High Butt Tom
From inside a small bakery, the automatic door slid open with a soft hiss.
Out walked an old man with a goatee, wearing a Qing dynasty-style robe.
His back was slightly hunched, and he held a rolled-up newspaper in one hand.
He slowly made his way along the sidewalk…
Until—suddenly—
A human-shaped object flew past him from behind.
It spun violently like a windmill and slammed headfirst into a large industrial trash bin.
The man’s head and upper body were lodged deep inside the bin,
while his legs dangled outside, his loose pants slipping down just enough to expose his butt crack.
The old man turned his head slowly, squinting.
“…Oh,” he muttered.
“It’s Tom.”
He chuckled softly to himself and said,
“Oh, funny that… Every time you show up, your butt’s always facing me.
Maybe I should stop calling you High Knee Tom… and start calling you High Butt Tom?”
Across the street, a familiar figure stood still.
He wore nothing but a pair of pink women’s underwear—a tight, triangular thong.
It was Dave.
His fist was still raised mid-air—tense and clenched—
clearly the punch that had launched Tom was his.
Dave began walking slowly across the street, passing in front of the old man.
The old man looked at him and asked,
“That your doing?”
Dave nodded.
“Yeah. Who are you, old man?”
The old man let out a quiet chuckle.
“Heh… Most people just call me Mr. Sang. I’m the Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association.”
The moment Dave heard “Vice Chairman” and “Kung Fu Association”,
his eyes sharpened and flared with heat.
He turned toward Mr. Sang, glaring.
His fist tightened.
He was ready to fight.
Twin Tails of Destruction
Dave looked at the old man in front of him—plain appearance, frail build.
Nothing about him looked like a kung fu master.
But if this guy really was the Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association,
then there had to be something deadly hiding underneath that robe.
Dave knew—he couldn’t let his guard down.
He focused all his energy, all his senses, onto Mr. Sang.
Somewhere deep in his instincts, he began to sense a dozen possible next moves—
A straight punch.
A tornado kick.
A rising dragon fist.
Even a microwave energy blast…
Or worse: instant transmission.
He visualized them all, preparing his counters one by one.
Mr. Sang noticed the shift.
Dave’s fists were clenched, and his eyes were burning with focus.
Sang smiled awkwardly.
“Hey hey, kid—don’t be so tense. I’m not what you think I—”
BAM!
Before he could finish the sentence, Dave charged forward and smashed a punch straight into Mr. Sang’s face.
Mr. Sang’s face twisted from the impact.
The momentum lifted his entire body into the air—
he spun like a turbine, limbs flailing,
and went flying over ten meters across the street.
CRASH!!
He slammed right into the glass wall of the same bakery he had just exited.
The glass shattered into a storm of shards, and Sang flew headfirst into the store’s refrigerator unit.
His legs and bare ass now hung in the air—exactly the same pose as Tom.
Except this time, his clothes had torn in half from the glass impact.
His butt was fully exposed, twitching slightly in the cold air.
Then it happened.
His body convulsed once—
and his exposed butt erupted with violent diarrhea,
a volcanic blast of yellow sludge,
spraying across several nearby tables,
coating customers’ faces, pastries, and freshly toasted bagels in steaming, foul-smelling horror.
Screams filled the bakery.
People ran. People slipped.
Some trampled others, some fainted instantly,
and one poor customer projectile-vomited all over their own untouched quiche.
The Pink Terror
“OMG.”
Dave stood frozen in place, muttering those three letters in disbelief.
How could a Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association be this weak?
He stared blankly at the ruined bakery, a little dazed.
What he didn’t know…
was that Mr. Sang only handled paperwork.
He wasn’t a fighter at all.
Dave shook off the disappointment.
He reminded himself of his true mission—
As The Strongest Man on Earth,
he had to find someone worthy.
Someone who could match his strength.
Anything less would be a waste of his ten years of training and the perfect kung fu body he’d built.
So he kept walking the streets, searching.
Whenever he spotted someone who might be a fighter,
he’d march straight over and challenge them.
Along the way, he beat the crap out of dozens of people.
Most of them, unfortunately… weren’t fighters.
Just regular folks.
But in Dave’s eyes, anyone could be a warrior.
A chef holding a kitchen knife?
To Dave, that might be a legendary swordsman in disguise.
He constantly imagined people unleashing bizarre, magical kung fu moves—
even if they were just cashiers or taxi drivers.
And so, chaos followed wherever he went.
Before long, a local police station had been turned upside down.
Four or five officers had already been punched through the second-floor window,
crashing down onto the street below like ragdolls.
Inside, a balding man with a pathetic combover stood trembling in front of Dave.
