Pissant vs. Pissant
Ever since Marvel read PhD’s book, he had been itching to try out the techniques it preached. But there was just one problem—he had no money. Not even enough to buy the 99 roses required for the first “romantic gesture” described in the book.
So, he decided to “borrow” some cash first.
He wandered into a narrow alley and spotted a short boy with a watermelon-shaped haircut wearing pajamas, head down and scrolling on his phone.
It was Benson.
Marvel hurried over and blocked his path.
“Hey, you little pissant,” he said. “Mind lending me some money?”
Benson looked up at him. His face changed instantly.
“W-what? Are you trying to rob me?” he stammered in panic.
Marvel wore his most innocent expression.
“Just a little cash,” he said softly.
Benson sized him up. From head to toe. A buttoned-up Zhongshan suit all the way to the collar, stiff and formal. Suddenly, his fear disappeared.
With a sharp slap, Benson smacked Marvel across the face.
Then he grinned—an almost deranged, squealing smile. Turns out, Benson was the type who bullied the weak but feared the strong.
Marvel, now angry, lunged for Benson’s pockets. They struggled. But it wasn’t a kung fu brawl—it looked more like a messy catfight.
Ten minutes of chaotic grappling later, Marvel finally got Benson pinned to the ground, grabbing him by the hair.
Tears streamed down Benson’s face.
“Please don’t hurt me! My money’s in my pocket!” he sobbed.
Marvel reached in and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
He stared at it, unimpressed.
“This is all you got?”
Benson nodded pitifully.
“Yes…”
Marvel glanced at the ground.
Right next to them… was a steaming dog turd.
Without hesitation—driven by disappointment and anger—he picked it up and shoved it straight into Benson’s mouth.
Then he stood, wiped his hand on his pants, pocketed the five bucks, and walked away without a word.
Edge of Crime
Marvel walked down the street, a faint criminal impulse stirring in his subconscious—just a little flicker, like maybe he could rob someone. He glanced toward a nearby Chase Bank and eyed the entrance.
Two armed guards in military gear stood watch at the door.
Marvel gulped. The thought hit him—
This is wrong. Completely immoral. And illegal too. No way. That’s my bottom line.
He shook his head and kept walking.
Before long, he’d wandered into the red-light district. Neon signs buzzed softly above rows of massage parlors. He stared at them with disgust.
These people are all just making fast money… It’s shameful, he thought.
I should do something. Someone has to clean up this kind of behavior… and if I happen to make a quick hundred or two in the process, well… fair’s fair, right?
As he turned a street corner, he suddenly froze.
Sitting casually on top of a headless corpse was a man in a white dress shirt, gold-rimmed glasses glinting under the streetlight. One hand held a Red Bull. The other rested lazily on a briefcase set atop the dead body.
It was Michael—Michael from the Humble Organization.
Marvel’s eyes widened in horror as he stared at him.
Michael looked so calm, casually sipping his Red Bull like it was wine. The image sent chills down Marvel’s spine.
Michael glanced up and immediately recognized him.
That beast of a man he’d fought dozens of rounds with before.
But now… there wasn’t even a flicker of wildness in his eyes. No adrenaline. Nothing.
Michael narrowed his gaze.
“What are you staring at, beast guy?” he said. “Never seen someone get beaten to death in public before?”
Marvel’s voice trembled.
“N-no… Not at all,” he stuttered, quickly shaking his head.
Michael took a deep gulp of Red Bull, then added nonchalantly,
“This guy tried to steal twenty bucks from our store just now. So I cut off his head.”
Marvel’s stomach flipped. His legs turned to jelly.
“Y-yeah! Right!” he stammered, nodding quickly. “That kind of person totally deserves it!”
Then he spun on his heel and walked away.
The thought of robbing anyone vanished from his mind—completely and forever.
Inside the Flower Shop
Marvel walked into a flower shop.
He only had twenty bucks on him.
At the counter stood a stunning woman in a frilly apron.
Her figure was generous, especially around the chest.
Marvel approached and asked,
“Excuse me, how much is a bouquet of 99 roses?”
The shop owner smiled and replied,
“About a hundred dollars.”
Marvel frowned slightly. “Isn’t that a little steep? I don’t have that much. I only have twenty.”
The woman looked him up and down.
Zhongshan suit, collar buttoned all the way up.
His vibe was innocent, gullible… almost naïvely honest.
She said gently,
“Well, actually… you could buy 13 roses. Thirteen means ‘forever love.’
Usually it’s fifteen bucks, but just for you, I’ll give it to you for twenty.”
Marvel thought it over.
It sounded pretty meaningful.
He smiled and pulled out his twenty, handing it over gratefully.
“Thank you so much… thanks for the discount,” he said sincerely.
Of course, he didn’t realize she’d actually charged him more, not less.
The shop owner carefully trimmed the roses, made them neat and tidy, then wrapped them in a soft silk ribbon. The final result looked like a beautiful, romantic gift.
Marvel took the bouquet with a wide, joyful smile.
Under the dim shop lights, his face looked stiff and serious—like a meme frozen in time.
He held out the bouquet to the woman and said,
“Actually… I love you. Will you be my girlfriend?”
The shop owner gave an awkward smile.
“Thank you… but I’m sorry. I’m already married.”
Marvel replied without hesitation,
“That’s okay. True love doesn’t care if someone’s married or single.”
The woman gently pushed the flowers back into his hands.
“You’re handsome. You deserve someone better. Go walk around Union Square—lots of pretty girls there.”
Marvel glanced at himself in the mirror.
