...
...
...
[ Hours later: Cassius's room. ]
The hunger didn't announce itself like it always does. This time, it attacked him at exactly 8:00 PM on the dot.
It wasn't a casual desire for food. It was a overwhelming feeling of craving. Like a pregnant woman craving to spend all her hubby's money, solely on foods.
Cassius stared up at the cracked plaster of his ceiling, listening to the ambient creaks of the old building, and realized that nothing in the kitchen pantry was going to suffice.
He didn't want leftover rice, he didn't want traditional stew, and he certainly didn't want the emergency packs of instant noodles his grandmother hoarded.
Nope.
He needed junk food. He needed artificial flavors, excessive sodium, and refined sugars.
That's what he really needed.
He threw his legs over the side of the mattress, quickly dragging a faded grey hoodie over his head and stepping into a pair of worn denim jeans, only to slide into a pair of red-and-white Jordan's.
He navigated the house with the silent grace of a ghost, footsteps barely making sound as he walked to the font door. Grandma Rachel's door was shut tight. The kids' room was completely silent. Which was perfect.
He didn't have the energy to invent an excuse for a midnight munchie run.
...
...
The 24-hour convenience store was situated three blocks away, sitting like a glowing, neon beacon in the dead of the night.
The brightly lit signs flashed their promises into the dark street: GOGUMA TTEOKBOKKI • HOTDOGS • ICE CREAM.
Cassius shoved the glass door open, the electronic bell chiming sharply. The cashier --- a perpetually exhausted university student he recognized from a dozen previous visits --- gave him a lethargic nod.
"Late night run, Cass?" the guy mumbled, lazily dragging a rag across the laminate counter. "Getting the usual?"
"Not this time, champ," Cassius replied, his eyes already scanning the vibrantly colored aisles. "I need the heavy artillery tonight. The kind of stuff that guarantees a shorter lifespan but immediate gratification. "
He grabbed a plastic handbasket and began tossing items in with reckless abandon.
First came the base layer: a massive, family-sized bag of "Sweet Spicy Purple Doritos" was thrown in basket.
He didn't stop there, though.
Two bags of Flamin' Hot Cheetos were tossed on top, followed by a jar of neon-yellow nacho cheese dip that looked like it could glow in the dark.
"Going for the 'sodium overdose'?" the kid behind the counter asked, finally pausing his cleaning to watch the carnage.
"Exactly," Cassius murmured. He moved to the candy aisle, sweeping a handful of Snickers-flavored Pods into the basket. The best chocolates ever, by the way.
Next came a share-size bag of Peanut M&Ms and a long rope of strawberry licorice that he coiled like a fuse. For the finishing touch, he grabbed a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and a two-liter bottle of "Mountain Dew Code Red" that looked positively radioactive under the flickering store lights.
The college student's eyebrows crept toward his hairline as Cassius dumped the mountain of "concerning shit" onto the counter. It was a dizzying pile, one that'll make anyone wonder if this guy was high off weed.
"Whoa... you really are going overdose, huh? Must be also throwing a party or somethin'?" the cashier asked, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and genuine medical concern.
"Yeap. A party for one, my friend," Cassius said, a dry smile touching his lips. He watched the scanner beep rhythmically.
"That's, uh... forty-two dollars of regret, man," the kid said, bagging the haul. "You wanna receipt?"
"Nah, I'm good." Cassius handed over a crumpled bill, before making his way too the exit.
"Well, I guess... have fun!" The kid called out, the bell chiming as the door swung open.
Once outside, he didn't turn back towards his home way. Instead, he veered left, heading toward the local park near by. It was expansive, totally deserted, and bathed in the silver light of a massive full moon that hung perfectly still in the cloudless sky.
It was just... perfect.
He found a heavily graffitied wooden bench sheltered beneath a cluster of old oak trees.
It was just... the perfect spot.
He dropped his bag of loot onto the wood, pulled his smartphone out, and began scrolling.
He bypassed the mellow playlists, psss all his other playlists, hunting for something specific.
Soon, he found what he was looking for: a track loaded with distorted, skull-rattling bass and aggressive, razor-sharp lyrics.
The heavy beats punched out of the phone speakers, loud and deeply ear raping.
