The Cola Conflict
Michael politely stepped up to Canelo’s table. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, held it in both hands, and offered it forward with a slight bow.
“Sir, would you be willing to sell me that bottle of Pepsi for twenty dollars? My boss is in urgent need of it. I hope you can help us out.”
Canelo didn’t look at him. He barely tilted his head, casting a quick glance at Michael’s neat outfit—golden-rimmed glasses, tucked-in shirt, shiny leather shoes. The type he hated the most: refined, proper, and polite.
Without a word, he reached over, snatched the bill from Michael’s hands, and casually slipped it into his pocket.
Then he said with a smug tone, “No way. No fucking way.”
Michael frowned. “Then why did you take my money?”
Canelo gave a sideways grin. “Your money? My money is mine. And your money… is also mine. Hahaha. Man, you really are a loser.”
That arrogant act flipped the atmosphere in an instant. In less than a minute, the entire bakery fell into chaos.
One of Canelo’s lackeys went flying through the air—he must’ve taken a heavy kick. He soared over several tables and crashed into the glass wall, shattering it with a thunderous smash. His body rolled onto the sidewalk outside, bloodied and limp.
Another thug swaggered over with a lit cigarette in hand. He aimed the glowing tip at Michael’s face, trying to burn him.
But before the ember got even an inch close, Michael’s arm moved like a whip. The back of his hand cracked across the thug’s face.
The guy slid backward like a hockey puck, skidding over the tiles until he hit the far wall with a dull thump.
His cheek swelled instantly. His lips quivered. He tried to hold in the tears, but they came anyway—along with something worse: a dark wet stain spreading across his pants.
The bakery exploded into a full-blown brawl. Customers screamed and scattered. Chairs, trays, and plates flew through the air. Even a few unlucky bystanders got caught in the storm, knocked out by airborne debris.
Sausage Lips
In the middle of the chaotic fight inside the bakery, Michael’s team had clearly taken the upper hand.
Right in the center of the store, Sausage Lips landed a wide low sweep, knocking down a thug who had been charging at him with a rusty iron pipe. The thug hit the floor hard. Sausage Lips quickly jumped on top of him, pinned his head down with one hand, and gave him two fast slaps with the other.
“You’re too weak!” he shouted. “I’m gonna teach you a real lesson today. Just earlier, I learned a new move from dear Captain Lam!”
The thug begged desperately, “Please… show some mercy. Don’t go too hard on me, I’m begging you!”
But Sausage Lips wasn’t listening. He kicked off his right shoe, pulled off his Hello Kitty sock, crumpled it into a tight ball, and stuffed it straight into the thug’s mouth.
“Sock Attack!!” he yelled.
A few seconds passed… nothing happened.
Sausage Lips stood frozen. Inside, his confidence crumbled. Why didn’t it work? he wondered.
The truth was simple—his sock wasn’t smelly at all. He changed socks every day, and they were always clean and fresh. There just wasn’t enough stench to deliver the same devastating effect Captain Lam had demonstrated.
As Sausage Lips hesitated, the gangster thug seized the moment. With a sudden kick, he knocked Sausage Lips off of him. Then, in one smooth motion, he slammed his palm on the floor, bounced back up, and swung the rusty iron pipe through the air. The pipe sliced downward with a sharp hiss, sparks flying from the speed and friction.
It landed right on the top of Sausage Lips’ head.
His skull split open like a cracked watermelon. Blood and flesh sprayed in all directions, splattering across the bakery’s walls and onto the stunned faces and clothes of nearby thugs.
The top half of Sausage Lips’ head was gone—only his lower jaw and his famously thick, swollen lips remained. His knees buckled. His body dropped hard to the ground.
The thug walked up, kicked Sausage Lips’ lifeless body once for good measure, then spat out the sock in disgust.
He looked down at the twisted figure, grunted, and launched a fat glob of phlegm into the air.
The spit arced perfectly—and landed right inside Sausage Lips’ wide open mouth.
“What the hell was that even supposed to be?” the thug muttered. “Sock Attack? Freakin’ clown.”
The Last Sip Struggle
Amid the chaos—smoke rising and debris flying through the air—Michael stood near the counter, his hand firmly gripping Canelo’s neck, pinning him up against the wall.
“Give it up,” Michael shouted. “Hand over the Pepsi. Now.”
Canelo clawed at Michael’s arm, struggling to break free. His legs kicked wildly in the air, but Michael didn’t budge. He wasn’t even sweating—completely calm.
With a steady tone, Michael said, “By now, you should realize we’re on different levels. You’re outmatched. Don’t waste any more time. Give me the Pepsi, and I’ll let you go.”
Canelo let out a dry laugh. “Over my dead body.”
Suddenly—before Michael could react—Canelo launched a disgusting counterattack. He spat a thick, yellow glob of phlegm straight toward Michael’s face at point-blank range.
But Michael tilted his head to the side at the last second. The phlegm missed him clean.
It continued flying forward—right into the eye of a man standing in the middle of the bakery.
