juicist000

[juicist000]

Monophobia — (4) The Day I Gave Up Art

When did it all begin?

Was it long, long ago?

Or was it at the break of dawn, in the morning, in the evening?

Was it sometime in the forenoon, or in the afternoon?

Was it a choice I came to after a lifetime of walking this path,

or simply an impulsive movement?

I stepped out of the bathroom, legs smeared with blood in horizontal streaks, covered the flesh with my pants, and sat at my desk.

That’s when I decided to kill myself.

Long ago, a very long time ago, when my family was still gathered together.

I remember drawing a colorful creature with crayons. It looked like a rat.

With its organs and limbs painted in all sorts of different colors, that lumpy, clumsy form became the beginning of my life.

That was when it all began.

The day I held art in my heart.

And I kept drawing ever since. The drawings I made are still there, taped to the side of the old, humming refrigerator at my grandma’s house.

Back then, my life was full of hope. Hope for the future, hope for myself. I believed I could make all of it real through art.

When did my work become grotesque? It was when my drawings were publicly criticized.

In truth, there hasn’t been a single moment in my life that was free from criticism.

From the moment I was born, my life was bleak. But I thought that bleakness was the very reason I had to live.

And the harshest criticism I received was about the clumsily drawn mola mola and shark, and the legs with flippers.

The sharp, jagged, enormous mouth seemed like it could swallow both the tiny baby mola mola and the legs. That drawing never made it to the exhibition in the auditorium.

After school, my teacher scolded me for it.

"Draw something beautiful."

I didn’t know what beauty was. All I knew was that beauty was something painful and unreachable. I felt that with every bone in my body.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I made a decision.

I would never draw something beautiful.

So I decided not to draw beautiful things. I decided to draw revolting things instead.

That’s how my inner self was formed.

Another memory I have is of a book report. Tracing the cover of a book was easy, but I wasn’t supposed to do things easily.

A simple drawing got me scolded. I was reprimanded,

and when I redrew it with careful detail, they said, “If you could do this, why didn’t you from the start?”

That experience etched itself deep into my philosophy, became the root of my inferiority complex.

Whenever I see something better than mine, the only thought that crosses my mind is, “If I really tried, I’d do better.” Cruel and hideous, but there it is.

But what’s actually in front of me are pitiful, crooked lines and broken colors.

Drawings that once seemed perfect, why do they now look so wrong, as if I drew them through warped lenses?

Why is that?

That’s why it’s so hard to think about my old drawings.

Yes. Because of all those incidents, this person called ‘me’ was created.

But in truth, other waves of cruel reality kept smashing my sandcastle named ‘me.’

And what was finally left was a sunken tidal flat.

A tidal flat, spreading over the dry sand, filling in the gaps— that was my art.

So I thought I was brilliant.

But the path I was headed for wasn’t a paradise of sand, it was an asphalt road.

Where cars honk and rush by, and wheels mercilessly crush flesh—

God, why didn’t someone stop me when I was drawing pig kidneys?

Why didn’t someone tell me, when I was drawing fish, "You’re not headed for the sea, you’re going to a deep-sea trawler."

Then I wouldn’t have gone.

Why didn’t anyone let me quit... Why didn’t anyone make me stop... Why did you toy with a child like me?

Oh God.

Why did you toss me into a world like this, and reconfigure my body so I can’t stand upright without meds or self-harm?

That pure childhood—what happened to it?

If being an adult means this, just kill me.

...That’s what I thought.

But it wasn’t the end yet, they said.

The end of praise is criticism, the end of hope is disappointment.

Then why did you praise me?

Why did you tell me I had talent at the beginning of my college prep journey? Why did you tell me I was gifted?

Why did you say you believed in me? Why did you say, in truth, you loved me?

Fine, I’ll confess.

I didn’t actually try.

So one peaceful day, I sorted everything out.

I let go of responsibility.

The weather was clear.

The sun was blazing— it was the end of June, after all.

That must’ve been the final day. The very last day of the 3000s.

That day, I gave up on art. I will not go to art school. That’s how my life ended.

So, when it came time to start a part-time job, I set everything up neatly,

went to the bathroom, and with a knife in my pocket, cut into my leg.

