Viewer Questions
After the commercial break, the program returned to the live studio. The host was once again smiling warmly as he addressed the audience.
“Welcome back, everyone,” he said. “In just the few minutes during the break, we received a flood of viewer questions. We’ve picked the most interesting one to ask our guest, Mr. Marvel.”
He lifted a cue card and read aloud:
“This viewer writes — and I quote — ‘Marvel is basically a pervert who almost raped someone. So why the hell is he sitting here on a talk show like he’s some kind of guest speaker? Shouldn’t he already be in jail? I’m really curious what happened afterward.’”
The room went still.
The camera turned to Marvel, who nodded slowly. His voice was calm, even serene.
“I think a lot of people misunderstood me,” he said. “They call me a pervert. Say I’m violent. But honestly… I’m a good person.”
He folded his hands politely.
“I never litter. If I saw a dog fall into a river, I’d save it. I always help old ladies cross the street. Deep down, I think I’m a very innocent dude. I’ve never even been in a relationship.”
The host suddenly cut him off.
“Boring,” he said flatly. “Mr. Marvel, our audience wants to know what actually happened. We heard the police showed up that day. Can you walk us through it? Why weren’t you arrested? Why aren’t you behind bars right now? I think we’re all dying to know.”
Marvel gave a small nod.
Then, quietly, he continued.
The screen faded out once again—
—back to that chaotic, insane afternoon.
Misunderstood
A squad of police officers rushed into the café.
Leading the group was a short, half-bald officer with a proud swagger — his name was Grayson.
He stopped dramatically in the middle of the chaos, planted one hand on his hip, and pointed forward with the other like he was posing for a movie poster.
“Move in! Apprehend the suspect!” he shouted with exaggerated authority.
The officers looked around.
Then at each other.
None of them knew who the suspect actually was.
Their eyes scanned the mess — overturned tables, spilled drinks, crying staff, and debris everywhere. In the middle of it all, there was one guy who looked especially aggressive — big build, bleeding arm, furious expression — the café owner.
The cops made their decision.
They charged forward and tackled the wrong man.
“Don’t resist!” one officer yelled, pinning him to the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?!” the café owner shouted. “I’m the one who called you, idiots!”
Meanwhile, Marvel slowly stood up nearby.
He dusted himself off, brushed some dirt off his slacks, and stood still — calm and blank-faced, like a man who had just finished gardening.
The café owner yelled from the ground, pointing furiously.
“That’s the guy! That’s the suspect! He beat that boy half to death and tried to rape the girl!”
Grayson turned and squinted at Marvel.
He looked him up and down — the stiff posture, the round glasses, the awkward hair, the confused expression.
He didn’t look threatening at all.
In fact, he looked like a total nobody—just some harmless pedestrian you’d pass on the street without a second glance.
With his shirt buttoned all the way to the top, he looked more like an elementary school kid who only knew books and exams than someone capable of hurting anyone.
So stiff, so old-school—so innocent.
Grayson stepped forward and asked:
“You. Are you the suspect?”
Marvel shook his head softly. “No. I’m not.”
Grayson pointed to the unconscious boy on the ground. “Did you do that to him?”
Marvel nodded. “Yeah. I gave him a good beating—to teach him a lesson.”
SMACK!
Grayson slapped the back of Marvel’s head with the palm of his hand.
“You dumbass! You beat someone up — that makes you the suspect!”
Marvel didn’t react. Just a slow, quiet shake of the head.
He still didn’t acknowledge that he’d just committed a crime.
In his world, he wasn’t the villain. He never was.
Standard Procedure
One of the officers stepped forward, ready to cuff Marvel.
But Grayson raised his hand and barked, “Hold it.”
“I’ll search him first,” he said. “Need to make sure he’s not carrying a weapon.”
Without waiting for approval, Grayson casually ran his hands over Marvel’s body — barely pretending to conduct an actual search. His motions were lazy, half-hearted, like he’d done this more for show than substance.
Then, by accident, his hand brushed against the inside of Marvel’s thigh.
Grayson suddenly recoiled.
“The hell is this?!” he shouted. “Why the f**k are you this stiff?! What the hell are you thinking right now?!”
Marvel scratched his head awkwardly.
“Ah… sorry,” Marvel said, his voice soft and trembling. A bit of drool shimmered at the corner of his lip, and his cheeks flushed bright red like a schoolboy in love. “That kiss earlier… it really got to me. I don’t know what’s happening, but… I think I’m falling for her. I feel like my heart’s pounding so hard I’m about to have a heart attack.”
As he spoke, his breathing quickened—and so did something else. The excitement surging through his body built like pressure in a boiler. For a terrifying moment, it looked like his arousal might punch a hole clean through the fabric, threatening to explode his giant cock in public.
Grayson blinked.
And then… he didn’t laugh. He didn’t roll his eyes. He just stood there for a moment—completely still, quietly moved.
This guy’s not a creep, he thought. He’s just… overflowing with love. Pure, raw, fearless love.
Then, without a word—and without even breaking eye contact—Grayson casually slid his hand into Marvel’s coat pocket, like he was grabbing gum or keys, and pulled out a thick wad of cash—about five hundred dollars.
He waved it in front of Marvel’s face.
“What’re you doing walking around with this much cash? You got some sketchy plans or what?”
A cold drop of sweat slid down Marvel’s temple.
He looked genuinely rattled — like someone had just read his diary out loud.
“N-no,” he stammered. “I was… I was just gonna buy groceries. That’s all. I swear.”
Grayson looked him dead in the eyes.
Then, without a word, he slid the cash into his own pocket.
He clapped his hands and turned to his men.
