Shoplifters
It was a lucky day for both Norman and Dave.
They had found the perfect outfits—and they were already wearing them.
Norman had slipped into a bright pink t-shirt with a cartoon Hello Kitty smiling across the chest.
Dave had pulled on a snug, lace-trimmed, triangle-cut pink underwear. It hugged him perfectly. Not too tight, not too loose—just right. He even did a little stretch to make sure it stayed in place.
“Alright,” Dave said. “Thanks, man. Let’s go pay.”
Norman turned, giving him a funny look.
“Pay?”
“I don’t pay for clothes.”
Then, without another word, Norman sprinted toward the exit.
He didn’t go through the crowd. He didn’t even use the floor.
He ran up the wall.
Like gravity didn’t matter.
He zipped along the vertical surface like a human spider, moving at what had to be over 100 kilometers per hour.
Before anyone could process what was happening, he shot down the wall again—landing near the mall’s ground-level entrance.
Security shouted.
“Hey! Stop right there! Shoplifting!”
But he was already long gone.
Dave blinked.
Still standing near the counter.
Still proudly wearing nothing but his new pink underwear.
He looked around awkwardly.
“Oh crap…”
Then took off running.
But Dave didn’t have wall-running kung fu.
He didn’t have 100kph legs.
What he had was… average cardio.
And the security guards were faster.
Two of them caught up and grabbed him—one by each arm.
“A big guy like you, stealing underwear?”
“You think you can just walk out like that?”
Dave thrashed and shouted:
“Get off me! Please! Get off me!”
Suddenly—BAM!
He flung both arms outward, and the guards flew like paper dolls.
The one on the right slammed into a pillar and dropped to the floor, spitting blood.
The one on the left flew over the fourth-floor railing—
CRACK.
All the way down to the first-floor food court.
He didn’t move after that.
But somehow, the mall stayed weirdly calm.
Nearby teens kept eating their noodles.
No one screamed.
No one ran.
It was like this kind of thing happened all the time.
Dave stood still—staring at his own hands. Breathing heavy.
Something inside him had changed.
There was power.
And not just any power—something stretchy. Something new.
“My strength is back,” he whispered.
“But this time… it’s stretchy.”
His fists clenched.
Partners in Crime
They stepped out of Skyview Mall like nothing happened.
Norman led the way, strutting in his brand-new Hello Kitty pink t-shirt, the cartoon cat smiling proudly across his chest.
Dave followed behind, walking a little funny—because the only thing he was wearing below the waist was a laced pink triangle-cut women’s underwear.
But he didn’t care.
Neither of them did.
Dave didn’t ask Norman why he didn’t pay for the clothes.
Didn’t scold him.
Didn’t say a word.
Because deep down, something about that little crime felt good.
He finally asked:
“Hey bro… what’s the move now?”
Norman scratched his stomach.
“It’s lunchtime, man. I didn’t even have breakfast. Let’s get some brunch.”
Dave nodded quickly.
“I’m down. Just… don’t tell me you’re doing it again.
Dine and dash?”
Norman stopped walking.
He turned to face him, stared for a beat, then narrowed his eyes:
“You think I’m that kind of guy?”
Dave shook his head.
“Nope, sir.”
Then—without missing a beat—Norman burst out:
“Of course I am!”
They both laughed. Loud. No guilt. No filter.
Then, almost like it was planned:
“Let’s go, man!”
And just like that, they took off—two idiots in ridiculous outfits, strutting down the street like they owned the world.
A breeze blew through.
Norman’s Hello Kitty tee fluttered in the wind.
Dave’s pink lace hugged tight, shining like silk under the sunlight.
Two proud shoplifters.
Two walking crimes.
One glorious lunch ahead.
Angry Chef
The door of a high-end French restaurant suddenly exploded open.
A musclehead burst through, panting like hell.
And right behind him—on all fours—came a blur. A human-shaped blur. Running like a damn dog.
That blur was Norman.
He didn’t just run. He flowed. Four-limbed, wild, and way too fast for a human. He passed the musclehead like it was nothing, left him in the dust, and kept going.
In his mouth?
A massive, bright-red lobster. Fully cooked. Still dripping.