The moonlight stretched the shadows of the trees across the damp grass. Cassius ripped one of foil bag of chips open, tipped his head back against the wood, and exhaled.
...
...
...
[ First POV: Cassius. ]
The wooden slats of the bench groaned under my weight, a weary protest that matched the state of my shins.
"You poor wood. Sniffing all these stink ass's and not one person even thought about cleaning ya... damn... that fuckin' sucks."
Yeah, I have no clue on why I just talked to a bench, not one single clue. Maybe I've actually lost it this time. Or, hey, maybe this lonely bastard had feelings, so wouldn't hurt giving him a pitiful look.
I'm a very nice guy after all.
I reached into my hoodie pocket, fingers brushing past crumpled receipts and a stray lighter before hooking the massive, over-ear headphones. These things weren't just audio equipment; they were like billboards saying "Do Not Disturb" for the rest of the universe.
And they needed to mute this damn ear rape happening to my poor eardrums.
So, I slid them on, the padded cushions sealing out the hum of distant traffic and the judgmental silence of the suburbs.
I scrolled through my playlist until I hit the holy song. {Hit 'Em Up. } By Tupac.
Tupac: { That's why I fucked yo bitch, you fat motherfucka~!! }
The man was whole vibe, the patron saint of aggressive productivity. As the first few bars of the beat kicked in, my ribs started vibrating with the bass boost.
And, for one, this wasn't just some song or rapper. It was a truthful reminder that the world, this one and many others, was full of people who needed to be told to get fucked, and Pac was the only one with the balls to do it.
Fuck the world. That was Pac's word.
Click~Pssssssss-t~!
The Mountain Dew Code Red hissed as I cracked the seal, a tiny plume of radioactive-looking carbonation drifting into the night air.
I leaned back, took a long, stinging pull of the liquid neon, and let the sugar hit my bloodstream like a train.
"Wooo~hohoho! That hit the spot~!"
For a whole ten minutes, start to end, I wasn't Cassius. I wasn't the guy babysitting a bank account that was "almost" there, and I definitely wasn't thinking about Ah-Rin.
I mean, I did but the winds took it away before I could fully go in there deeper.
She'd probably try to drag me into some apocalypse tomorrow, or I'd end up dragging her into a situation involving high-speed chases and questionable moral choices.
But that was Tomorrow Cassius's problem. Current Cassius was currently a peaceful man.
No wagers. No siblings to pretend I wasn't worried about. No facades. Just me, a mountain of depression goods, and the moon looking down like a big, dumb, glowing witness.
I reached into the bag, pulled out a Purple Dorito, and crunched letting the taste slide on the my taste buds.
Bass in my chest, moon smooching my face, savoring this Purple Dorito taste.
Bars.
By nine PM, the wind decided to stop being a breeze and started being a jerk. It turned sharp, biting at my ears even through the thick padding of my headphones. I rolled the Dorito bag tight, oxygen is the enemy of the crunch, and tucked the half-empty candy back into the plastic carrier.
I kept the Soda in my hand, so when I walked, I could take a couple of sips here and there.
I stood up, shaking out the stiffness in my legs with gentle shakes, and started the stroll home. It shouldn't be long, so I got myself comfortable,
Before I entered,
The zone. Eyes half-lidded, head bobbing to the music thumping my brain right now, completely relaxed.
Only for the universe to decide to remind me on why I don't fucking like it.
Thud!
A shoulder check. Not a "pardon me, dear," bump, but a calculated, heavy-duty lunge meant to send a normal human being spinning into the nearest gutter to eat shit.
But here's the thing: I'm not exactly built like a normal human. I might even be superhuman, actually. Who knows.
Anyway, I didn't stumble. It didn't even move me in the slightest. Like, seriously, I didn't even lose my rhythm. It felt like a particularly aggressive moth had flown into me.
It felt so... weak.
The guy who hit me, however, didn't fare as well. He bounced off my bicep like a tennis ball hitting a brick wall, staggering back with a grunt of confusion. He looked at his own shoulder, then back at me, as if trying to figure out if he'd just run into a parked truck.
I simply kept walking. The weak-ass "bump" irrelevant.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"...ey, I'm fucking talkin' to you, ya little fucker!"
Thump~!
A hand clamped onto my shoulder. Fingers dug into the fabric of my hoodie, demanding my whole attention. I stopped. I let out a sigh that had been in my lungs since the store.
