Alright. Today's the day. The day I prove my worth to Fried Chicken Heaven and secure my glorious prize — the magnificent, two-wheeled, metal beast! Or bicycle. Whatever. Same thing.
I step outside, fists clenched, radiating confidence like some sort of heroic protagonist. The early morning breeze dramatically brushes through my long, majestic white hair. The sun casts a golden glow, and the birds chirp their little songs, probably cheering me on.
"Starting today! I will become the ultimate marketing asset of Fried Chicken Heaven! No dog, no hose, not even the cursed smartphone can stop me! Not even the idiot girl!"
A moment of silence.
Then, like clockwork, the people around me start to stare. Some whisper. Others laugh. One lady actually clutches her child and drags him away like I'm some escaped lunatic. Rude.
But do I care? No.
Okay, maybe a little.
With whatever microscopic speck of dignity I have left, I strut back inside Fried Chicken Heaven like I didn't just publicly humiliate myself. The warm aroma of fried chicken greets me, almost distracting me from my current mission. Almost.
"Well, that was... something," a familiar voice snickers. Mr. Mustache. My manager. Standing there with his stupid grin and his not-so-glorious mustache that twitches with amusement. I swear it moves like a sentient creature.
"I call it pre-marketing enthusiasm," I reply, raising my chin like the sophisticated man I am.
"Sure you do, champ." He barely hides his laughter. "But hey, you're an interesting one. I'll give you that."
Great. I'm now an 'interesting one.' Fabulous.
Without further humiliation, I bolt straight to the staff room. It's time for a showdown. Man vs. Machine. Mind vs. Madness. Shiwei vs... the smartphone.
I glare at it. The sleek little devil sits on the table, mocking me. My archnemesis. My bane.
"You think you're so smart, huh? Well, guess what? I need your cursed knowledge!"
No response. Typical.
I dramatically grab the phone and open the search engine. Time to gather all the marketing wisdom it holds. And so it begins.
Search: Best marketing strategies for fried chicken restaurant that can help me buy a metal beast called bike.
First result: "Wear a chicken costume and dance in front of the store for maximum engagement!"
...No.
Second result: "Host a fried chicken eating contest. Winner gets free chicken for a year!"
Sounds... chaotic. I like it. But no.
Third result: "Hire a mascot named Sir Clucklesworth and have him wave at pedestrians."
I stare blankly. Sir Clucklesworth? Seriously? The thought of prancing around in a sweaty chicken suit is enough to make me question every life choice that led me here.
Fourth result: "Create a viral TikTok challenge by throwing chicken pieces in the air and catching them with your mouth. Bonus points if you look like a chicken doing it."
I gag. No thanks. I'm not about to become the 'Chicken Mouth Guy' of the internet.
Then there's the fifth result: "Convince people that your chicken cures heartbreak. Create fake stories, like 'I ate a drumstick and my ex texted me back!'"
...Okay, I'm writing that one down.
"This is useless," I grumble. "I should've expected nothing less from you."
I shake the phone dramatically for good measure, but it still refuses to repent.
Mr. Mustache pops his head into the staff room, coffee in hand. "Any luck with your... uh... research?"
I narrow my eyes. "Oh, plenty."
"Yeah? What's the strategy?"
I pause. Damn it. I forgot to think of a fake answer.
"Chicken magic."
He blinks. "Chicken magic."
"You'll see. Trust the process."
He snorts. "Good luck with that."
Fine. Whatever. I'll finish my shift first. Then I'll go home and think of a proper plan.
But the narrator voice in my head said He had no idea what he was doing.
***
After my shift at the Fried Chicken Heaven and ofcourse, full time guardian angel of and idiot that can cook an incredible Gyudon that was working at the Ricebowl Restaurant across the street- let's just hide her name as Akari Saitou- I decided to go back to my apartment and today, I wasn't chased by the dog as well. I even started calling that satan's summoned furcoated demon, Barker. I didn't invent that one. I saw it hanging at the tiny house that he was leashed on.
I flop onto the couch like a lifeless ragdoll, my body screaming for rest after the sheer idiocy I endured today. But no, I can't rest yet. Not when my destiny—a two-wheeled, metal beast—is still out of reach.
And there it is. The smartphone. Sitting on the table. Mocking me. The very essence of evil condensed into a slim, rectangular form. I narrow my eyes at the vile device.
