Post-Fight Stroll
A few weeks had passed since that night—the night Michael nearly killed them both.
Tonight, the gym lights flickered behind Dave as he stepped out. His entire body was dripping with sweat. Five hours of nonstop training. Arms shaking. Legs dead. Skin steaming from effort.
And he wore nothing but a tight, pink, triangle-cut women’s underwear—bold, unapologetic, riding high on his hips.
That was it.
No shoes. No shirt. Just the world’s most questionable choice of bottoms.
He stretched his neck, cracked his back, and exhaled like a man who had just lifted a planet.
Then he looked up—and froze.
There was a dog.
No. Not a dog.
It was Norman.
Crawling slowly down the street… on all fours… wearing a faded pink T-shirt with a giant Hello Kitty face across the chest. Moving like a man who had fully embraced his inner beast.
Dave jogged over and fell into step beside him—shoulder to spine.
“Yo,” he said, casually adjusting the waistband. “I don’t get it, man. I’ve been training like crazy. Five hours a day. Every damn day.”
“And I still suck.”
“Like… I don’t even know when I’ll be strong enough to fight someone like Michael.”
He glanced down at Norman, still crawling.
“Hell, I can’t even beat you right now.”
Norman didn’t slow down.
“You’re focusing too much on brute strength,” he said, low and even. “Yeah, you’re getting faster—thanks to all those dine and dash runs.”
“But flexibility matters too. Try yoga or something.”
“Yoga?”
Dave raised an eyebrow. A drop of sweat ran down his chest and disappeared into his shiny pink waistband.
Just then, they passed a small yoga studio.
A giant red sign blinked through the glass:
“70% OFF – First Month Trial”
Dave stopped walking.
Stared at it.
Then nodded to himself.
“You know what… I don’t see why not. I’m signing up tomorrow.”
Norman didn’t even look at the studio. He kept crawling.
Honestly, he had just said “yoga” to say something. He had no real training plan for Dave. He just knew Dave moved like a piece of dry toast.
Still, seeing Dave light up like that—like he finally found a direction—it made Norman feel warm.
Maybe yoga would help.
And right then, filled with peaceful satisfaction, Norman veered toward a telephone pole, lifted one leg, and pissed on it.
Naturally.
Then they kept walking.
No big music. No fancy outro.
Just two guys.
One in triangle panties. One in a Hello Kitty shirt crawling like a stray.
Winding down the night.
A Very Bold Newcomer
The next day.
Past noon. Lunch already settled in Dave’s stomach.
He didn’t waste any time—walked straight to the yoga studio in nothing but his usual pink triangle women’s underwear.
The doors were open. That was all the invitation he needed.
He stepped inside.
The place was calm. Dim lighting. Scented candles. Velvet drapes. Ambient music playing something vaguely Eastern. It looked just like the kind of place that would teach enlightenment through flexible poses.
A man greeted him at the front desk.
Slim build. Tight tank top. Perfect eyebrows.
His hand floated in midair like a soft orchid, wrist curved delicately. His voice was light and breathy—almost musical.
“Hi there, sweetie. What can I help you with today?”
Dave nodded respectfully.
That must be the instructor, he thought. A male yoga teacher with a gentle voice? That made total sense. Probably mastered all kinds of advanced poses.
“I wanna sign up,” Dave said.
The man blinked.
And smiled. Wide.
He had no idea Dave thought this was a yoga class. But he was definitely happy Dave walked in.
Truth was, the studio didn’t open for yoga until 5 PM.
During the day, it transformed into a private gay club.
The man wasn’t staff. Just a regular member. And Dave? He looked like a walking fantasy—shirtless, sweaty, tight underwear, muscles glistening like a marble statue from a naughty dream.
The man gave Dave’s chest a little tap. Just to feel it.
“Oh honey, we don’t really do signups here. You just… join in. No registration needed.”
He gestured toward the inner room.
Dave paused.
“Wait, I don’t have to pay?”
But the man was already announcing—
“Everyone! We’ve got a new guest!”
Heads turned.
Half a dozen men peeked out from the side room. Some leaned around curtains. Others popped out of side hallways. The moment they saw Dave, every gaze locked on him like heat-seeking missiles.
One guy couldn’t help himself—he walked right up and licked Dave’s bicep. A long, slow lick.
Dave flinched.
“Whoa! Uh… is that part of the training?”
The man smiled, lips still wet.
“Mmm-hmm. It’s tradition.”
Dave looked around.
Everyone was staring at him with sparkles in their eyes.
He cleared his throat, nodded seriously.
“Alright then. I’m new here. What kind of techniques should I be practicing first?”
The greeter nearly choked on his own saliva.
This guy wasn’t just bold—he was fearless.
He leaned in, lips curling into a seductive whisper.
“Well… tonight we could try something nice and easy… maybe start with doggy style?”
