pause.
Old Pals Catchup
Time really had flown by.
Years had passed in a blink—and now, two old friends found themselves reunited, crouching together on the edge of a pedestrian walkway inside a shopping mall, chatting like no time had gone by at all.
Dinello leaned against the wall and asked casually,
“Hey, didn’t you have a thing for that school beauty a few years back? What happened with that? I remember you were bringing her flowers, stuffed animals, milk tea, even home-cooked lunchboxes. You were really trying. Did it ever work out?”
Kyle shook his head, looking embarrassed.
“Nah. She told me I was too clingy… and even kinda creepy. She warned me to stop pestering her. I didn’t listen. Eventually, she hired some local gangsters to beat me up. That was the last time I ever saw her.”
Dinello let out a light sigh.
“Oh. That’s… unfortunate. Well, on to the next one, I guess.”
Kyle chuckled awkwardly.
“I heard Joey got married a few years back. Did you go to his wedding?”
Dinello blinked.
“Wait—Joey got married? I had no idea. He didn’t even tell me.”
Kyle glanced at him and tilted his head.
“What about you? How’ve you been these last few years? Got a girlfriend yet?”
Dinello tilted his head and gave it some real thought.
Yeah, there had been plenty of women. But were they really “girlfriends”? Even he didn’t know. Probably more like… open relationships.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know… sort of no, I guess?”
Kyle’s eyes lit up. He felt oddly comforted knowing even someone like Dinello couldn’t get a girlfriend either.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one who kept getting rejected.
“Damn. I guess we’re both losers when it comes to relationships,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Dinello smiled faintly.
Just then, a teenager walked past them—tall, skinny, bored-looking. Without warning, he spat on the ground.
Or tried to.
The glob of spit veered sideways in the air and landed directly inside Kyle’s open mouth while he was mid-sentence.
Kyle recoiled instantly, gagging and stumbling.
The teenager shouted behind him while running off,
“I hate lazy beggars like you! Go get a job!”
Dinello’s eyes narrowed. His hand slowly opened, fingers extended outward.
A sharp pulse of Qi shot from his palm.
In a blink, the teenager was sucked backward—dragged off his feet and pulled toward Dinello like a ragdoll.
Once he was in range, Dinello smacked him across the face—once, twice—with precise, casual force.
The boy’s mouth split open at the corner. He slumped over, unconscious, as Dinello casually tossed him aside like a bag of rice.
Kyle, still stunned, wiped his lips and turned to Dinello.
“Wait… did I just swallow something?”
Dinello smiled calmly.
“Don’t worry. Just a little protein. Nothing harmful.”
He stood up and brushed dust off his pants.
“Too many people here. Wanna go get hotpot or something? I’m kinda hungry. We can talk more over food.”
It Deeply Sucks
Kyle used to love hotpot. Back in the day, nothing made him happier than a bubbling pot of soup and endless plates of sliced meat. But today, as he squatted beside Dinello in the mall’s pedestrian walkway, he gently shook his head.
“Let’s not do hotpot,” he said. “It’s too heaty… and honestly, I’m kind of broke right now. Maybe just grab a McDonald’s or something cheap.”
Dinello blinked in surprise.
“Broke? Weren’t you making bank last year? I remember you said you made over a hundred grand—and even donated almost ninety thousand to your church.”
Kyle sighed, slumping a little.
“Yeah, that was last year. But now there’s this company called Deepsuck. They built an AI that does professional photography and videography. Cheap, fast, fully automated. A lot of my clients switched to using it. I guess… I’m out of a job now.”
Dinello let out a quiet chuckle.
“Oh. That really deeply sucks.”
Kyle cracked a smile at the pun, then stared down at the floor.
“If I had known this would happen, I would’ve done what you did and learned Kung Fu. At least that can’t be replaced by AI. I mean… not yet.”
He lifted one arm and studied it with mock seriousness.
“Then again, with how weak I am, I don’t even know if I’d survive the first week of training.”
He exhaled and shrugged.
“But what’s done is done. Maybe I’ll find something else. Or who knows—maybe I’ll just join you here and be a full-time beggar. Doesn’t seem so bad.”