I pulled the left headphone cup off, letting it rest against my temple. The muffled rage of Tupac leaked into the cold air.
I turned.
Only to see a whole ass fistalready on its way to my face.
But no flare of panic happened. Panic required some effort, and I couldn't be fucke to give it.
Woooosh!
I just tilted my head about two inches to the right. The punched whistled past my ear, close enough that I could smell the stale, cheap cigarettes and desperation clinging to his skin.
I blinked at him.
The guy was already on his way too peak "breathlessness", his face twisted into a snarl that was sixty percent cheap whiskey(I think), and forty percent "I need to prove I'm a gay."
Behind him, pouring out of an alleyway that smelled like a wet dumpster, were ten more of them.
Baggy clothes, pristine sneakers that had never seen a hard day's work, and the kind of posture you only get when you think you're timmy tough knuckles.
A pack.
The kind of guys who are only brave when they have the advantage because, individually, they're just terrified kids playing dress-up.
Pussies, basically.
They glared. I stared back.
I wasn't scared; fear is a language I haven't spoken for yearssss. I was just... genuinely baffled. Like someone had paused my favorite part of a movie to ask me if I knew where the remote was.
I was hella confused.
I slid the headphones down to my neck, letting Tupac's voice rumble against my collarbone, muffled and mean. I took a slow, deliberate sip of the Mountain Dew. The red sugar burning my throat in the best way possible.
"You good?" I asked.
The leader, who I just assumed was, having regained his balance, started cracking his knuckles with a level of theatricality that belonged on a stage, not a sidewalk. "You think you can just strut through our turf like you own the place, Blondie? Huh? The fuck you think this is? Disney? Well, C'mon, cat got your tongue or somethi---?"
I held up my free hand. Palm out and vertical. "I'm a stop sign. Stop."
His jaw snapped shut, confused and had this look of genuine hurt, because I just interrupted his monologue. Thugs hate that; it ruins the choreography of their intimidation.
"Look," I said, my voice shifting into the patient, slightly condescending tone I usually reserve for explaining to my brother why he shouldn't eat expired yogurt. "Let's skip the part where you tell me about your 'turf' and I pretend to be impressed,"
"Coz bro, we both know how this shit goes down. You yell, I don't give a fuck, things get messy, and your friends end up having a very long, painful conversation with a therapist,"
"Sooo~, can we just skip to the end?"
I crouched down, placing my munchie bag onto the pavement with the tenderness of a mother laying down a sleeping infant. I wasn't letting anything happen to those Pods. Never. Including those chips.
I grabbed the hem of my hoodie and pulled it over my head in one smooth motion. I folded it carefully, ensuring the 'CASSIUS' print was facing up, and set it on top of the snacks.
I'm not a monster. I wasn't going to let their cheap, E-grade blood ruin such premium cotton.
This was my pride and joy. My birthday gift, so this meant everything to me.
Underneath, I was just in the same black tank top I had been wearing. The night air was freezing, but my skin was still so warm.
"I'll give you five seconds to walk away," I said, rolling my neck. The vertebrae popped like a string of firecrackers.
Crack~crack~crack. "Not because I'm scared. But because 'scared of you' isn't a concept my brain can process. It's like trying to explain color to a rock. It just won't take."
"Pfft~!"
Laughter erupted from the group. Forced, and sounded like empty garbage cans rolling down a flight of stairs.
My face stayed that of a flat stone. Apathy is my default setting, and tonight, it was dialed to eleven.
"Five..." I said.
But the leader didn't wait for four. He swung again. A wide, looping right hook that was as predictable as a sunrise and twice as slow.
I sighed. Then I moved. But you wanna know something? Something that'll confuse you but not me? I never put down the Soda bottle. Its still firmly in my hand, fizzying by the movements I was making.
Most people fight to end it fast and get it over with. But tonight? I was feeling a little moooody~, and I had a sugar high that was just peaking.
I didn't just wanna win, either. I wanted to make them regret the day they decided to leave their houses without an adult supervisor... with style.
I stepped inside the arc of his swing. His own momentum doing half the work for me. I drove my left hand into his solar plexus. Bang~! The air immediately left him in a pathetic whoosh, and he folded onto the ground.