“Please don’t hit me,” he begged.
“If you must… please, just don’t hit the face.”
It was Grayson.
Earlier, he’d been slacking off at his desk like usual,
when a man wearing nothing but pink women’s underwear stormed into the station
and challenged everyone inside.
Grayson had laughed.
He laughed at the underwear.
He laughed at how “gay” it looked.
He was still laughing when—
his officers were already flying out the windows.
Then Dave’s fist came.
It smashed straight into Grayson’s face.
Grayson spun like a broken ceiling fan,
twirling violently through the air,
and was launched clean out the second-floor window—
landing face-first in the middle of the street.
Luckily, cars on both sides screeched to a halt just in time.
But traffic instantly backed up.
Horn blasts echoed across the neighborhood.
Sirens wailed in the distance—police and ambulances rushing to the scene.
And just like that,
the entire city plunged into chaos—hunted, haunted, and helpless…
under the unstoppable force of The Pink Terror.
One Punch Granny
Dave walked slowly down the street.
Every passerby who caught sight of him quickly ducked out of view, hiding behind corners and lamp posts.
That’s when a female reporter stepped forward, holding a microphone.
“Mr. Dave, hello! May I ask you a few questions?”
Dave glanced at her sideways.
She was dressed in a sharp blazer, a white button-up shirt, clearly professional.
Her frame was slim, delicate—nothing like a fighter.
Dave asked flatly,
“Are you a fighter?”
She blinked.
“No, sir. I’m just a reporter here to interview you. We’re live right now.”
Dave replied coldly,
“Then step aside. I don’t have time for meaningless things.”
The reporter’s entire body trembled.
She instinctively backed away several steps.
But she and her camera crew continued filming—broadcasting everything live to the entire city.
Dave walked over to a nearby soda vending machine, bought a bottle of cola,
and sat down beneath the shade of a tree.
As he sipped it slowly, he muttered to himself,
“Even the strongest man on Earth needs a break. Gotta hydrate. It’s too damn hot out here.”
Suddenly, an old lady appeared in front of him, eyes locked on his drink.
It was the same cranky old woman who had bullied Tom for years over recycling cans.
She reached out—trying to grab Dave’s half-full cola.
Dave’s instincts kicked in.
In that split second, he imagined her pulling out a hidden kung fu technique—
some deadly chokehold to crush his windpipe and kill him instantly.
His blood surged with excitement.
A potential new challenge.
He slapped her hand away with one arm,
then launched a full-force punch straight into her face with the other.
Her head twisted violently on her neck.
Crack. Crack.
The sound of bones shattering.
Her head spun a full 720 degrees, then stopped—right back at the starting point.
Her eyes still locked on the cola bottle.
But now, her pupils were fully dilated.
Lifeless.
No focus.
No soul.
And just like that,
the old woman who had competed with Tom for years over recycling cans
was dead.
“OMG,” Dave muttered again.
He hadn’t expected that.
She… wasn’t a fighter either?
He stood still for a few seconds, actually feeling a little guilty.
Then he told himself,
“It’s fine. She probably would’ve died sometime this year anyway. She was really old.”
Little did he know—
the entire encounter had just been aired live on television.
And across the city,
viewers leapt out of their chairs in horror.
“MY GOD!”
they screamed.
“He even punches old ladies! The underwear shows no mercy!”
Not Today, Bro
Inside a bustling Cantonese banquet restaurant,
two large groups of gang members crowded around two giant round tables.
There were so many people that several underlings had to stand on the chairs and even the table edges, plates wobbling as they tried to balance.
In the center of one group sat Canelo—
but instead of a cigarette, he had a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth, chewing it slowly with an attitude.
Across from him sat Robinson,
with one finger jammed between his teeth, casually scraping out plaque like it was just another Tuesday.
They were in the middle of plotting a joint operation—
a surprise ambush, a public beatdown, a make-Dave-scream-for-his-mama type of punishment.
They talked about surrounding him, humiliating him, beating him so badly his mom wouldn’t recognize him.
But just then…
from the nearby wall-mounted TV, the news broadcast cut to a moment:
The 720-degree spinning neck shot.
The old lady’s head twisting around like a cursed doll.
Still staring at the cola.
Silence.
Canelo’s toothpick dropped to the table with a soft tap.
Robinson’s fingernail froze mid-scrape, still buried in his molars.
They stared at the screen.
Then at each other.
Their eyes widened.
Their faces turned pale.
They didn’t say a word.
Not one.
But in that exact moment,
they both knew.
This Dave situation?
Yeah… maybe another day.
Scene shift.
Inside a massive police headquarters conference room,
uniformed officers from every division packed the room.
