Country Folks to Urban Mall
They had just moved in last week.
A middle-aged woman pushed a baby stroller with one hand and held her son’s hand with the other. The boy looked about six, maybe seven—bright eyes, worn-out slippers, and a voice full of wonder.
“Mama, SkyView Mall… it must be really pretty, right?”
She smiled.
“Yeah, probably. Let’s walk a little faster—it’s just a block ahead.”
They crossed the street.
Then came the crowd.
People everywhere—packed like grains of rice in a broken bag. Both sides of the road were lined with homeless people, crouching, squatting, or just lying down like trash no one wanted to pick up. Some held signs. Most held nothing.
The boy stared, wide-eyed. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he hacked up some phlegm—loud—and shot it straight into a ceramic bowl sitting in front of one of the beggars.
Pah! Right in the middle.
The beggar flinched.
“Fuck you!”
The kid grinned.
“Fuck you twice!”
“Fuck you three times!” the beggar barked, sitting up.
“Fuck you infinite times!” the boy yelled over his shoulder, already being dragged along.
The three of them reached the entrance—a huge glass revolving door.
All three tried to enter at once.
It didn’t go well.
They squeezed in together. The stroller slammed into one side. The boy’s slipper scraped against the panel and almost flew off. The mom twisted her body, trying to push forward while the door was still rotating.
Behind them, the crowd started shouting.
“What the fuck—move already!”
“You can’t all go at the same time, damn it!”
They struggled, clumsily rotating through a quarter… then another… stuck again.
It took almost a full minute, but they finally emerged from the other side—faces red, breathing heavy.
The boy stood still for a second—then suddenly gasped.
His face exploded with emotion.
Eyes wide. Mouth wide open. Eyebrows raised and lowered like waves. His hands went up, then down, then up again. It was every possible expression a kid could make—all in ten seconds.
“Ohhh yeah baby…”
But the dream lasted exactly two seconds.
The floors were scuffed. The tiles uneven. People had laid out blankets and were selling used socks, broken remotes, knockoff batteries, half-rotten fruit, and what looked like grilled raccoon.
Some stores had people standing or crouching out front, smoking like it was their full-time job.
Suddenly, two guys burst out of a shop. They were both wearing basic nose masks—the cheap kind you’d see on lazy serial killers in news footage.
They sprinted, full speed, shoving people aside as the store owner chased them out.
“Stop right there! How dare you shoplift!”
Nobody stepped in. Nobody cared.
Outside the massive glass windows, the so-called “view” was just a giant junkyard—rusted beams, broken furniture, trash piled into hills.
Then—
He walked by.
A massive, naked man.
Muscles thick like steel. Skin pale, scarred, and sweaty. Nothing covered. Not a single thread.
It was Dave.
And it had been months since anyone saw him even attempt to wear clothing.
He strutted right past the family like he was walking the beach on a private island. Everything swinging. Nothing sacred. People tried not to look. Some failed.
The mom gasped in horror.
Then she snapped:
“Get away from us, you perv! You freak! You son of a bitch!”
Dave stopped.
Turned.
And said in a low, sharp voice:
“Shut your mouth, you rural peasants.”
She froze.
Then instantly grabbed her son’s wrist and started dragging him away—fast.
The boy stumbled, then looked back.
“Mama, wait! My slipper—I lost my slipper!”
“Leave it!” she snapped. “Don’t look back. We’re not going back for that slipper!”
The Pink Connection
Dave strutted down the SkyView mall’s dingy side corridor like it was a fashion runway nobody asked for. People parted as he walked—not out of respect, but to avoid touching his exposed body.
Then someone walked toward him.
Tall. Slim. Calm eyes. And staring—directly—at Dave’s lower half.
Dave slowed down, unsettled for the first time in a long time. Usually, people pretended not to see anything. They glanced away, made a face, muttered under their breath. But this guy? He was locked in like a sniper.
“What are you looking at?” Dave asked. Then added, sharper this time:
“Dude, you in the grey shirt.”
The man looked down at his shirt.
“Shit,” he muttered.
It was Norman.
This used to be a pink shirt. People even called him Pink Shirt. That was his thing. But after too many nights out in the wind, rain, fights, and whatever else, the color had faded—washed down to a dull, defeated grey.
Maybe I should buy a new one, he thought.
This doesn’t match my name at all.
He looked up at Dave with sudden excitement.
“Oh really. Grey shirt, huh? I’m going to buy a new one. I like pink shirt. What about you? You don’t like any clothing? Naked like this? You should buy something to cover yourself, man.”
Dave lowered his head slightly. For the first time, his walk slowed.
His voice came out quieter now.
“Actually… they used to call me The Underwear.”
Norman blinked.
“…What?”
“Yeah,” Dave said, eyes somewhere far off. “That was my nickname. The Underwear.
But one day… someone cut it.
With a samurai sword.
Shredded it to pieces.”