I brought the bottle to my lips, the neon-red liquid cold against my throat as I took a long, deliberate chug.
Gulp.. Gulp.. Gulp.. Gulp..
The second guy, a guy who most differently smells undies, seemed to be an inpatient fellow since he didn't wait. He flew forwards.
He stepped in with a teep to close the distance, then pivoted hard onto his lead foot, swinging a heavy "roundhouse kick" aimed squarely at my handsome face.
And to be fair, the guy had decent form, it obviously shows that he at least knows how to fight. But to me? To me he was moving like a snal inside of quicksand.
Very, very slow, too the point my pupils could even track it lazily.
Now, someone may wonder why I haven't dropped the bottle yet. Yeah, why haven't I, right? Simple, really.
I just wanted,
To farm my Aura.
So instead of being a boring, normal person, instead of doing the "usual", I instead shifted my grip, catching the plastic cap part between my molars. With a sharp click of my jaw, I held the Mountain Dew steady, freeing up both of my hands in a blur of motion.
Could of just used my left arm again... but why would I do that? Booooring~!
As his shin whistled toward my head, my instincts sent no warning. Not one. So I stepped into the pocket, driving my left elbow, a horizontal elbow strike, directly into the path of his oncoming kick.
I gave my hips a sharp, micro twitch, channeling just a tiny, tiny, tiiiiny, bet of my core strength into the point of impact.
Wooooosh~!! Crr~aaack!!!!
Which resulted in me, snapped his leg.
For a more visual sound effect, the crack was like dry timber snapping apart.
His shin folded against the point of my elbow. He didn't even have time to scream before his momentum failed and he collapsed into a heap of shattered bone.
"FUUUCK!! WAAAAHAHAAA!!! MY LEG! MY LEG! MYYYY FUCKIN' LEEEEG!!!" The guy screamed like a chick, holding his broken leg as tears, saliva, and snot started to bless his face.
The second guy hissed, seeing no "red flags" from the scene, before lunging forward with a desperate double-leg tackle. He went low, aiming for my center of mass. Though, I gave him no such satisfaction.
I planted my lead foot and executed a blurry, spinning-back-kick. My heel, and soles of my feet, caught him dead center of his chest, just as he entered my range.
He had no time to dodge... because how can you dodge something when you can't even see/track it?
The impact sounded like a muffled explosion.
The force sent him hurtling backward, his feet leaving the pavement as he sailed a few feet through the air.
Simultaneously, I reached up, plucked the bottle from my teeth with my free right hand again, and tilted it back. I caught a refreshing stream of soda just as the guy's back slammed into the ground with a heavy metallic clang of chains.
"Ahh~,"
I exhaled a cold mist of carbonation, stepping on the crumpled bodies to get passed.
The laughter had obviously disappeared. It disappeared the moment I took down the first guy. Leaving their stomachs still. Their rapid heart beat the only thing moving it.
The remaining seven were staring at their fallen comrades, realizing the guy they were poking at wasn't a crybaby. It was the real deal. And their small brains seemed to have known that.
Because panic set in.
Thhhik~shing!
Thhhik~!
Shing!
Switchblades flicked open instantly. A natural reaction when your a pussy.
Someone even had the audacity to drag a steel pipe across the concrete, a slow, screeching sound that was meant to intimidate.
As for me, I just simply stopped and stood there, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights.
The light caught the strands of my hair, weaving them into a flickering golden halo, that, for one, had all the right to be so fucking dope right now.
It just made me look more majestic, I can't lie.
I finally finished the last of the Dew, the fizz stinging my throat one last time, before I screwed the cap on with a slow click-click-cliccck.
As I finished securing the cap, I couldn't even careless to actually settle into a stance. Theses fools can never.
I just raised my left hand, grinned like a cocky cunt, and crooked a single, mocking finger.
C'mere, chump.
"MOTHERFUCKERRR!!!"
The guy with the rusted iron pipe was the first to lose his cool, charging with a primal roar that belonged in a Viking saga. I waited. Simply letting the metal whistle through the air until it was an inch from my temple.
Close enough to feel the cold draft of its passing. Then, that was when I pivoted on a dime.
In one fluid motion, I preformed a "small-circle wrist lock" trapping his forearm and torquing his radius. Instead of a simple throw, I used an absurd standing waki-gatame, snapping my hips into the movement as I pulled his arm.