Dinello laughed, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve.
But then something sparked in his memory.
“Wait—Deepsuck. I think they’re hosting some kind of product showcase today. I saw a poster earlier. It’s happening right here in the mall. At the food court.”
Kyle blinked. “No kidding?”
“Yeah. Want to go check it out? Maybe there’s still a shot at something new.”
Kyle hesitated, then gave a lopsided grin.
“Sure. I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.”
And with that, the two old friends stood up and walked together—toward the food court, toward the AI showcase, and maybe… toward something resembling hope.
Deepsuck Origin
In the center of the food court stood a temporary stage—hastily assembled, slightly wobbly, and surrounded by colorful banners and half-working LED screens. On top of the stage were several sleek machines and humanoid robots, all posed in showroom-perfect stances. A host stood at the mic, enthusiastically narrating into the echoey mall speakers.
Dinello and Kyle leaned against a second-floor railing, looking down from above like two pigeons people-watching.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host was saying, “please welcome… the founder and CEO of Deepsuck!”
A hush fell over the food court.
From the side of the stage, a man was slowly wheeled in by a staff member. He was frail—terrifyingly so. Every inch of his muscle was curled, stiff, or trembling. His body had been eaten away by Parkinson’s. His hands twitched involuntarily, and his head bobbed slightly. Yet his eyes were alive—sharp and steady, staring forward.
He looked like he had weeks left to live.
The wheelchair came to a halt at the center. The man’s finger slowly tapped a single button on the console attached to his chair. A British-accented synthetic voice echoed through the speakers, crisp and cold:
“Hello everyone. I am the founder and CEO of Deepsuck. My name is Karl.”
The audience clapped politely.
“Despite my twisted appearance and my dying body,” the voice continued, “I am not even thirty years old. I still long for love… and sex.”
The crowd froze.
The voice did not.
“But that’s just me. Let’s talk about the company.”
Dinello tilted his head. “British accent?”
Kyle whispered, “Yeah. Probably a British-made text-to-speech model. Kinda classy, kinda creepy.”
Karl’s machine-voice carried on.
“Why the name Deepsuck? Because, to me, life is just like a dick—hard, awkward, and full of surprises. And no matter how hard life gets… we must suck deep. Only by sucking deep—until the very end—can we finally taste success.”
He paused, as if waiting for applause. A few awkward claps trickled in.
“I have developed powerful AI robots. Our next step: merging AI with biology. If successful, I may be able to cure myself… return to youth… reclaim my life.”
His words hung in the air with mechanical sincerity. The speech went on. And on. For nearly thirty minutes, Karl droned about innovation, resilience, funding, and the future of technology. The crowd began losing interest. People wandered off. Even the robots looked bored.
Kyle yawned. Dinello started rubbing his eyes.
Eventually, they tuned out completely and turned to each other.
Dinello stretched his arms lazily.
“Man, this is more boring than that one sermon your young pastor gave—what was it, like two hours long?”
Kyle perked up. “Don’t say that. His words were powerful.”
Dinello smirked.
“Yeah, especially with those giant pecs pushing through his shirt. What are they now, C cup?”
Kyle didn’t laugh. Instead, he nodded seriously.
“Yeah. C-cup size. But they’re solid—pure muscle. Not soft at all.”
Dinello raised an eyebrow. “A temple with some very suspicious windows.”
Kyle turned toward him, calm but firm.
“He’s the most devoted man I know. He saved my life once.”
Dinello waved a hand, still half-joking.
“Alright, alright. Just saying… the man looks like a mix between a prophet and a pervert.”
Kyle looked away and said softly,
“Even if he does… he’s still the reason I got through last year.”
Dinello didn’t reply. For once, he let the silence sit.
Karl’s robotic voice continued to echo in the background like a malfunctioning sermon no one asked for.
“Thank you all for coming. May Deepsuck take you deeper than ever before.”
Nobody clapped.
Faith to Humbleism
Dinello stood by the second-floor railing, lost in thought, trying to recall the name of that pastor Kyle always mentioned. It was on the tip of his tongue—something like “Sea…” Suddenly, it hit him.