Dave’s eyes lit up.
“Why wait till tonight? Let’s just do it now. Right here. Right now!”
The room went silent.
Even the music cut out for a second.
A man in the corner dropped a pair of scissors—clang!—the blade stabbed into the hardwood and stuck there like a warning.
Everyone stared.
This man was too much.
Too raw. Too direct. Too into it.
From the far end of the room, a short, round man waddled forward. His face was wide and flat like a cartoon pig, his expression oozing confidence and sweat.
He glanced at the others, then stepped between them and Dave.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll show him how it’s done.”
The others looked nervous. But none dared object. The pressure in the room had shifted. This was no longer just an ordinary afternoon at the club.
The pig-faced man walked right up to Dave, lips trembling with anticipation.
“Let’s begin… shall we?”
The Pig-Faced Gentleman
The man with the pig-shaped face gently tapped Dave’s chin.
“Honey, I’ll go on the bottom, and you can take the top.”
He dropped down on all fours, hips raised high—posing like he was about to demonstrate a move.
Dave tilted his head, a little confused.
But he figured, oh, maybe this is one of those advanced yoga poses… So, without thinking too much, he crouched down right beside the guy and mimicked the pose—except his back was straighter, his hips somehow even higher, almost like a model on a runway.
He had no idea how elegant he looked. None at all.
The pig-faced man blinked a few times. He was clearly puzzled.
“Wait… so you don’t wanna be the top? You’re more of a bottom?”
He slowly stood up, still confused, and began to shuffle closer behind Dave.
That’s when Dave suddenly felt something was off.
“Whoa whoa whoa—HEY! What the hell are you doing?!”
The man froze. “I thought you said… doggy style?”
Dave stood up in a flash, brushing himself off.
“I mean the yoga move! I’m here to learn YOGA. What even is this place?! Some weird pyramid scheme? A cult? A scam?! This whole vibe feels way too off.”
Everyone in the room stared. You could hear a feather hit the floor.
The pig-faced guy stammered, “Wait… you don’t know?”
Dave narrowed his eyes. “Know what?”
“This is a men’s club. It’s not a yoga studio until after 5pm…”
Silence.
Dave turned around, walked outside, and looked up at the front sign.
Sure enough, in big bold letters, it said “Yoga Studio.” With “70% OFF!” in neon pink.
Confused, he walked back in.
“Then what’s with the huge yoga sign out front?”
The pig-faced man chuckled nervously and pointed to a much smaller sign leaning against the wall near the sidewalk.
It read:
“Men’s Club — Daytime Only. Yoga Classes Begin After 5pm.”
Dave’s face turned blank. “…Oh.”
A beat of silence passed.
Then—boom!—he punched the pig-faced man right in the face. Not full force, but enough to knock the wind out of him.
“I’m outta here.”
And just like that, Dave turned and walked away.
The Road to Flexibility
Dave was walking down the street, hands in his pockets, when it suddenly hit him—
“Shit. I don’t have any money.”
He smacked his fist into his palm.
“How am I supposed to sign up for that yoga class? I gotta make some quick cash.”
He stood there for a second, thinking. And then, like a slow sunrise across a dumb sky, the idea dawned on him.
“Of course. Robbery.”
Lately, ever since hanging out with Norman, his moral compass had… loosened a bit. He still had a line, though.
He wouldn’t rob just anybody—not the weak, not the old, not the helpless. Nah, he had standards.
He’d rob the bad guys. The scumbags. The ones who deserved it.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
Just then, like fate had sent him a free trial version of justice, a short, bowl-cut kid in pajamas came walking up the sidewalk.
It was Benson.
Dave glanced at him.
Too small.
Too fragile.
Too dumb-looking.
He shook his head.
“Nah. Not my target.”
He kept walking.
But a second later, behind him—
A shout.
“YO!”
Dave turned just in time to see a guy in a hoodie—Canelo—snatch Benson by the collar and slam him up against a wall.
Canelo was puffing on a cigarette, one hand lifting Benson clean off the ground.
Benson squealed.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me!”
He fished into his pocket and pulled out everything he had. Five dollars.
Canelo stared at it.
“The fuck is this?! Only five bucks?!”
Then came the beating.
Benson’s small body got ragdolled against the wall like an old pillowcase.
Dave stood there watching. His fist clenched.
But he wasn’t mad about the violence.
He was staring at the money.
“That guy’s a total dick… and he’s got cash.”
He nodded slowly.
“If I rob him… I’m basically saving Benson.”
He smiled.
The logic made perfect sense.
In his mind, he’d already solved world hunger, fixed the economy, and earned himself a gold star in morality.
He stood tall, touched his chin, nodded again, and whispered—
“Oh yeah, baby…”
The Robber Gets Robbed
Canelo had Benson pinned to the pavement, smashing his foot into him like he was putting out a cigarette.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me!”