Pop~!
And when I say his elbow didn't just fuckin' pop. I mean that shit didn't just fuckin' pop.
SHHNIKKK!!
It inverted with a wet, splintering crunch.
"KYAAAAAAH!!!"
As he shrieked, undeniable loud and raw, I held my grip there, not letting go at all.
I used his shattered arm as a lever, spinning his entire body like a human top and launching him directly into the path of a man lunging with a switchblade.
"Shit!!" Sssplat~!
The blade-wielder was forced to try and block. But that didn't go so well.
He buried six inches of cold steel into his own partner's body. The whole six inch. They collapsed into a tangled, cursing fuckshow of "friendly fire" and dumbass intentions.
I moved through the rest of them like I was clearing cobwebs.
A second knife-man thrusted at my throat. I didn't parry this strike; I performed a cross body palm-trap, redirecting his momentum so his blade arm wrapped around his own neck. I stepped behind him, grabbed his wrist, and forced him to plunge his own knife into the shoulder of the guy trying to flank me.
"Watch where the fuck your pointing that thing," I let myself say with that nonchalant energy.
A heavy-set brawler threw a wild haymaker. I ducked, not a slip, but a full deep deep crouch transition, and rose upward with a Shotei to the underside of his jaw. The impact sent a tremor through his skull, his teeth snapping together before skittering across the pavement like pearls from a broken necklace.
[ Shotei means palm-heel strike, by the way. ]
My left hand remained tucked casually at my side, the empty soda bottle held like a dangling trophy.
You see, I wasn't "just" fighting. I was performing. But I could guess you already figured that one out, huh~?
This was my style.
My way of fighting.
Obviously, I ain't always like this. But for today, I am.
I wanted them to be treated like a list of boring chores. That's what I wanted them to see.
I broke their bones and their spirits at bare minimum-speed, weaving their weapons against one another until the alley was a "face-palming" of accidental stabbings and shattered egos.
A minute later, the roaring had faded into pathetic whimpers.
The silence made its return, heavy and sweet. I looked down at the mess of limbs at my feet, checked my shirt for any stray splashes, and decided my walk home.
The street was a graveyard of groans and twitching limbs. Blood was starting to map out the cracks in the ground, dark and oily under the lights.
I took a final look at the empty bottle, making sure the cap was secure, because littering is for assholes, and walked back to my pile. I pulled my hoodie back on, smoothing out the wrinkles, and gathered my snack load.
I slid the headphones back over my ears.
Tupac still rapping his diss to biggie smalls.
I checked my phone timer.
9:12 PM.
I stepped over a guy who was currently sobbing into his own shadow and adjusted my pace to the beat. Twelve minutes late. Could be worse, since I was taking my sweet ass time, but still.
"Hmm. I wonder what liquor the first dude was drinking, stuff seemed quite strong... might need a get me some~," I casually mumbled to myself. "Also... wasn't there eight of them?"
...
...
...
...
...
...
[ Mere seconds later... ]
The bass of Tupac had just settled back into my ear canals, soothing the mild irritation of the previous encounter, when a symphony of scuffling boots and sneakers ruined the entire vibe.
Again.
I didn't even have to turn around to know my departure was officially delayed once more.
The sheer volume of footsteps slapping against the concrete sounded like a stampeding herd of remarkably uncoordinated pigs. Either way, it was a noise that signaled a distinct lack of respect for my personal time.
I paused mid-stride, letting my head drop back with a long, profound sigh that probably could have powered a small wind turbine. "... I was right... there was a eighth one... fuck." I tapped the side of my headphones, pausing the track entirely.
"That's fucking him! The fucker I was telling yous about! Told you I wasn't lying!" I heard someone yell.
The voice belonged to a scrawny, rat-faced kid hovering safely at the rear of the approaching mob. He was pointing a accusing finger directly at my back, his chest puffed out with the borrowed courage of twenty men.
Apparently, during my brilliant Aura Farming, one of the street-level hyenas possessed enough brain cells to sprint to the opposite direction and gather reinforcements.
Something very rare, I must say.
I slowly pivoted on my heel, letting my unbothered energy fully ooze off me.
A fresh wave had arrived. Obviously.