Tension filled the air like smoke.
At the center sat a man—unmoving, composed, commanding.
A bucket hat tilted low over his head.
A long trench coat draped across his shoulders like a cape, not worn properly.
His arms were folded.
Sunglasses on, even indoors.
He was Chief Commissioner Khan,
the undisputed pinnacle of the Kung Fu world.
Not self-proclaimed like Dave—
but universally recognized as the real strongest man alive.
All around him, officers spoke one after another.
“Sir, our station’s been humiliated.”
“Our reputation’s ruined.”
“He even turned Commander Grayson into a street meme…”
“Should we send you to deal with this… underwear guy?”
Khan didn’t move.
Then, calmly and coldly, he said:
“No need.”
A pause.
“He’s just a minor nuisance. Not worth the effort.”
Cut to darkness.
Inside a dimly lit office,
Colin sat lazily in a chair, feet kicked up on the desk.
He looked bored out of his mind.
Brian stood in front of him, hands behind his back.
“You think I should go deal with this Dave guy?” Brian asked.
Colin gave a small shake of his head.
“No need. He’s just someone who looks powerful among the weak…
but among the powerful, he looks weak.”
He sighed.
“But if you’re curious—go ahead. Use your Golden Eyes. Gauge his level.”
Brian nodded silently.
Scene shift again.
Inside a tiny apartment,
Marvel sat hunched in front of a flickering TV, chin resting in his palm, eyes dull.
He was watching the news.
On the screen: the old lady’s 720-degree neck spin in slow motion.
Marvel yawned.
Loudly.
He gave his wide-open mouth a lazy tap with his palm.
“This news is so boring,” he muttered, then clicked the TV off.
He opened his laptop.
Tonight, before bed, he planned to continue watching the same porn he started yesterday—
his favorite: a teacher-student romance series.
Whatever chaos was happening out there…
he didn’t give a single fuck.
And finally—
in another small apartment, somewhere across the city…
A man stood in front of a mirror.
He buttoned up his shirt—but only halfway,
deliberately exposing his manly chest.
Then, with a dramatic motion,
he reached for a red Chinese flag and draped it across his shoulders like a cape.
He stared into the mirror, eyes fierce.
“Alright… it’s my turn now.”
In the Name of the Local Hero
Sean stepped onto the street, slowly walking toward the source of the chaos.
Along the way, he saw bodies scattered on the sidewalk—some even lying in the middle of the road. One of them had already become a flattened pulp of meat, ground over and over again by passing traffic. No one had even noticed the corpse. Or maybe they had… and just didn’t care anymore.
He saw two more bodies with their heads jammed inside trash cans or fridges, their butts sticking out in the air like broken mannequins. Inside a nearby bakery, food was splattered everywhere, flour mixing with smashed pastries—and scattered throughout the mess were piles of human feces.
Sean clenched his fists. His jaw tightened. His heart ached.
Just yesterday, this city was vibrant and full of life. And now, just a matter of hours later… this? This was hell.
Then, as he passed a vending machine, he spotted an old granny kneeling on the ground, her eyes wide open, staring forward, already dead.
She had died right there on the street—just trying to snatch a can of soda.
That was the final straw.
Sean burst into tears.
“I won’t forgive you,” he muttered through his sobs. “As the Local Hero, I swear—I will protect this city. In the name of the people.”
Suddenly, Dave launched another man across the street with a single punch. The body crashed against the metal shutter of a hardware store, collapsing on the ground, totally unconscious.
“Stop right there.”
Sean stepped forward, blocking Dave’s path, standing exactly five meters in front of him.
He raised one hand like a cop calling a halt.
“Enough is enough. You’ve crossed the line. I’m going to teach you a lesson. As a Local Hero, I’ll protect this city and its people—with everything I have.”
The surrounding civilians, drawn by the tension, formed a circle around them, watching closely. Among them stood a tall, slender young man in a black tank top and Nike shorts. A faint golden shimmer danced in his eyes.
It was Brian.
He blended into the crowd, just observing—no intention to fight, no intention to interfere. He was simply here to gauge Dave’s power.
Dave looked up. That half-buttoned white shirt… That manly chest… The silver earring, the bangs covering one eye…
He sneered.
“I finally found you again. Do you remember what you did to me ten years ago… you damn gangster?”
But Sean didn’t respond. Being called a gangster meant nothing to him now. Not after seeing the ruined streets. Not after seeing the pain of the people.
His heart was no longer in the past. It was with the victims.
“I don’t remember what happened ten years ago,” Sean said coldly. “Nor does it matter.”
He narrowed his eyes, stepping forward.
“I’ll beat you up and fuck you good… One way or another.”