Benson’s voice cracked as he begged, covering his head with both hands.
Canelo didn’t say a word. Just kept kicking.
Hard. Brutal.
He didn’t even glance at the five crumpled dollars he’d already snatched.
That’s when it happened—
A light tap on the shoulder.
Canelo spun around, eyes blazing.
And froze.
Standing there was a tall, well-built man—shirtless, muscles glistening, wearing only a tight pair of pink, laced triangle women’s underwear.
“Jesus Christ… Underwear?! What the hell are you doing here?! Can’t you see I’m kinda busy?!”
Canelo knew him. Everyone did.
Dave. Nickname: Underwear.
The guy was infamous for showing up half-naked with no shame whatsoever.
Dave looked a little unsure of himself.
It was his first time trying a professional robbery.
He paused.
Swallowed.
Then finally stammered out—
“Uhh… I-I mean… I’m here to rob you? Or something?”
Canelo stared blankly. Then turned back toward Benson and muttered—
“Get lost. I don’t have time for this.”
Another kick.
Benson let out a high-pitched cry and rolled onto his side.
Dave blinked.
Took a breath.
Then he stepped forward.
Grabbed Canelo by the collar—
Lifted him clean off the ground—
And slammed him against the wall so hard, dust shook from the bricks.
Benson took the chance and ran for it—
He didn’t even look back.
Now it was just the two of them.
Dave leaned in.
“Give me your wallet.”
Canelo shouted—
“What the hell?! I’ve never been robbed before! I am the robber! This is insane!”
Smash cut:
Canelo flat on the sidewalk, out cold.
Dave walking away, flipping through the wallet like he just bought it from a yard sale.
A Long Wait
The time was just past 3 p.m.
Dave had two full hours to kill before the yoga studio opened. The Men’s Club was still wrapping up its activities inside. He didn’t want to linger too close and risk looking suspicious. So he wandered across the street and found a shady little corner to squat in.
Just as he was about to settle, something caught his eye.
A young man was walking nearby—walking backwards.
Not moonwalking. Literally walking backwards. His body faced forward, but his head was twisted a full 180 degrees, staring behind him. And not turning back and forth—just… stuck.
Dave squinted. This guy looked familiar.
Full Zhongshan suit. All buttoned up to the neck. A katana strapped at the hip like he was on his way to duel a demon. And that neck…
It was Pimple Face.
That poor bastard from the bubble tea shop—the one whose neck Dave had twisted around like a bottlecap months ago.
But Dave?
He had completely forgotten.
As far as Dave could tell, this was just some weird backwards-walking sword nerd with freakish posture. He watched with awe.
“Damn… that guy’s flexibility is next level…”
Right then—
BAM!
A truck rammed straight into the guy. Not a dramatic anime fly-through-the-air hit—just a dull, heavy slam. Pimple Face dropped like a sack of bricks.
Dave didn’t even flinch.
“He’s probably fine. With that kinda bendiness? Man’s built different.”
But then came a second truck.
And a third.
One minute later, a fourth.
By the fifth vehicle, there wasn’t much left. Just a dark, oily patch on the road—flat, shiny, and lightly steaming.
Dave blinked.
“Guess he wasn’t that flexible after all.”
He let out a quiet sigh, then turned away. As if nothing happened, he walked over to a spot beside a convenience store and squatted down. His fingers traced slow circles in the dirt.
He started muttering to himself.
“So… if I learn that doggy-style thing, maybe I’ll get more flexible too. Like… Norman can run up walls and stuff. Wonder if I can do that…”
He paused. Shook his head.
No. Don’t overthink it.
“Whatever. Just wait for the class.”
At that moment, an old lady passed right by him—on the same side of the sidewalk. She glanced down at Dave, crouched like a weirdo, drawing circles and mumbling to himself.
She wrinkled her nose and muttered:
“Can’t they just use a toilet properly… like a normal human being?”
Dave looked up casually.
“Hey granny. You ever see someone take a shit while still wearing underwear?”
The old woman squinted—then spotted Dave’s lacy, pink triangle-cut women’s underwear peeking from under his shorts.
She gasped.
“Good lord… full-grown men wearing frilly panties now? Society’s doomed. Boys dressing like girls, girls dressing like boys. What a messed-up generation…”
She kept walking. But even as she moved, her voice carried on—nagging, rambling, ranting.
Then she stopped mid-sentence.
Coming toward her down the sidewalk was a young woman with a ponytail, wearing a bright yellow bikini. Full skin. No shame. No hesitation. Just casually strolling like it was a private beach.
The old lady went silent.
She stared.
Then whispered to herself:
“…You see what I mean?”
The bikini girl didn’t notice. She was focused on the building ahead.
She turned into the yoga studio. It was almost five.
That was Dave’s cue.
He stood up, stretched his back, and patted the dust off his body.
Time to get flexible.