There was twenty of them, give or take.
They spilled out from the mouth of the alley and fanned across the narrow street, blocking my exit with all the grace of a poorly rehearsed flash mob.
And unlike the first batch of overconfident idiots, this group had actually brought the hardware.
Aluminum baseball bats dragged against the pavement with a shrill skreeee.
Heavy iron chains rattled with the shrill slund.
Followed by the dull glint of cheap pocket knives catching the glow of the flickering streetlamps.
But seeing all of that --- all of those killing weapons --- my instincts still didn't send a warning. If anything, all of this sent something else to me.
Annoyance, thick and sour as expired milk, bloomed through my chest.
I was supposed to be going home. That's all I wanted.
More specifically actually, I wanted to collapse onto that warm, cozy mattress, wrap myself in my terribly printed Shrek blanket off temu, and fall asleep while the giant, smug face of Donkey silently judged me from the fabric.
That's it. There. That's what I wanted.
Not this shit.
Not a brand-new shipment of training dummies actively extending my bliss. Fuck no.
My "bed time" was being threatened. Threatened by a bunch of guys who probably still lived in their moms' basements and communicated solely through grunts and dry humps.
I reached down and carefully unclasped my headphones, resting them around my neck again. I walked back to my little staging area by the curb, moving with a deliberate, slow-motion swagger. I delicately set the snacks load down, making very sure I didn't hurt them.
"Stay there," I whispered to the snacks. "Daddy's gotta go for a sec."
I straightened up, rolling my shoulders until the joints popped in a sharp, echoing sequence.
Crrack.. Phop.. Clikk.
"....."
I have so many bones to crack. And, brooo, its getting annoying.
Forgetting the unusual priority for the time being, I let my eyes fall back onto the wall of armed, angry men. Only to feel a strange sensation wash over me.
It wasn't dread. Very far from it, actually.
This was something old.
A sheer feeling of nostalgia that bypassed the brain and went straight to the ego.
Honestly, if you stripped away the actual blood and the inherited "weirdness" of my current existence, what did every single teenage boy back on "Earth" daydream about while staring blankly at a chalkboard?
This.
Exactly this scenario right now.
We've all done it. Don't lie to yourself. Because I'll have to slap you for not being one of the "boys."
It's starts like this:
You're sitting in 11th-grade History, and suddenly, a group of highly trained, surprisingly incompetent ninjas, yes ninjas, crash straight through the windows. And what do you do? You don't call the paw patrol or hide under a desk like a functional member of society.
Fuuuuck nooo~!
You stand up, adjust your tie, or your hoodie, or whatever the fuck your wearing, and you face down the entire horde alone.
No backup.
No weapons.
Just raw, theatrical combat prowess that defies every known law of physics, common sense, and then you sprinkle music for that badass edit soon to come.
Because let's be very fucking real: In these fantasies, we didn't fight like "normal" beings, did we? Normal fighting involves heavy breathing, ugly sweating, and probably tripping over your own toes.
But this? This was the ultimate, deeply ingrained male fantasy.
The kind where you pull off a "Butterfly Kick"into a "360-degree tornado roundhouse" because it looks cool, not because it's efficient. I'm talking about those "millimeter weaves" where something flys your way only to miss your throat by the width of a single confidence-boosted eyelash.
We wanted to be the guy who could execute "Kip-up" onto a moving car, transitioning into a "Quadruple-Corkscrew", and land perfectly into a crouch without making a sound.
It was about that "untouchable mortals among mortals" energy.
That high-tier protagonist shit.
The kind of fighting where you're performing palm strikes that send shockwaves through the air for no reason other than the sheer audacity of it.
We boys are simple creatures, after all. Not with emotions, but still simple.
We don't just wanna "win." We wanna be the hero who walks away from a pile of five hundred unconscious goons, casually adjusting our cuffs without a single hair out of place.
We wanted our moves to be the explosions.
In the real world, you'd probably pull a hamstring just thinking about doing a "backflip-to-split" move. But here? In the theater of the mind, and apparently, my current afternoon, I was exactly who that bored 16-year-old wanted to be.
No weapons, no mercy, and definitely no realistic shit. At. All.
...
...
...
[ Thrid POV... ]
No weapons, no mercy, and definitely no realistic shit. At. All.