"You useless piece of digital garbage," I growl. "Should I just toss you out the window? End your reign of terror once and for all?"
The phone remains silent. It knows its crimes.
But then I remember. No, no. Even evil can sometimes be useful. Not often. But sometimes. I'll keep it alive... for now.
"You win today, but I'm watching you," I sneer at it like a true warrior locked in an eternal grudge.
But this isn't over.
I sit up and rub my chin thoughtfully. What I need now... is reinforcements. Yes. A comrade. Someone capable. Someone wise. Someone like-
"Horace!"
Right, Horace! He's my last hope. Surely, he'll guide me through this ridiculous marketing task. I snatch my phone and dial his number, fully prepared for some life-changing wisdom. But... no answer.
I try again. And again.
"The smartphone..." I gasp in horror. "It's disrupting the communication! You conniving little bastard!"
With each failed call, my theory solidifies. The smartphone is clearly blocking the signals. Preventing me from summoning my reinforcement. Vile! Unforgivable!
"But I'll outlast you," I growl, my finger fiercely hitting redial.
Finally, on the 20th try, the call connects. Yes! Victory!
"Horace! You won't believe what—"
"WE'RE BUSY! DON'T DISTURB US!" Yue's shriek nearly blows my eardrums.
What the hell?!
And then... she hangs up.
The silence is deafening.
Busy? Busy with what? And was that... panting I heard? Heavy breathing? Were they running a marathon? Fighting crime?
"Suspicious," I mumble. But whatever. I've got my own problems.
"Fine. I didn't need your help anyway." I scowl at the phone.
With my reinforcement option thoroughly destroyed, I face the grim reality. There's only one other person I can turn to.
No... not the smartphone.
And definitely not Barker the dog.
That leaves... her.
The idiot from next door...
I stomp over to the door next door. The idiot's domain. With a swift knock, I wait. And then, the door creaks open.
And the smell hits me.
It's... it's majestic.
"No way," I whisper. "This smell... it's better than Gyudon. No... it's... heavenly."
Before Akari can even say a word, I push the door further open and step inside like I own the place. Shameless? Yes. Regrets? None.
"Oh, it's Katsudon!" Akari beams, placing a steaming plate on the table. "You've got good timing, Shiwei!"
"That's right," I mutter, already seated. "I am a man of impeccable timing."
She giggles, "Let's eat together!"
Three bowls later, I'm patting my stomach like I just won a glorious battle.
"That," I declare, "was divine."
"You like it?" Akari grins.
"Like it?" I scoff. "You must be the Goddess of Chaos and Cooking. And I say that with utmost sincerity."
Akari beams, taking it as a compliment despite my shameless insult. "Thanks!"
Now, time for business.
"Anyway," I straighten up. "I require your assistance."
Akari's eyes light up. "Oh? Like a secret mission?"
"Something like that." I nod. "I need to boost Fried Chicken Heaven's sales. But the smartphone's wisdom is questionable at best. So, I am willing to entertain your suggestions."
Big mistake.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Ooooh! What if you dress like a chicken and dance in the street?"
"Rejected."
"How about a free chicken contest? But like, instead of eating it, people race while holding it!"
"Are you an idiot?" No... wait... She is...
"Rude! But okay, okay! Get this... a fried chicken-themed rap battle!"
"Absolutely rejected."
"What about a fried chicken fashion show? You know, people wear chicken-inspired outfits and walk the runway?"
"...Why are you like this?"
"Or... hire a chicken mascot and call him Sir Clucklesworth!"
...Why does that sound familiar?
"No!"
Akari grins proudly as if that was a completely normal suggestion. She leans forward, clearly not done yet.
"Alright, hear me out — what if you set up a giant chicken mascot and have it fight another mascot in a sumo ring? Chicken vs. Cow! Battle of the ages!"
I groan, rubbing my temples. "Rejected with extreme prejudice."
But Akari remains undeterred. "Okay, then. Karaoke night. But all the songs must be chicken-related."
"Name one chicken-related song."
She pauses. "Well... there's the chicken dance!"
I stare at her. "I hope the chicken dance haunts you in your dreams."
"Okay, okay! What about... a social media giveaway? People love free stuff!"
I squint. "But I don't even have a social media account."
