Between Friendship and Romance
The jogging girl clung tightly to Dave’s arm, hiding behind him, clearly terrified. Dave gently peeled her hands off.
“Step back,” he said softly. “Stand a little farther away. I’ll protect you.”
She nodded and dashed off, hiding behind a bench a few meters away.
Dave took a deep breath and stepped forward—face to face with the beast.
Marvel’s voice exploded like a siren.
“HOW DARE YOU!
Wearing those pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear to deceive an innocent girl like this—
You’re a perverted monster!
I won’t forgive you!
You didn’t just lie to her—you lied to her heart!
To her feelings!
You’re shameless! Absolutely shameless!”
Dave’s heart sank a little.
He always thought Marvel was his friend.
He thought Marvel would be happy for him.
But instead… Marvel was lashing out, like a stranger.
Staring at the furious beast in front of him, Dave felt torn. He knew—deep down—this moment was forcing him to choose between two things:
Friendship
or
Love.
He stood there, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Three seconds passed.
He made his decision.
He chose… boobies.
When Dave opened his eyes, Marvel was already charging toward him.
Reacting instantly, Dave met him head-on. Their hands collided midair—palms locking, fingers gripping. A test of pure force had begun.
But something was off.
Dave suddenly realized he was being pushed backward. Hard.
His feet dragged across the muddy ground, carving a long trench behind him. The speed kept increasing—first like riding a bicycle, then like being pulled by a car. Within seconds, he had been shoved nearly twenty meters.
That’s when Dave roared:
“Muscle Dash!”
He slammed his foot into the earth behind him—shattering a patch of garden soil and tiles in a burst of force. The counterpush launched him forward with explosive momentum. He twisted Marvel’s wrist and flipped him clean over his shoulder—a perfect textbook takedown.
It was the move Sean had once used to teach him a lesson. And now, Dave had learned it. And made it his own.
From a distance, the jogging girl jumped in joy, throwing her fists up with a loud, high-pitched “Yay!”
As she landed, her chest bounced so hard it defied physics.
Marvel saw all of it.
And something inside him snapped.
His eyes turned bloodshot. His rage ignited. His power spiked.
“You bewitched her, didn’t you?!
You used some kind of sorcery!
You lowlife! You CHEAT!”
But Dave no longer bothered to respond.
To him, Marvel had already become a beast—completely consumed by jealousy.
So he used another Muscle Dash, blasting forward and landing a heavy punch right into Marvel’s ribs.
Marvel staggered back several steps. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. But he wasn’t seriously hurt.
Instead, he dropped to all fours—and lunged like an animal.
He slammed a fist into Dave’s face, sending him skidding four or five meters across the ground.
Dave lay face-down, coughing blood onto the pavement.
From Friend to Foe
Marvel watched in disbelief as Dave collapsed, unable to rise.
The very next second, he bolted—not toward his fallen friend, but straight to the jogging girl. His eyes burned with righteousness. He grabbed her by both shoulders and, with wild urgency, began shouting into her face:
“I’m here now! I came to protect you! That monster used some twisted sorcery to manipulate your heart! But I—I will break that curse! I’ll save you from his spell, no matter what it takes!”
The girl froze, stunned… then recoiled in revulsion.
She slapped his hands away with a shriek:
“You disgusting FREAK! Don’t touch me! There’s no curse—there’s no monster—YOU’RE the only psycho here!”
Marvel’s lips trembled.
His pupils shook. His hands hovered mid-air, twitching with nervous energy. And then… something snapped.
His eyes dropped—drawn to her chest as if by gravitational force. He stared at her breasts with the hunger of a starving beast. Saliva leaked from the corners of his mouth. He panted heavily. Then, possessed by pure delusion—
He reached out and groped her breasts violently.
The jogging girl screamed and struck him in the head over and over with both fists.
“GET OFF ME! YOU FREAK! I SWEAR I’LL CALL THE COPS! DAVE’S GONNA KILL YOU!”
And from behind—Dave rose.
He stood tall, his body bruised and bloodied, but his spirit burning.
He looked at Marvel—his former friend—now crouched and slobbering like a rabid animal.
Dave didn’t speak.
He lowered his stance, right foot back, left foot forward. His right fist pulled behind him like a loaded spring. The surrounding air thickened. Leaves swirled. Dust lifted. Even discarded snack wrappers fluttered toward him, caught in the swirling pressure.
His muscles tightened.
“I’ve already lost our friendship,” he whispered, “but I won’t lose my love.”
Then, with every ounce of strength in his body, he launched forward.
“LOVE PUNCH!!”
The earth cracked beneath his feet.
In an instant, Dave vanished—only to reappear before Marvel, fist already in motion. It connected with Marvel’s face like divine retribution. The impact sent Marvel flying ten, maybe twenty meters, shattering the air with a boom.
Marvel’s body crashed through the long bench—their bench—splintering it into a thousand pieces.