Just Cassius, a bunch of very soon-to-be-unconscious statistics, and a level of arrogance that would make a Greek god tell him to dial it the fuck back.
Though, if he had to be very honestly? His so-called "Aura Meter" was currently screaming for more titty milk, and he was more than happy to provide it via "BTA". (Belt to ass type shii.)
It was a matter of principle aswell.
He had to honor the brothers across the multiverse, those unfortunate poor bastards stuck in a boring world, who spent their lives daydreaming about this exact moment.
Putting on the act of what many of boys thought of: The Nonchalant Badass.
A slow grin carved its way into his face. The annoyance had already left his system, replaced by that pure, theatrical thrill of being a total dickhead.
Cassius Park was about to be the most impossibly cool, most "main character" protagonist this miserable, piss-stained alleyway had ever witnessed.
So, to kick things off, he leaned forward slightly and stuck his tongue out towards the lead dude, a wet, pink, mocking gesture accompanied by a disrespectful "thwipt"sound. He let one eye go wide while the other stayed half-lidded.
Oozing that look of unhinged "bad boy" energy.
Bleeeeeh~!
Then, without saying a word, his hands slid up from his side, only to offer a double middle-finger gesture of the universal "fuck you~".
Which, like always, worked like a charm~.
"GET HIM!!" The man at the front roared, hoisting a metal pipe up to aim at Cassius. "TEAR HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF! I WANT THAT FUCKERS HAIR FOR A GODDAMM RUG!!!"
As the man finished his roar, the horde surged forward like a wave of poorly dressed drag queens.
Cassius slipped his hand deep into his pants pockets, having no intention of even widen his stance.
He just sprinted at 'em too. Step! Step! Step!
He met the charging tide halfway, his body a blur of casual motion. As the lead thug came before him (pause), Cassius leaped upwards.
He planted the sole of his sneaker squarely onto the lead man's dipped shoulders, using the guy's blades as a literal springboard.
The thug's body slammed down towards concrete, air leaving his lungs in a wheeze of "the fuck just happened?" as Cassius launched himself three feet higher into the air.
He tucked into a tight spiral, soaring over the front line and landing dead-center in the middle of the group. THUMP!
He landed in a crouch, hands still buried deep into his pockets. He made sure to ooze that bored energy off of his frame.
The first attacker swung a pipe in a lethal horizontal arc aimed at his ribs. SwooOOSH! Cassius arched his spine backward at an impossible, cinematic angle. The heavy iron tip whistled mere meters past his nose.
As the pipe passed, he snapped his body back up and lashed out with a lightning-fast "Tornado Kick". FuuHIP~SMAAK!
His heel cleanly connected with the guy's jaw.
"HE'S FAST! SURROUND HIM! DON'T LET HIS DO THAT JUMPY SHIT AGAIN!!"
Some dip-shit yelled from the back, sounding remarkably like an NPC who had just realized his script was bugged.
"Quality over quantity, gentlemen," Cassius muttered, that somehow carried around, skipping lightly on the balls of his feet. "So show me somethin'~."
KSSHH~CLANG!!
A chain whipped through the air, aimed directly at his face. Cassius tilted his head by an inch, letting the metal links graze the air where his ear had been.
When a guy with a baseball bat lunged from his blind spot, Cassius casually dropped low, ducking the wooden bat, simultaneously sweeping his leg out in a "360~degree circularmotion."
"Fuck!" The bat welder hissed,
As he went down hard, his head smacking the ground with a heavy thud!
Cassius casually came back up with another spin, before he proceeded to stomp on the wooden bat, SNAP~! snapping it in half like a twig. Using the side of his foot, he hooked the jagged remains of the handle, flicking it upward.
The wood flew up through the air in a perfect, level horizontal line.
As the fragment reached eye level, Cassius executed a smooth "Martelo De Chão." However, unlike the traditional way of how its preformed, Cassius didn't use his hands, just his controlled balance. His leg came up, kicked it back, and caught the blunt end of the splintered wood with the sole of his foot.
The makeshift projectile launched like a dart.
THWAACK!!
"GAAAAH! FUCK!!" A second voice rose from behind him. Belonging to another thug who was trying to flank Cassius.