Behind them, three furious chefs stormed out of the restaurant, white aprons flapping in the wind like capes.
One of them had a soup ladle.
He wasn’t holding it like a cooking tool. He was gripping it like a weapon.
Raised high. Shiny. Still dripping clam chowder.
He looked absolutely unhinged—like a knight charging into battle, armed with kitchenware.
Meanwhile, the musclehead who started this whole mess?
That was Dave.
Still running. Flailing. Stumbling.
Arms swinging like wet ropes. Legs pumping with desperation. His eyes darted around, looking for escape—but there was none.
He slammed into two pedestrians, sending one spinning across the crosswalk and the other tumbling into a flower stand.
The chefs didn’t slow down.
Then, way ahead, Dave saw Norman again.
He didn’t vanish around a corner.
No.
He ran straight up vertically—up the wall of an apartment building. Like it was flat ground.
Dave’s jaw dropped. A weird mix of admiration and jealousy bloomed in his chest.
“How the hell is he that fast… and why does it look so natural!?”
By the time Dave blinked, Norman was already sitting on the rooftop ledge, dangling his legs, casually chewing on the lobster like it was a sandwich.
And Dave?
Still getting chased.
He sucked in air and kept sprinting.
Then—
One of the chefs stopped.
His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.
“Tch… I didn’t want to do this.”
He dropped the ladle with a clang.
And whispered—
“Angry Chef.”
He tensed—shoulders wound up like springs.
And then—
BOOM.
He launched through the air like a human cannonball. A perfect parabolic arc. Arms tight. Apron flying.
Just like a damn Angry Bird.
Dave caught the shadow above him.
He looked up.
Eyes wide. Mouth open.
“WHO THE FUCK FLINGS THEMSELVES LIKE THAT?!”
Perpetual Flee
Dave was running for his life—arms flailing, legs wobbling, sweat flying.
Then out of the corner of his eye… he saw something.
A chef.
Flying toward him. Full speed. Head first. Like a cannonball with a kitchen vendetta. Like an Angry Bird, if it trained in culinary school.
“Oh shit oh shit oh my god—” Dave’s brain went into overdrive.
He casually sidestepped—just one clean meter to the left.
BOOM!
The chef hit the sidewalk with bone-shattering force.
Head-first.
Concrete cracked. Dust exploded. His entire upper body vanished into the ground—only his waist and legs stuck out, perfectly upright like some kind of cursed street decoration.
Behind him, the two other chefs skidded to a stop, horrified.
“Oh my god,” one of them whispered. “He’s dead…”
They rushed over and grabbed his legs.
They pulled.
And pulled.
But when they finally yanked something loose, it was only his legs and waist.
The rest?
Gone.
Fused into the pavement like he’d been born from it. His face still visible in the sidewalk—painted in concrete like a solemn memorial. Calm. Peaceful. Almost artistic.
“Is this his tombstone?”
“No… it’s his portrait.”
Later that day—
Norman and Dave were still at it.
Different blocks. Different crimes. Same energy.
They sprinted out of a movie theater— a popcorn machine clattering behind them, ticket clerk in pursuit.
They zoomed out of a grocery store— arms full of snacks, cashier chasing with barcode gun in hand.
By nightfall, they were under a quiet lamppost.
Norman leaned against it, scrolling his phone.
Dave stumbled over, gasping, hands on his knees.
“How the heck you run so fast, man?!”
Norman didn’t even glance at him.
He just smirked.
Like this was the most natural day of his life.
Accelerated Muscles
In the blink of an eye, a few weeks had passed.
Dave and Norman were sitting on a bench by the bay, staring out at the water. The wind was soft. Seagulls called in the distance.
Both of them were holding plastic containers of Halal food—chicken over rice. Naturally, it was stolen.
Dave took a huge bite, then leaned back with a satisfied groan.
“Man… I’ve been eating good lately.”
His eyes lit up as he chewed.
So much protein. So many rich, juicy meats.
He could feel something changing.
“I think my protein quality’s gone up, bro. Like, way up. My muscles are literally screaming right now.”
He wasn’t kidding.
His body felt alive—like every muscle fiber was dancing, howling in joy. Something was evolving inside him.
Then he raised his right arm and flexed.