The bench they sat on for weeks. The bench they shared snacks on. The bench where their strange, silent bond had first formed.
Now reduced to rubble.
As shards of wood fluttered to the ground like dying leaves, Dave stood over the wreckage. His chest rose and fell slowly.
That bench was more than wood.
It was a symbol.
And now, like their friendship, it lay in ruins—irreparable, unforgettable, and gone forever.
Power of the Unstoppable Beast
Dave’s fist was still outstretched—his arm frozen mid-air from that righteous, love-fueled punch. But before he could even begin to retract it, Marvel was already back on all fours, barreling toward him like a charging animal.
The speed was unnatural.
A blur.
By the time Dave realized what was happening, Marvel had already pounced—leaping through the air and slamming him to the ground with feral force. It wasn’t even a fight. It was a mauling.
In that moment, Dave—a man built like a boulder—felt as helpless as a toddler in the jaws of a lion.
“MACHINE GUN SLAP!!” Marvel howled.
And then it began.
A storm of slaps—five, ten, maybe more per second—rained down on Dave’s face. The sound echoed like rapid-fire gunshots. His cheeks bounced with every impact. He tried to guard, tried to block, but there was no room—no time—no breath.
In under ten seconds, Dave’s face had swollen grotesquely. Puffy and distorted, it looked like someone had stuffed two dinner rolls beneath his skin. His lips were bleeding. His eyes nearly swollen shut. His mouth hung open, stunned and useless.
Just then, from the edge of the chaos, the jogging girl—trembling, bruised—grabbed something off the ground.
A baseball bat.
Clutching it with both hands, she sprinted forward and swung with all her might—smashing it against the back of Marvel’s head.
CRACK.
It wasn’t much, but it was real.
Even beasts feel pain.
Marvel paused, growled low, then—without even turning around—whipped his arm backward in a wide arc.
His hand caught the girl across her torso and flung her like a rag doll across the air.
She flew fifty meters—smashing into a thick tree trunk with a sickening thud. Her limbs went limp as she crumpled to the ground. Something cracked. She didn’t get up. Couldn’t.
Her body twitched once, then lay still in the dirt.
Dave, through swollen eyelids, saw it all.
Marvel had dropped his guard.
Just for a second.
And that second was enough.
Dave’s right leg shot out—one final defiant kick that knocked Marvel off balance. In the same motion, he used his signature Muscle Dash, blasting forward like a cannonball.
With all his weight behind him, he thrust his elbow upward into Marvel’s neck.
THWACK.
Marvel stumbled, coughing violently. He clutched his throat, gagging. The strike had nearly crushed his windpipe. But a few seconds later… he was breathing again.
And he was pissed.
His fingers dug into the dirt.
Then—zoom—he disappeared.
0.5 seconds later, he reappeared right in front of Dave.
“FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH!!”
Marvel’s fist shot forward like a bullet aimed straight at Dave’s skull.
But Dave—just one split second ahead—threw up his arm to block.
It didn’t matter.
The impact blasted through his guard like a wrecking ball. His body was sent flying backward, crushing through two metal streetlight poles, sparks bursting in every direction. Then, with a sickening final thud, he slammed into the same tree that had stopped the girl earlier.
This time, it was Dave who hung limp—arms dangling, legs twisted—his body stuck between branches like a broken doll.
The beast stood tall in the center of the park.
Breathing heavy.
Saliva dripping.
Eyes wild.
The power of the unstoppable beast… had just been proven.
And no one could deny it now.
The Breaking Point
Dave was still conscious—but only barely. His body hung limply from the thick tree trunk like a discarded rag. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only watch.
Below him, Marvel stood.
The beast no longer looked human. His arms bulged grotesquely. His veins pulsed. His shirt had torn in half, reduced to fluttering threads still clinging to his shoulders. Each of his footsteps sent tremors through the ground as he approached the fallen jogging girl.
She lay crumpled in the grass, breathing faintly. A smear of blood traced down the side of her lips. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and her elbow was scraped raw. But her eyes—her eyes were still awake. Still burning.
Marvel crouched in front of her and slowly reached out, lifting her chin with one hand.
His voice was colder than metal:
“Tell me… do you love me? Or that muscle-clown pervert?”
The girl scoffed weakly, a bitter smirk twitching on her lips.
“You?” she said. “Not in a million years.”
Marvel’s face twitched. His jaw clenched.
But he held it together.
At least, for a moment.
She continued, voice cracked but steady:
“I love Dave. I love The Underwear.”
That was it.
The last string snapped.
Marvel’s body convulsed as if struck by lightning. His breath turned ragged. His muscles swelled further, pushing against his torn clothes. His entire figure pulsed with wild, primal energy—fueled by something far darker than adrenaline.
He clawed at his hair. Screamed. The last flicker of logic in his eyes disappeared. Now there was only madness.
He lunged toward the girl.
She screamed, trying to crawl away—but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate.