"Stop fucking moving around, you freaky motherfucker!" A massive brawler angrily said, charging forward with arms outstretched for a bear hug. The guy was massive, looking like he ate refrigerators for breakfast and lunch.
Cassius smirked, still standing where he originally was. 'Time for the truly impractical, high~aura bullshit.'
Cassius moved.
He ran three steps toward the giant, leaped into the air, and performed a "720-degree Butterfly Kick." His foot clipped the giant's chin twice before he even hit the apex of his jump.
He landed in a flawless, three-point crouch. Well, a two-point crouch, since his hands were still in his pockets. He looked up, blowing a silent chuckle at the remaining thugs, before finally tacking one hand out, just for a second, to smooth back his hair.
Cassius's hand went right back into his pocket before the drag queens could even think about forming a word.
"C'mon, maaan~," he taunted, gesturing with his head. "My boy Michael Jackson hasn't even finished his music inside of my nutshell. I still gotta hit a moonwalk for the pop~king~."
Three of them rushed him out of pure, terrified desperation.
"That's the spirit, boys~!"
SwOOOSH!!
Cassius met them head on with an "540-degree spinning hook kick."
Was it a practical street-fighting maneuver? Absolutely fucking not. It was a waste of energy and left his back exposed for a full second.
But did it look cool? His ego was hitting peak state, so yes, it was.
His heel connected perfectly with the jaw of a guy thrusting a knife towards him. CRACK! The man spun like a beyblade before collapsing. THUD!!
'Can't believe I'm gonna say this, but... that's gotta be a burst finish...' Cassius sarcastically thought to himself, amused by it.
'Anyways...'
Within three minutes of being a playful menace, the twenty-man brawl had been reduced to a quiet, groaning show of men. Bodies were draped over one another, put in positions that just made Cassius chuckle, some were sprawled across the curb, and some were curled into the fetal position.
The rat-faced kid was the last one standing, ironic how he was the last standing both times. He currently backed into a brick wall, his spine scraping against the grit as his knees knocked together in a rattling rhythm.
To Cassius, the boy looked less like a threat and more like a... a, um... a ugly rat...? Yeah, he looked like a ugly rat.
And, If said "rat" was pushed any harder, the kid was going to ruin a perfectly good pair of knock-off denim jeans. A yellowish waterfall coming out them.
The temptation to reach that breaking point was there, vibrating in the back of his mind, but his interest was fading fast.
Cassius casually strolled over, his breathing steady, his pulse normal against his neck. He came to a halt inches from the trembling teenager, tilting his head with a half-lidded, dismissive stare that felt heavy for the boy.
The kid squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting into a mask of pathetic desperation. 'Oh fuck, this is it,' he thought.'He's gonna turn my head into a soccer ball and boot the shit out me! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! I'm gonna die in a pissy fucking alley!'
The kid squeezed his eyes even harder, praying that he was only dreaming. "Please, I-I just work for them! Haha, I don't even know them, bro! Like, who are they, right?! I don't know! Please man, don't kill me! I'm to young and..."
Cassius simply ignored the boy's babbling. He reached past the boy's head, his fingers moving with graceful calmness. The kid flinched, wholeheartedly expecting a blow, but felt only the gentle, firm tug of his jacket collar being straightened.
Cassius smoothed the fabric, then patted the kid's cheek twice. The gesture was... weird. A mock-paternal affection that felt weird that felt more weird to the boy than the violence alone.
"Do not worry, my son. I do not hurt my children~," he murmured to the boy, his tone silky with amusement. "Even if that child is a failure in life. "
The kid's thought train screeched to a hard halt. 'S-son? Me? Failure? Me? I-I ain't your son, bastard! Why the hell are you speaking to me like my father?! Your not my dad!'
The absurdity of it momentarily overrode his fear, replacing the feeling of being afraid into a sense of deep inadequacy.
As for Cassius, he couldn't careless what, who, or where this boys head was at right now. He just took a step back.
He turned his back on the wreckage, strolling leisurely back to the curb. He grabbed his snack load gently. He popped his headphones back on and resumed the music he was listening to before all of this, Tupac sounding better than ever.
He checked his phone. 9:15 PM.
He had lost another span of his precious time thanks to these idiots. But as he adjusted his grip on the plastic bag and continued his walk home, a highly satisfied smirk could be seen on his face.
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END.