He paused. Then added, almost like a confession:
“Now I’m nothing.
Without my triangle, woman-shaped pink underwear.”
Norman’s eyes lit up.
Suddenly, this naked freak didn’t seem so freaky anymore.
They had something in common.
They were both men of pink.
“Why don’t we just go inside the store and buy one?” Norman said, stepping forward with unexpected excitement. “Let’s go, man!”
He hadn’t even planned on buying clothes today. But now?
Now he absolutely had to.
A new pink shirt—that was non-negotiable.
He was already halfway turned toward the store entrance when he noticed—
Dave wasn’t moving.
The big man just stood there.
Still. Silent.
And then, quietly, he said:
“Sorry… I can’t.”
On to the Clothing Retail
Norman stepped in front of Dave again.
“Come on, man. What’s the big deal?
Buying a shirt can’t be that hard.
Why’d you say you can’t? Huh? Why not?”
Dave looked down.
Then said quietly,
“The truth is… I don’t have any money.”
Norman sighed, hands lifting into that classic impatient gesture—half open, half annoyed.
“Come on, man. A pair of underwear’s, what, a few bucks?
I don’t believe for a second you don’t have even a single dollar on you.”
Dave didn’t argue.
Instead, he slowly turned around in place, showing off his fully exposed body like it was obvious.
“See? I’m naked.
Where the hell would I be hiding money?”
Norman blinked. Then smirked.
“What, you hiding it in your butt hole?”
Without missing a beat, Dave squeezed and let out a heavy, echoing fart.
Then a wet sound.
Too wet.
Something shot out.
It wasn’t gas.
A warm, brown splatter hit a kid in the face several feet behind them. The boy screamed and dropped his juice box.
Dave turned back around calmly.
“You see? I really got nothing.”
Norman raised both hands and shook his head slowly.
“Alright, alright. I get your point.
You don’t need to force it out to prove it.”
He took a breath.
“I believe you.”
Dave sighed.
“Whatever. I think being naked’s not so bad.
You just go buy your clothes, man. Don’t worry about me.”
Norman looked at him.
The poor bastard.
The way he stood there, defeated and raw—still somehow proud in his nudity—reminded Norman they really did have something in common.
Pink.
They both liked pink.
“Alright,” Norman said. “You know what?
Today, I’ll cover you.
You pick it, I’ll pay.”
Dave blinked. His eyes lit up like Christmas lights.
“Really? Seriously? You’re sure?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s just a few bucks. Come on.”
Dave was so overwhelmed, he grabbed Norman’s arm and wrapped himself around it, almost like a child clinging to a parent.
They began walking toward the store together.
Norman instantly shook him off.
“Hey, come on man. Don’t be gay.
We still need some distance, alright?”
Dave let go.
The two walked side by side through the open entrance of the cheap retail shop.
Norman didn’t hesitate—he scanned the racks and found it.
A pink T-shirt with a big Hello Kitty on the chest.
Something about it just felt right.
He grabbed it and threw it on without even checking the size.
Meanwhile, Dave marched to the underwear section like a man on a mission.
A young female store clerk spotted him approaching. She started her standard greeting routine, clipboard in hand.
“Hello sir, can I help you with—”
She froze.
Looked at Dave.
Looked down at Dave.
Her mouth opened like she was about to yell “Pervert!” right there in public.
But she didn’t.
She was a professional.
She blinked, forced a smile, and said:
“No problem, sir.
I’ll help you find a pair that fits just right.”
Generation Z Fashion
Dave pointed to a drawer of underwear and said,
“I like the ones that look like—”
Before he could finish, the female store clerk already handed him a pair of sleek black boxers.
“This is the most popular style for men now,” she said. “Black is masculine. Very modern.”
Dave frowned.
That wasn’t what he had in mind.
He’d been about to say he wanted the pink, triangle-shaped panties—the kind women wore. But he got cut off.
“I don’t like these,” he said.
The clerk, undeterred, grabbed a few other boxers in different colors—blue, red, even one with pineapples.
Dave shook his head each time.
Just then, Norman casually chimed in from the side,
“He likes pink. Just like me. We’re both fans of the color pink.”
Mildy, the unlicensed doctor, happened to be walking by.
Short and skinny in his oversized white coat, he turned with a spark of curiosity in his eyes.
“Oh, good choice,” Mildy said. “Pink’s not my favorite color… but it’s definitely my second favorite.”
He gave a polite wave to the clerk, signaling her to assist someone else. She stepped away without a word.
Mildy walked over to a nearby shelf, rummaged through a bin, and pulled out a pair of pink socks. He studied them, then tossed one away and kept the other.
Without saying much, he leaned in and gently slipped the sock over Dave’s penis.
Tight. Snug. Like a custom fit.
“What the fuck are you doing to my cock?” Dave blurted.