Then—the beast pinned her beneath him and forced his way deep inside her.
And he roared,
MACHINE GUN FUCK
Six hours passed in the quiet shade of the park. His thrusts came down like a pile driver—heavy, rhythmic, and unrelenting. The grass flattened beneath them, scattered cries rising into the air. Birds fled. The breeze carried it all away. Still, he didn’t stop. Not once.
Joggers jogged. Couples laughed. Phones scrolled. No one looked.
In this Kung Fu world—murder, brawls, even horror—were just background noise. A man losing himself in front of a tree barely made a dent in the rhythm of the day.
And from above, Dave watched. Eyes wide. Fists trembling.
But still… Unable to move.
Her screams, her cries for help, and her desperate resistance stretched on for one or two hours—growing weaker and weaker until, at last, they faded slowly into silence. Yet even then, the rhythm of his motion still lingered in her ice-cold, stiffened, unresponsive, lifeless body.
Aftermath
Marvel stood alone beneath the tree, his breath heavy, eyes wide and trembling. Before him lay the girl—motionless, pale, blood smeared across her thighs, her gaze frozen in time.
He hadn’t meant for things to go this far.
The storm in his veins had passed, but what remained was worse—an empty, aching silence. He looked down at his hands—once trembling with innocence, now stained with something far darker.
Tears welled in his eyes.
“I… I just wanted to save you. Purify you…” He whispered, as if trying to convince himself of something he didn’t even believe.
But there was no answer. No forgiveness. Only silence.
He took a final look at the scene—then turned and ran. On all fours, like an animal fleeing into the woods. He didn’t care where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stay.
High above, still half-conscious and broken, Dave hung from the tree. He had seen it all. And now, with his body shattered and hope drained from his heart, he whispered through cracked lips:
“He’s… not my friend anymore… He’s a demon… a foul beast.”
Soon after, flashing lights pierced the park—ambulances, police cruisers, reporters. Medics rushed to lift Dave from the tree and laid a white cloth gently over the girl’s body. Even the officers—hardened by years of street violence—fell silent. The scene was too raw, too brutal for words.
Later that night, the news broke:
“A young woman was found gruesomely dead in the park today, with a man discovered hanging nearby, severely injured. Authorities are investigating the incident as a possible robbery, violent assault, or a sexually motivated crime. No arrests have been made at this time.”
Across the city, fear swept through the streets like a black tide. What had unfolded in the once-peaceful heart of the neighborhood sent shockwaves through every home, every whispered conversation.
But no one was more broken than Dave.
That night, in the hospital bed, he stared blankly at the ceiling. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. Not from pain—but from shame.
“I couldn’t stop him… I failed to save her…”
And somewhere out there in the dark, Marvel was still running—carrying a guilt that would never let go.
The Cops of Incompetence
Dave wandered the streets like a hollowed-out shell.
His soul felt stolen. His steps were aimless.
In just one day, he had lost everything: his closest friend—Marvel—and his first love—the jogging girl.
Her death hit him harder than anything he’d ever faced.
Marvel, once a sincere friend, was now something else entirely.
A monster.
A beast.
And in Dave’s heart, he would never be forgiven.
Elsewhere in the city, Chief Grayson was holding a press conference.
Cameras rolled as he struck a series of theatrical poses—fingers in a V under his chin, arms folded tightly, one hand on his hip like he was posing for a movie poster.
His voice boomed with a deep, rhythmic cadence—clearly rehearsed, like he’d practiced it in the mirror a hundred times.
It was a performance.
A show.
A cheap attempt to look good on TV.
Facing the cameras, he declared:
“This was a serious act of violence. As the Chief of Police, I cannot tolerate this kind of crime. I promise to give our citizens a clear and satisfying answer—in the shortest time possible. Justice will be served.”
Then, without missing a beat, he added:
“And a word of advice to everyone out there—especially the ladies—when you go outside, wear a proper shirt. Don’t be topless in public. Let’s all try not to invite unnecessary trouble.”
Cut to the police station.
Inside the meeting room, Grayson sat slouched at a poker table with three senior officers.
They were lazily shuffling cards, cigarette smoke curling in the air.
Grayson had his legs kicked up, trimming his fingernails while tossing cards like nothing mattered.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
A young rookie officer stormed in, eyes burning with righteous fire.
“Sir! When are we heading out to investigate this brutal rape case?” he asked, full of urgency.
Grayson didn’t even glance up.
“Investigate your ass,” he muttered. “You think I’ve got time? You don’t see how busy I am?”
The rookie froze, stunned.
Grayson waved him off like a fly.
“New guy. Go grab me a bubble tea.”
Immediately, the others joined in—
“Make mine half sugar.”
“Extra ice.”
“Get me pearls, pudding, and coconut jelly. Thanks, kid.”
And just like that—
The case was gone.
Buried.
Forgotten.
No one ever brought it up again.