He nodded. “Yeah… she might be right.”
Holding the bouquet tightly, he stepped out of the shop and made his way toward Union Square.
Love at First Sight
Marvel arrived at Union Square with the bouquet in hand.
He sat on a bench, quietly observing the beautiful women passing by.
He needed to pick the right one—the perfect recipient for his roses and confession—just like the story described in the PhD book he had read.
A tall, long-legged woman passed by wearing a tank top.
Marvel stared for a moment, then muttered to himself,
“Too skinny. Looks like an airport runway.”
Next, a short and chubby middle-aged woman walked past.
Marvel immediately turned his head away and made a gagging motion to the air.
He mumbled, “Yeah, definitely not her.”
Then, not long after, he saw her.
A young woman jogging through the square, wearing a pink sports bra and tight athletic shorts.
Her skin was a healthy sun-kissed brown—glowing with vitality.
With each step, the “two little rabbits” on her chest bounced rhythmically in sync with her footsteps.
Sometimes Marvel would fantasize—what if the bouncing was so intense they just popped out of her clothes?
The mental image nearly knocked him out.
His crotch reacted before his brain did.
His erection pressed firmly against his pants, throbbing with excitement.
For the first time in his life, Marvel felt it.
This must be what love at first sight is.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the bouquet, ran forward, and jumped in front of her, blocking her path.
The jogger slowed down, a bit confused.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
Marvel didn’t speak.
He dropped to both knees with dramatic force, held the bouquet high over his head, and declared his feelings.
People around them immediately turned to watch.
A young girl nearby gasped, hands over her mouth.
“So romantic… Right here in the park. He’s so brave, confessing to the one he loves…
This is such a powerful moment. So romantic. So brave.”
Love Interrupted
Marvel spoke with the most sincere voice he could muster.
“From the moment I first saw you… I fell in love. Deeply. Truly. You’re like a goddess, lighting up the path ahead of me.
From this day forward, I’ll never sleep again—because every night, I’ll be thinking of you.
I can’t live without you. You are everything to me.”
The jogger stood frozen.
She had never seen this man before in her life.
And everything about him screamed creepy.
Without saying a word, she stepped around him and resumed jogging—completely ignoring his grand confession.
But Marvel wasn’t done.
He spun around and reached out, grabbing her wrist.
“I want to hold your hand. I want to hug you. I want to kiss you. I want to make love to you.”
And that really was what he honestly felt.
It was the raw, unfiltered truth—straight from the teachings of the PhD book.
Just then, a man walked by.
He wore a white, sleeveless crop-top shirt.
And the moment he saw Marvel, something in him snapped.
In Marvel, he saw the image—the cursed shadow—of someone he hated more than anything: PhD.
His fury surged instantly.
His energy began to concentrate.
His hair started rising. Sparks flickered around him.
He transformed into a Super Saiyan.
His appearance changed:
Golden hair stood upright, glowing with power.
Blue aura burst from his body, crackling with energy.
His eyes turned turquoise, filled with focused rage.
Muscles bulged under his clothes, as if the very air around him had grown heavier.
In one explosive dash, he launched himself straight at Marvel.
BOOM!
A vicious uppercut slammed into Marvel’s chin, lifting his entire body two meters into the air.
The man leapt upward, caught up with him mid-air, and pressed both palms into Marvel’s stomach at point-blank range.
With a fierce shout, he unleashed an energy blast right into Marvel’s gut.
The glowing orb of destruction carried Marvel far into the sky—blasting off like a human firework.
A split second later, it detonated.
A blinding white flash lit up the sky for a moment—so bright it made everything else seem darker by comparison. The earth itself seemed to pause.
All eyes in the park turned skyward, jaws dropped.
Marvel’s charred body spiraled down from the heavens…
…and crash-landed through the open window of a nearby museum.
The Living Exhibit
Marvel’s body, still smoking from the blast, shot through the air and crashed straight into a museum window.
The energy blast had completely shredded his clothing—except for one last scrap:
The very top button of his Zhongshan suit had somehow survived, clinging tightly around his neck like a choking collar.
That one piece of fabric caught on the edge of a metal display frame—a minimalist steel rack used to hang contemporary installations.
And so, Marvel dangled there—suspended in mid-air, his half-naked body hanging awkwardly from the rack by just that tiny piece of fabric.
From a distance…
He looked like modern art.
Within minutes, a crowd gathered around him.
Some people tilted their heads in confusion.
Others frowned.
“This piece is kind of vulgar,” one woman whispered.
Someone else muttered, “He’s got a little belly.”
And then someone pointed and said, “Wait, look at that… his dick is humongous.”
The murmurs grew louder.
Then a man stepped forward—an old geezer with a goatee, dressed in full Qing dynasty robes.
He clapped his hands loudly.
“BRAVO!” he shouted. “This—this—is the pinnacle of human art!
That saggy belly, the clumsy muscle distribution, the unintentional exposure—
You can see the innocence and sincerity in that dumb-looking face.”
He raised his voice passionately.
“The imperfection of this obscene body somehow reveals perfection—
It’s like the sculpture of Venus de Milo.
This is post-human art at its finest!”
The crowd fell silent for a moment… then erupted in agreement.
Everyone nodded like they’d just witnessed a miracle.
Several pulled out their phones and began snapping photos.
A group of young girls approached the exhibit, giggling.
They stood beside Marvel’s dangling, mostly-naked body and posed for selfies—peace signs, tongue out, finger heart, even duck lips—smiling as the flash lit up the surreal scene behind them.