That is the present.

And so, I decided to kill myself.

My dreams were shattered, and in the very first year of becoming an adult, I ruined my life.

Money scattered into the void, and so I kill myself.

So I kill myself. So I kill myself. For every reason in the world, I kill myself.

Swallowing tears is difficult.

But they say you have to, to stay alive. So I kill myself, so I can cry.

My world has ended. I kill myself.

[juicist000]

Monophobia — The Perfect Cookie

Sweet sprinkles.

Chocolate chips,

and the savory scent

of cookies.

Because I wanted to eat that sweet piece not with my mouth, but with my heart. Because my heart was too bitter, and I wanted to sweeten it. I decided to make an artificial cookie.

Just as people are used to make people, cookies are used to make cookies.

Just crush cookies and mash them together, and that’s cookie dough. Humans too—mash up their flesh and mix the juices to make a cookie.

If you ask which came first, the chicken or the egg, then the cookie came before the cookie.

But even cookies have the flavor of human touch, and eggs, so this is a festival of life.

Within perfect icing, cookie cells, blood separated, cells divide and replicate, if you look through a microscope, they look like chocolate chips.

With a heart like sugar crystals in icing, whisk quickly, rub it with your hands over and over.

Like God breathing into clay to make a person, breathe the oven's breath into the soggy cookie dough, and when the heavenly alarm goes off with a “Ding!”

Oh… cookie. The snack I made. Homemade.

But you too must be either a honeymoon or homemade. Made in bathroom, made in hotel, made in jjimjilbang. But mine, from the beginning, was Made in Perfect Cookie.

It tasted like a sweet honeymoon, like a homemade newlywed bliss.

Then, like strangling, I put it in a ziplock bag and smashed it with a bat, with a rolling pin.

Just as cookies become cookies, it’s not like a soul stacks up to become a cookie.

I make the dough again. Add water.

My first cookie experience was in 1999, but now it's the year 3000. A celestial robe brushed against a rock billions of times, turning it into a cookie-shaped stone.

But my cookie, without any grudges against me, didn’t even think of rising and choking my neck.

A kind cookie… so innocent. So naively sweet, how are you going to survive the 30th century?

But the warmth from your oven gave light and made it possible.

The last of my trillion attempts, proving that even kind-hearted beings can live, didn't choke me while crying, but crawled out of the oven and hugged me.

And that hug was so warm.

It was a sweet embrace and I knew then that my creation had succeeded, and I felt truly joyful.

Yes. This is what I wanted. This is it.

My monophobia might be cured, It tickled my heart, soft and uncertain.

I ended up… loving you!

Cookie! We’re together now! You’re truly the best cookie. Please… don’t become human.

Passing through the disappointing crowd of humans, I went to a kitchenware store. And I bought an apron. Then I ran home, tied the apron around Cookie and said:

"I wear the apron, you wear it too, now we are together…" That made me cry.

Then I hugged Cookie again, the warm 36-degree cookie scent spreading through my body.

I held Cookie’s hand and we slept together.

That soft, slightly firm yet fluffy cookie hand was so sweet, it made my tongue ache.

Even without a kiss, my mucous membranes trembled as if aroused.

But to soak Cookie in arousal, I just wished we could be friends. No more, no less, just cookie.

That’s what I thought.

Then Cookie, with icing eyes that seemed to understand everything, gazed gently at me and smiled faintly.

"It's okay." was what that look said.

I cried. Again, tears flowed, and that sticky, clear liquid from my eyes made Cookie’s shoulders damp.

In those arms, I fell asleep.

The next day, only cookie crumbs remained on the bed.

I cried out Cookie's name in shock.

Since Cookie's name is Cookie, I yelled “Cookie!” and again, “Cookie!”

"Cookie, where are you… Please don’t leave me… I’m sorry for crying… Sorry for making you damp…"

But Cookie, wearing the apron I tied yesterday, was just frying eggs.

That morning, it was two eggs, three strips of bacon, and one piece of toast.

Cookie said, "Thud." But I couldn’t stop crying from sorrow.

Cookie is one year old, and one year old… is like me.