“Well, folks,” he announced. “Looks like this was all just a big misunderstanding. No one got seriously hurt, and nobody died.”
He pointed toward the door.
“Pack it up. We’re done here.”
An Innocent Dude
Grayson walked up to Marvel and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder.
“I think you’re a good man,” he said with a grin. “One day, you might grow up to be as excellent as I am.”
With that, he turned on his heel and led his officers out of the café, leaving behind a trail of confusion and disbelief.
The customers, staff, and the injured boy all stared at each other — stunned, speechless, unable to comprehend what just happened.
Marvel, too, stood still for a moment. Then, slowly and silently, he turned and walked out of the café, his expression blank and unreadable.
—
On the way back to the station, one of the younger officers jogged up next to Grayson.
“You, uh… you really took a liking to that guy, huh?” he said. “Why’s that?”
Grayson nodded thoughtfully.
“He reminds me of me. When I was young,” he said. “Just an innocent dude.”
He let out a nostalgic sigh.
“He’s not evil. He’s just like a big kid. Naive. Romantic. That punch? That kiss? All of it — it came from a weird sense of justice. A burning desire for love. You can’t arrest someone for being too emotional.”
He glanced at his officer.
“If I threw a guy like that in jail, you know what I’d be doing? I’d be destroying the last bit of innocence left in this rotten world.”
The officer blinked.
Then slowly nodded. “Yeah… when you put it that way…”
But another cop in the back—short buzzcut, acne scars—raised his voice toward Grayson, clearly unsettled:
“Innocent? That guy didn’t look even slightly innocent. He looked like a full-on basement dweller. The way he just stood there all calm and blank—it sent chills down my spine. Honestly, he made my skin crawl.”
Grayson stopped walking.
He turned around.
Without warning, he slapped the cop hard across the face.
The sound echoed down the street.
Grayson’s voice roared like a dog off its leash:
“You f***ing fast food leftover! Open that sewage hole of a mouth again, and I’ll send you back to your mother’s womb—maybe you’ll come out next time with a cleaner mouth!”
The officer staggered back, stunned, one hand clutching his cheek.
Grayson glared at him.
Nobody else said a word.
They just kept walking—silent, tense—as the wind brushed past their badges.
Grayson walked tall, even though he was kind of short.
Chin up.
Genuinely proud of himself—for standing up for an innocent dude.
The Final Question
The screen cut back to the studio.
Professor Hawking was now lying sideways on the couch, bored out of his mind. One leg was resting on the cushions while the other hung loosely off the edge. He casually scratched his crotch and hadn’t spoken in almost half an hour.
The host, still grinning like nothing was strange, turned to the camera with a cheerful gleam in his eyes.
“Well! What a touching and powerful story,” he said.
Then, with a theatrical pause, he placed one hand over his chest.
“I really appreciate Chief Officer Grayson for keeping our city safe. I feel safer now—knowing he’s out there watching over us. That man… that man is a true protector of the people.”
He then turned to Marvel.
“Mr. Marvel, we’re almost out of time,” he said gently. “But I’d like to ask one last question—if that’s alright with you.”
Marvel gave a slight nod.
The host leaned forward and lowered his voice with a sense of tension.
“A lot of viewers wrote in asking the same thing, and I feel I owe it to them to ask you directly: Did you really try to rape that girl?”
Silence.
Marvel looked directly at him. His expression didn’t change, but his tone grew sharp—scolding, almost angry.
“Have I ever peeked under a girl’s skirt during class? Huh?”
“Have I ever fantasized about my best female friend? Huh?”
“Have I ever pretended to accidentally bump into a woman’s chest with my elbow? Huh?”
“Have I ever stayed up late at night jerking off to porn while crying in the dark? Huh?”
The host looked stunned. He straightened his tie, then quickly stammered:
“Well—huh—I mean… No, sir! Absolutely not!”
Marvel’s eyes flared.
His voice exploded.
“OF COURSE I HAVE!”
It echoed. The studio went dead silent.
Then—like a light switch—his tone dropped. Calm. Steady. Almost gentle.
“But that day… I swear to God… I never once thought about raping that girl. Not even for a second. That was never what I wanted.”
A brief silence followed.
Then Marvel gave a strained, awkward smile—half nervous, half exhausted.
The host looked at him for a beat, then softened.
“Oh… with that innocent smile, I fully believe you. I trust you.”
He turned back toward the camera with a big closing grin.
“Well, folks, life is complicated. And sometimes, the truth… just isn’t black and white.”
The episode ended moments later.
Marvel was quietly handed a $500 appearance fee backstage.
The next week, the host earned a new nickname across the city: Indifference.
He was fired shortly after.
Epilogue
Although Marvel and his story once set the city ablaze with gossip and debate, it didn’t take long for people to forget.
In a city flooded with scandals, trending dramas, and endless entertainment news, public attention shifted quickly. One hot topic replaced another like fast food orders. Most headlines didn’t last more than a week.
And so, Marvel faded from memory.
But the same couldn’t be said for one particular moment from that broadcast.
The host’s infamous outburst—
“What the dickhead did you just say?”
—refused to die.
It lived on, passed down not through newspapers or court records, but through playgrounds and lunch breaks.
At a local elementary school, on a sunny afternoon, a group of kids were huddled in a corner of the sandbox, laughing and pretending to be ninja warriors.
Suddenly, one child stood up, puffed out his chest, and pointed at another.
“What the dickhead did you just say?” he shouted with perfect mimicry.
The other kids burst into laughter, falling over each other in the sand.
And so, through no effort of his own, the disgraced host left behind a legacy.
Not one of journalism, or truth, or justice—
—but of profanity and absurdity, echoing across a generation too young to know where it came from.