“Oh right. His name is Cemen. What a disgusting name.”
He glanced at Kyle and asked with a smirk,
“Hey, didn’t that Pastor Cemen of yours always tell you guys to donate, like, 99% of your savings? That’s real, isn’t it?”
Kyle nodded earnestly.
“Yeah… but I didn’t make any money this year, so I didn’t donate a single cent. I feel really ashamed about that.”
Then, realizing the mistake, he quickly added,
“And by the way, his name’s not Cemen—it’s Simon. ‘Si’ as in ‘s-eye.’”
Dinello scoffed.
“Hmph. Sure. Well, with all that money people donate, I bet he’s off vacationing in Hawaii or spending it at massage parlors hiring prostitutes. He’s probably in some hotel room right now, banging some girls.”
Kyle’s face tightened with anger.
“Shut your mouth. You can’t say things like that. Our God has His own plans for that money. You don’t get to talk nonsense.”
Dinello raised an eyebrow.
The tension between them buzzed faintly, like static in the air above the crowd below.
“Alright, alright. Isn’t your faith called Humbleism or something like that?” he said with a dry chuckle.
“Then fine—just be careful with your money, that’s all I’m saying. Whatever money trouble you run into, don’t come running to me.”
Kyle nodded, chin firm.
“Don’t worry. Our Humbleism, our God, will guide me. Money’s not a problem. As long as we have faith, even if we don’t eat, we’ll survive.”
Dinello turned his head slowly and looked down over the railing, pretending to become deeply interested in the tech expo below.
He didn’t say another word.
The Holy Transaction
Far across the Pacific Ocean, on a sun-soaked beach in Hawaii, the waves rolled in slow and steady. Palm trees danced in the breeze like they had nowhere else to be. Just beyond the shoreline, a five-star hotel towered above the sand—glass balconies, ocean views, and enough quiet luxury to silence the world.
Inside one of the top suites—past sheer curtains and polished marble floors—three bodies lay stretched across a massive king-sized bed, tangled in soft white sheets.
Pastor Simon was in the center, naked and perfectly at ease, with both arms stretched wide across the pillows. On either side of him, two women rested against his body, their heads tucked gently into the crooks of his arms. The sunlight cast warm stripes across the bed, tracing the shape of bare shoulders and half-covered legs. The room was silent, still, and rich with the scent of champagne and clean linen.
On the nightstand nearby, two empty wine glasses stood next to a silver ice bucket cradling a half-melted bottle of champagne—evidence of a celebration that never needed a reason.
The girl on his left looked up at him with a sleepy grin.
“Pastor Simon…” she said softly. “How are you this amazing? This view, this suite, the champagne… you must be insanely successful.”
Simon didn’t open his eyes. He just smiled, slow and satisfied.
“It’s all thanks to my flock,” he said. “Those sweet, generous little lambs. They give, I receive. That’s the divine exchange.”
The girl on his right let out a quiet laugh, brushing her leg lightly against his.
““Good thing we’re not believers…” she murmured, and the two of them kissed Simon on both cheeks at the same time.
Simon turned his head slightly, voice dipping low, smooth as silk.
“You’re believers too,” he said. “Just not in the same thing.”
The two girls glanced at each other across his chest, puzzled for a second.
“But we’re not part of your church,” the one on the left said. “We don’t even follow that… Humble-ism thing.”
Simon’s smile stayed put.
“You don’t have to,” he replied. “You believe in something else.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “We all are believers to money… even slaves to it. Everywhere we go, we’re in chains.”
The room was quiet for a moment.
Then, the girl on his right reached over to the nightstand and picked up a folded check. She opened it slowly—long, dramatic—and showed it to the other girl.
Both of their eyes lit up.
One of them let out a low whistle. “Oh, Pastor Simon…”
“…we love you,” the other added, kissing him on the cheek again.
Then they both said it together, laughing softly:
“And your money.”
He just stared at the ceiling, smiling to himself.
“A successful man,” he said, voice calm and certain, “is always surrounded by the young… and the hotties.”