His bicep bulged up tight like a ripe melon.
“You see this, pink shirt? You see how strong this bicep’s gotten?”
Norman didn’t even look.
His eyes were locked on Dave’s plate instead—specifically the biggest piece of chicken.
With a quick flick of the wrist, Norman jabbed forward with his fork, trying to snatch it.
But just as the fork came close—
Dave vanished.
Gone. Blinked out like a magic trick.
Norman blinked.
Then turned—and saw him.
Dave was now ten meters away, sitting calmly on another bench, still holding his food.
Like nothing had happened.
“What the hell…?”
Even Norman looked a little shaken.
That speed…
That movement…
It wasn’t normal.
For a guy who used to be clumsy and slow, Dave had gotten fast. Really fast.
But then—before Dave could even smirk—
Norman vanished.
Just like that.
And in the next instant, he was standing right in front of Dave.
Fork in hand.
With the biggest piece of chicken already stabbed on the tip.
Dave froze, confused.
He didn’t even feel it leave his plate.
Norman raised the fork, admiring his prize like a lazy hunter showing off a fresh kill.
“Still got a long way to go, muscle boy.”
Dave slumped.
“Damn it…”
Even now, Norman was in a different league.
All Dave could do… was go back to chewing.
Still dumb. Still hungry.
But now—quietly—stronger than before.
Perv Ain’t Real Perv
The next day, they wandered into the red-light district.
Flashing neon signs. Massage flyers blowing across the street like dead leaves. Sketchy parlors everywhere—some small and shady, others weirdly fancy, like they were trying too hard.
Norman stretched his back, cracked his neck, and muttered—
“Man… been running every day. My whole body’s sore.”
He slapped his own shoulder a couple times.
“Feels stiff. Real stiff. Think I need a little reset.”
Dave gave his own bicep a quick squeeze.
“Yeah, I could go for one too.”
They scanned the street. Picked the flashiest parlor they could find.
Gold trim. Velvet curtains. Marble tiles on the front steps. The kind of place that screams “totally legitimate business.”
They walked in like they owned the place.
They kinda did.
The host led them to a double room. They each got the four-hands special. No hesitation.
After all—
They never pay for anything.
For Dave, this was his first massage ever.
At the beginning? He loved it.
Warm hands. Calming music. Oil that smelled like lavender and mystery. The tension in his muscles started to melt like butter on rice.
He was finally relaxing.
Then—
One of the girl’s hands slid inside his underwear.
Dave’s body locked up instantly.
“Wait, what—what’s going on?”
The girl leaned closer. Her voice was sweet, almost innocent.
“Do you want… special service?”
Dave jumped up like a fire alarm went off.
“NO!! No no no no!”
Here’s the thing about Dave:
He looks like a perv.
That’s just the vibe.
But truth is?
He’s not.
He doesn’t care about girls. Doesn’t even think about that stuff.
What he cares about… is muscle.
Strength. Power. Gains.
That’s his whole thing. That’s his romance.
Meanwhile…
Marvel?
Soft smile. Gentle voice. Puppy-dog eyes.
Yeah, that guy’s a total degenerate.
Funny how the world works.
Back in the massage room—
Dave couldn’t take it anymore.
He exploded off the bed, bolted toward the window, and launched himself straight through the glass.
CRASH.
Second floor. Full-body dive.
He landed on the sidewalk with a heavy thud—rolled once, then popped up like it was a track meet.
Gone.
Inside, Norman lifted his head.
Saw the broken window. Saw the girl looking confused.
Then laid back down, grinning.
“I’ll take his extra time.”
Right across the street—
Sitting on top of a headless corpse like it was a bench, sipping coffee from a vending machine can—
Michael.
Buttoned shirt. Slacks. Shiny shoes.
Golden-rimmed glasses.
The Humble Organization’s enforcer.
He watched Dave fly out the window. But all he saw was the back.
Didn’t get a look at the face.
Didn’t matter.
He stood up. Calmly. Like he was going for a walk.
“Just another loser.”
He adjusted his sleeves. Took one last sip of coffee.
“Alright then… I’m gonna chop his head off. Just like anyone else who enjoys… and doesn’t pay.”