Yum yum… It was delicious. That was our daily life.

The moment paper goes into the oven, it felt like I was born, not the cookie. My frontal lobe seemed to regress.

But Cookie, having broken and reassembled into cookie form so many times, must have aged, and held me gently.

Like an egg warming a chicken.

It was the day we went on a picnic. The sky was clear, not a single cloud. Everyone laid mats on the grass, chewing cookies and gazing into their partner’s eyes, while I looked into Cookie’s eyes.

The icing melted in the sunlight and sparkled, and those eyes glittered like stars.

I bit into a piece of a person. Everyone saw.

The sliced meat slab, flat and jerky-dry, its dried flesh clung between my teeth and tore off.

They call that jerky, but someone once said jerky is no different from a cookie. That jerky is just freeze-dried cookie.

People saw us and left, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t interested in them either, and I didn’t want to associate with people who didn’t know how to eat cookie with their heart.

I put a small piece in Cookie’s mouth and closed its jaw.

Cookie’s chewing mouth was so cute, I didn’t know what to do, my face flushed pink from the blood rushing in.

That must be how I looked. I didn’t see myself, but Cookie, watching me, suddenly giggled, and I realized how funny I must have seemed.

Then, as we were about to go home, the sky trembled.

Or maybe I hadn’t seen the weather forecast, too busy watching Cookie, and didn’t realize what was coming.

It was definitely clear… So I packed the mat with Cookie.

Just then, a raindrop fell, plop, on a chocolate chip. Then came a downpour, and I don’t remember what happened next.

I must have collapsed in shock. When I opened my eyes, I was home, so Cookie must have carried me back.

When I touched Cookie’s lukewarm cookie flesh, it was soggy enough to sink my finger into, and like today’s sky, I cried again.

Because of Cookie, I'm so embarrassed these days. I feel like I’ve become a baby.

I can’t even put it in the oven anymore. Afraid it might get a bit overcooked and burned, I dried it gently with a hairdryer.

Watching me, amused, Cookie looked at me with a drowsy smile.

I should be the one looking proudly at Cookie, but Cookie looked proudly at me.

One day, we went shopping. We passed by the bakery section.

As I delighted in the savory scent of bread and cookies, Cookie puffed out its cheeks and pouted. I had never seen that before.

It must have been sulking. As if I’d ever bring home another cookie!

Even if it acts mature, it's still just an egg, and I felt relieved. I plucked out the pastry chef’s eyeball nearby, popped it in my mouth like a candy, and rolled it with my tongue.

That sticky, metallic taste that spread every time it touched my membranes felt like this bittersweet moment.

This fragile moment where Cookie sulked a bit sparked like soda.

So I got a little excited, feeling the sinfulness of a public place, my face flushing pink again.

People ignored us, focused instead on the pastry chef rolling on the floor, bleeding and shrieking in sharp, vicious screams.

But Cookie couldn’t hold it in, and burst out laughing, its sulkiness gone.

“Puhaha!” it laughed.

Relieved, I shed a tiny tear, and laughed too, “Hahaha,” one of our happy memories.

Then the police came and we killed them all.

But the blood splattered in heart shapes like strawberry jam, so it felt like a wedding.

An everyday wedding.

Why is it that placing a diamond ring on the left ring finger at a ceremony feels less noble and thrilling than putting a piece of stir-fried fishcake on top of someone’s rice at lunch?

That thought made me regress again, unable to think of anything but Cookie, and so last night’s side dish was stir-fried fishcake.

Of course, I gave some to Cookie, and when I peeled perilla leaves, I used Cookie’s chopsticks to hold them,

and it felt like taking off gloves, why does every tiny thing feel so tense…

Really, do I have to get this excited just to eat dinner? I was annoyed and embarrassed at myself.

But I didn’t want to sulk in front of Cookie, so I ate silently.

Yeah, those were the good times. My depression and monophobia couldn’t get better.

Because the various manic delusions were gnawing at me like Cookie, this day became the reason I couldn’t leave it alone.

It would have been better if we both just died there.

For some reason, people stood outside our house with torches. Hey, isn’t it the 3000s? Isn’t this the future, not the Middle Ages? I don’t even remember them doing that back then.