Mildy, completely unfazed, replied,
“There’s no excess fabric. This is what Gen Z is into—sexy and minimal. Like the women’s C-string. Smallest fabric, biggest purpose. It’s got intention. It’s elegant, even. Zoomers love this kind of thing.”
Dave looked down.
Norman looked down.
Then they both nodded—slowly, thoughtfully.
Dave hesitated.
“I… I don’t know about that.”
Laced Secret Revealing
Norman’s face twisted.
Without a word, he stormed forward, grabbed the sock, and yanked it off in one quick motion.
“This looks ridiculous! One of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen in my life!”
But maybe he pulled too hard.
Maybe he gripped too tight.
Because the moment it came off, Dave’s thighs slammed shut.
He grabbed his groin and howled in pain:
“Oh my god! It hurts!”
Norman stepped back instantly, hands up.
“Oops, my bad. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
Dave grit his teeth and stood up slowly, one hand still covering himself.
“It’s okay…”
Just then, Mildy, already halfway out the door, turned back briefly.
He glanced at the scene, then sighed like a disappointed uncle.
“Kids these days… They don’t know what fashion is. No sense of pairing, no understanding of balance.”
And with that, he walked out.
But the air was still trembling.
Suddenly—
BOOM.
A thunderous noise exploded from the far side of the store.
A skinny nerd went flying across the tile floor like a ragdoll, knocking over an entire rack of jeans.
Everyone turned.
There, standing in the middle of the aisle like a dropped statue—shirt wide open, buttons flapping—was Dinello.
His fist still raised. His face filled with disgust.
He barked:
“Did you just touch my junk?”
“I swear to god, next time I’ll punch you to death!”
The nerd on the ground curled up, voice trembling:
“I didn’t mean to! I just accidentally—!”
His voice was soft. High. Almost feminine.
The narrator cut in, flat and cold:
His voice sounded like a woman’s.
He was one of those sissies.
A gay one.
Dinello pointed toward the door with one foot:
“Get the fuck out.”
And then—
like a delayed shockwave—
the wind from that punch swept through the entire store.
Clothes fluttered.
Hangers clashed.
Discount signs flapped like birds taking flight.
Even the female store clerk’s skirt blew upward.
For a full second, everyone saw it.
Pink. Laced. Triangular.
Dave’s eyes locked onto it.
And everything stopped.
He had found it.
The One.
The exact shade. The exact triangle. The laced pink pattern that completed him.
He gasped—
Then sprinted forward.
Not thinking. Not blinking.
Just running—arms flailing, knees kicking high—like a man chasing the one thing that could fix his entire life.
He stopped right in front of the girl.
Breathless.
Bent over.
Hands on his knees.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Just gasping.
The girl didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
She stood straight, composed, still holding the clipboard against her chest. Her expression was calm. Focused.
She was waiting.
Waiting for Dave to say whatever it was he needed to say.
But Dave just stood there—wheezing.
In that one brief pause, the whole store fell silent again.
Even the clothes stopped swaying.
Even Norman stopped judging.
Even Dinello stood still, his shirt blowing slightly in the aftermath.
Everyone was watching.
Dave tried again—
He inhaled.
Raised a finger.
Opened his mouth—
“I… I…”
Return of Underwear
Dave finally caught his breath.
One word at a time, broken up by gasps, he spoke.
“I… I found it…
The one I’ve been looking for…
That laced… pink… triangle underwear…
It’s the exact one… you’re wearing.”
The female clerk’s eyes widened.
She froze for a second.
Did she just hear that right?
Her face twitched. She took half a step back, instinctively lifting the clipboard between them.
She almost blurted something.
Almost slapped him.
But she held it in.
She reminded herself:
“I am a professional.”
She took a slow breath, forced a smile, and replied as calmly as she could:
“I’m… not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”
Dave wasn’t listening.
With no hesitation—he reached forward and flipped up her entire skirt.
Right there.
In front of the whole store.
He pointed directly at the pink laced triangle underwear beneath.
“I mean this one—look! This design, this color—exactly what I’ve been searching for!”
He even gave the elastic a little flick with his finger.
“So stretchy too! This is what I need!”
That was it.
The clerk’s face went from composed to crimson in one second flat.
Her hand moved faster than thought.
SMACK!
She slapped Dave so hard he nearly spun around.
“PERV!”
Everyone in the store turned.
Dave stood there, stunned, eyes watery.
“I… I just wanted to buy a pair…”
The girl blinked. Her hand still half-raised.
Regret flickered across her face.
She lowered her arm and took another breath.
“I… apologize. That was unprofessional.”
She composed herself, turned around, and walked calmly to the display shelf.
A moment later, she returned holding a folded pair of laced pink triangle underwear.
She held it up, then gave it a little tug—
Stretchy. Soft. Stylish.
“This is the one, isn’t it?”
Dave’s eyes sparkled. He took it gently with both hands.
His lips trembled.
Then, without looking at anyone, he raised one fist and whispered:
“I… the Underwear… shall return.”