The man had a ridiculous mustache, a skinny frame, and wore a kitchen apron. Clearly, he was the shop owner.
“Holy fuck, right in my eye!” he screamed.
Michael knew he had no time to waste.
He quickly slipped off his right shoe, pulled out a sock, and held it in the air. The sock dangled from his hand like a cursed relic—dark fumes practically visible around it. The smell wasn’t even necessary. Its appearance alone told you how dangerous it was.
Canelo’s eyes went wide. Actual tears began to fall. “No! Please—NO!”
Fear finally gripped him.
Without hesitation, Michael shoved the sock deep into Canelo’s mouth and clamped it shut with the same hand.
In less than three seconds, Canelo’s legs shot straight. His whole body stiffened.
And then—he passed out cold.
Michael didn’t even pause. He reached into Canelo’s pocket, grabbed the bottle of Pepsi, and held it in his hand at last.
After everything—the chaos, the injuries, the madness—they had finally secured the legendary bottle of Pepsi.
The Spit of Defeat
The bakery had finally returned to silence. Canelo and all his lackeys were knocked out cold, lying scattered across the floor like trash after a storm. They had been completely wiped out.
In the center of it all, Michael stood tall, holding the last bottle of Pepsi high above his head like a trophy. His four teammates turned toward him, their eyes lighting up. Victory was real. They had fought hard, and now… they had won.
Cheers erupted. One of them even had tears in his eyes.
Michael smiled. “This is our victory,” he declared. “They say justice always wins in the end—and they were right.”
The four lackeys crowded around him, their eyes fixed on the bottle as if it were a rare treasure. The moment felt pure. Unforgettable.
Until one of them suddenly froze.
His face went pale. His voice trembled.
“Wait… look inside the bottle.”
His finger pointed shakily toward the side of the Pepsi bottle.
Everyone leaned in.
There it was.
Floating inside—clearly visible under the dim ceiling light—was a glob of spit. Thick, yellow, disgusting. Suspended right in the middle of the dark soda like a curse.
The group was struck like lightning. Shock exploded across their faces.
Michael slammed his fist down on the nearest table, shattering it into splinters.
“That son of a bitch!” he growled. “Even at the edge of defeat, he managed to pull off one last disgusting move?”
Outside the broken window, the sun was setting. A faint orange glow spilled across the ruined street.
And in that light, Michael realized something—
After all the pain, the chaos, and the sacrifice…
Today’s mission may have ended in failure.
The Long-Awaited Victory
Michael waved to his crew with a heavy sigh. “Let’s pull back, guys. It’s been a long day.”
They all walked out of the bakery, heads down, dragging their feet. As they stepped out the front door, one of the lackeys accidentally kicked something soft—Sausage Lips’ body. His oversized lips absorbed the blow, but no one even seemed to realize who it was.
As they gathered at the entrance, one of the guys suddenly turned back, glancing inside the shop like he’d forgotten something.
Michael asked, “What’s up? Leave something behind?”
The guy paused for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Nah… absolutely nothing important. We’re good.”
It was clear—they had completely forgotten about the dead Sausage Lips, lying cold on the floor behind them.
Out of nowhere, one of the lackeys dropped to his knees. He began pounding the concrete with both fists and started bawling uncontrollably. “Why? Why did we fight so hard and still fail to complete such an important mission?!”
Everyone stood in silence.
Then—he froze.
His eyes lit up. He pointed at something in the storm drain and shouted, “Captain! Look! There’s a Pepsi bottle in the gutter! I think it’s unopened!”
Michael dashed over, reached into the filthy water, and pulled out the bottle. But when he turned it around… he saw the back was smeared with dried feces.
The group looked at each other, stunned, unsure what to do next.
But Michael… he smiled.
Without hesitation, he ran back into the bakery, straight to the sink. He cranked the faucet and started scrubbing the bottle like his life depended on it—rinsing it again and again until the surface gleamed with a polished shine.
Then, holding it high with pride, he turned to his team and declared:
“Brothers! Our mission is complete.”
He raised the bottle like a trophy. “Let’s move out. Time to head back to the office.”
Mission Complete – Sort Of
Michael finally returned to the office. Inside the dim room sat the boss, Colin, arms crossed and legs casually propped up in a lazy cross.
Without saying a word, Michael stepped forward and handed over the Pepsi bottle.
Colin took it and said loudly, “Excellent job, Captain Lam. Very well done.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Michael’s forehead. He was nervous—nervous that Colin might figure out where exactly this bottle had come from. But he forced a smile and said cheerfully, “Just doing our job. I hope you don’t mind the mission took a little longer than expected.”
Colin waved it off. “It’s fine.”
Then, with one hand, he twisted the cap open—pshhh!—that satisfying fizz escaped with a crisp hiss. He removed the cap, brought the bottle up, and slowly licked from the side of the bottle up to the rim with his tongue… and then took the first sip.
“Ahhh,” he sighed. “So refreshing.”
Michael said nothing. Deep down, he made a silent vow: this secret—how they really got the bottle—he’d take it to his grave. No one could ever know.