In fact, back then I was selling drugged cookies and living well. I remember the mom next door who sold real cookies got dragged off and burned at the stake.

Excuse me! I’m… ah, still single! Still! Still… Still?

I don’t know if weddings need wedding ceremonies, but Cookie and I, what are we… I just hoped we were friends. Forever.

The moment you give a relationship meaning, it gains weight, and then crashes from the sky, shattering into ruin.

That’s why the neighbor’s boyfriend, who married his childhood friend, ate our drugged cookie, got possessed by a demon, and was burned alive.

If they were just friends, he wouldn’t have followed her. But she became a mom, and the child inside her was roasted whole… That’s not my fault.

But even so, if that kind of meaning, that magical weight, happened between me and Cookie, I too… might burn.

I felt a resolve. But not now!

So I took Cookie and killed some people.

We passed our park, the mart, and killed some more people.

Mangled corpses chopped up by magic lay scattered, the streets turned to ruins.

Yeah. If you’re going to get in our way, just die.

If you won’t be my friend, then I don’t need you.

I reached out to the world first, but you didn’t take my hand.

So there's no more "life together."

So I killed even the next-door neighbor. The new mom next door.

She gave us rice cakes when she moved in… I did feel a little bad.

But I don’t want Cookie to burn.

Sorry, baby. Die.

Then we just sat on a park bench.

Ah, damn. Everyone in the city is dead.

Who told you to bother me.

But… maybe I started it.

I looked at Cookie and kissed its cheek. Sugar powder wet my lips.

This is… a kiss of friendship.

But the bodies I killed, you know? Do you know how rain works?

Water evaporates into vapor, rises, forms clouds, and when those clouds get heavy, the water falls again.

But humans are 50% water, so blood became vapor, formed clouds in the sky.

Damn… I don’t even have a house now.

Drip drip, blood rain fell. From red skies, from dark clouds.

Then I said, "Wanna go to a PC bang or something?"

But I slipped on the blood! And fell into a manhole.

Shit. Does this make any sense?

Clang! I fell into a pit. There wasn’t even a sewer, just a hole under the manhole.

Maybe that’s why semi-basements always flood in this town when it rains.

Maybe that dumb manhole is the reason.

Actually, maybe that’s lucky. It’s rain made from the blood of thousands. I don’t have a house anyway. Where would I go if there was a flood?

So I decided to stay here. Actually, I used up all my magic.

I need food to gain strength, but I have no food.

Trapped in Noah's Ark from hell, in that dark, damp, gloomy pit, we held each other.

For about… 5,806 days?

I’m so hungry. So hungry I can’t stand it. My guts feel like sun-dried earthworms in summer.

And when I looked at Cookie, Cookie was the same as ever.

Just… slightly damp.

How much preservative is in commercial cookies, it made me laugh.

Normally, in a cliché, I'd cry "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" eat Cookie, go mad, and commit suicide.

But seeing my starving guts, I suddenly thought:

It's not my hunger, but Cookie's hunger.

"I'm this hungry, how hungry must Cookie be?"

That’s what I thought.

So I said to Cookie, "Cookie."

"What?"

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"…Eat me."

"Okay."

And Cookie crunched, and ate me.

That was the end.

As a soul, I looked back at Cookie, and Cookie, after eating all of me, came out of the ark.

The remaining blood was thick and red, stuck to the ground.

The world was red.

The city was in ruins. And Cookie’s lips trembled.

Then, it let out a massive scream and cried.

Cookie must not have wanted to eat me.

But Cookie, who always accepted all my childish whims, couldn’t say no.

Now, Cookie and I,

are forever alone.

Still monophobic.

[juicist000]

In a World with Cell Phones, I Will Seek the Demon King

The Demon King.

Feared by all creation.

A divine being of ancient times.

A corrupted existence that rotted the earth and enraged the heavens.

A pitiful creature crushed by a hero's blade in the end.

The essence of evil,

Revulsion incarnate,

Absolute wickedness.

...

In any case, a bad thing.

No one needs to know what kind of life the Demon King lived.

We simply need to behead it.