"Then make one!" She grins. "I can help you take cute pictures!"
Dear gods... What have I done to deserve this?
And this. This absolute nonsense continues. Every bizarre, half-baked idea she comes up with makes me question my existence. Hours pass. Day turns to night. My brain feels like it's been tenderized like chicken cutlets.
Eventually, Akari yawns. "Welp, I tried.... I should sleep, I still have work tomorrow."
"Yeah. Go. Sleep. Dream about whatever madness created that brain of yours."
She pouts, but giggles. "Good luck, marketing genius."
"Yeah, thanks," I mutter, defeated.
But I can't complain. I'm stuffed, and I've learned something valuable tonight.
Akari is even more useless than the smartphone.
But at least she can cook.
***
The next day, I wake up with a sense of purpose. Today is the day. The day I cement my legacy as the greatest marketing genius Fried Chicken Heaven has ever seen.
With determination blazing in my soul, I march to work. My reflection in the glass door screams confidence. Confidence that could rival the most accomplished businessmen. But unlike them, I have something they don't—a chicken costume.
Yeah.
The moment I step into the staff room, Mr. Mustache eyes me like I've already done something illegal.
"So?" he says, sipping his eternal cup of coffee. "What's your brilliant marketing plan?"
"Simple," I declare, slapping my chest. "I'm wearing the chicken suit."
He narrows his eyes. "And?"
"And... My confidence."
Silence...
"You do realize the chicken suit covers your face, right?"
"Not happening," I scoff. "The people deserve to see this masterpiece." I gesture dramatically to my face. "I won't deprive them."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Just don't traumatize any kids."
"No promises."
With a nod of acknowledgment—and misplaced pride—I head to the storage room. The suit is still there, in all its fluffy, feathered horror. Memories flood back. Liza once dragged me here under the pretense of a 'physical test' when I was a trainee. She made me strip my shirt, and I swear her nose started bleeding. Then she collapsed... but she was smiling. Weird day.
I shake the thought away. Focus, Shiwei. Focus.
Slipping into the monstrosity, I feel the spirit of the chicken awaken within me. With fliers in hand and determination on my face, I march outside—ready to revolutionize the world of fast-food marketing.
"FRIED CHICKEN HEAVEN! WHERE YOUR SOUL MEETS CRISPY GLORY!" I bellow, shoving fliers into the hands of terrified passersby.
People stare. Children cry. Old ladies clutch their handbags. But I remain undeterred.
"NO BONES IN OUR NUGGETS! ONLY MEATY PERFECTION!" I proclaim proudly.
A man blinks at me. "Aren't all nuggets boneless?"
"EXACTLY!"
A little girl points at me. "Mommy, is that chicken man okay?"
"YES, CHILD! I AM MORE THAN OKAY! I AM TRANSCENDENT!"
I pose dramatically. Someone snaps a photo. Viral material? Probably.
I even offer personalized service.
"Come to Fried Chicken Heaven! And I, Shiwei the Magnificent, will personally serve you with the hands that bested the hose and the smartphone!"
"What?"
"Just come. Trust me."
Teenagers giggle. Young women blush. Men stare, baffled. But they're intrigued. Because, of course, they are.
And as the day progresses, the people pour in. Not because of my majestic marketing skills—no. They're here for my face and my unyielding resolve!
Mr. Mustache smirks.
"You're an idiot," he says. "But you're a profitable idiot."
***
Days pass. The restaurant is bustling. Customers return, and rumors of the handsome chicken man spread. Some call me a legend. Others call me a menace. I accept both titles graciously.
And when the monthly report arrives, Mr. Mustache gathers us all in the break room. His mustache twitches with amusement.
"We did it," he announces. "We reached number two in the country! All thanks to Shiwei!"
Everyone cheers. Liza wipes a fake tear, clearly basking in my glory.
"You know," Mr. Mustache continues, "it's not every day you see someone win over the public with... whatever that was."
I nod, placing a hand over my chest.
"I call it marketing brilliance."
He snorts.
"Sure."
But none of that matters now. Because at long last, I have the funds I need. The metal beast is within my grasp. Soon, I'll ride the streets like a champion.
"Bicycle," I whisper, tears of joy forming. "You're finally mine."
And nothing—not even the smartphone—can stop me now!