Aim for the center of the neck, Split the throat in half, Slice through muscles, vertebrae, nerves, Reveal the esophagus and trachea beneath, Expose the cross-section of the hyoid bone—

Fssshhhhhkkk—

Blood sprays like a fountain.

And justice was supposed to shine forth—!!!

Ah!!

There is no Demon King!

Where is the Demon King?!

Ah!

There are smartphones, There are televisions, We are surrounded by towering concrete forests! Wi-Fi signals span the globe! In this modern age… where is the Demon King?!

Juicy thought about this as they killed another criminal today.

Where is the Demon King?

A mere thief like this cannot strike fear into the world. The ancient, pure evil has dulled. Modern evil has become nothing more than a target of disgust.

No one fears these criminals.

Ah… where is the Demon King…

Juicy lowered their head, Stared down at the cold corpse, Clenched their teeth with a face full of rage.

Trash like this could never be the Demon King or a demon. The murderers, rapists, thieves, thugs, swindlers, and corrupt politicians on TV—just piles of dogshit.

"Pathetic."

The Hero. The staff of justice. Protector of all. Cloak billowing in the wind.

But in this modern world, there are no cloaks. Justice has turned into a system, and now we’re left with pathetic scum like this. Heroes are no longer needed.

Evil is no longer something to be feared— It’s more like excrement. Do you avoid poop because it’s scary? No. Just because it’s filthy.

Juicy wanted to be a hero. They grew up reading fantasy novels. But they were born in the wrong era—maybe even the wrong world.

Now, no one seeks a maniac of justice. Perfect justice is now considered madness, fanaticism, a cult, just another form of evil.

In such a world— At the edge of an alleyway, Holding a heavy sledgehammer, Clutching blades, Armed with crowbars, And guns, There was the last hero of our time, slashing through evil.

What flutters in the wind is not a cape, but a hoodie string. Juicy quietly returns home once again today.

Once again, they could not become a hero.

Creeeak—the front door opened.

The Sage.

The Wizard.

Pouch.

Ah, magic! Ah, fantasy!!

But magic is now considered a lie in modern times. Those who believe in it are seen as lunatics, maniacs, cultists.

Yet, to me, there is a beloved wizard—Pouch. Even now, he's playing a fantasy game on the sofa. Magic is real.

Just like the belief that the Demon King must exist somewhere. If magic weren’t real, Then why does the food he makes restore my stamina and fill me with energy?

He does all the housework with magic. He is my partner in justice.

Of course, he says, "I'm just an ordinary pouch drink."

...But he's clearly a wizard. He's real. He's not a madman.

Just as I found the last wizard of the world, Surely the Demon King exists somewhere too!

"Juicy, why are you zoning out at the door?" "I made dinner."

Steam rose from the table.

So we ate a delicious meal together. Pouch switched the TV to the news channel. There it was—the criminal I had killed today!

People speculated on who the killer could be, Calling it the work of a serial murderer who only targets criminals. They lumped me in with them—it stung a little… But justice is always a lonely path.

Anyway, good citizens who support me Are all over the internet.

So I, Will keep eliminating the seeds of evil that can never become the Demon King. Until I find the real one. Or even if I don’t…

It’s fulfilling.

I chewed the rice slowly.

"Ah, wizard Pouch… today’s healing potion is so sweet…"

"That’s iced tea."

Pouch gave a soft laugh.

"So that’s the potion’s name! No wonder my body feels cool!"

"...Right. Also, you should take a bath."

He fiddled with the hem of my clothes, stained with a villain’s filthy blood.

"Ahh! Don’t touch that! It’s dirty!"

And so, once again, Another day full of justice ended with just the two of us.

Lying in bed beside Pouch, I pondered.

Ah... my Pouch. My greatest wizard… he's just, and yet holds a fragile moral compass. He says even if I show up on the news, murder is wrong. He believes that even punishing evil is bad, That reforming them through legal systems is the way… he’s a sane person of our time.

Oh, fragile wizard… He still believes I work at a strawberry tomato farm. The red stains on my clothes? He thinks it’s just spilled juice. Someday… I hope he understands me. He’s my only understanding heart.

And with that, I fell asleep.

The next day, As I was about to go eliminate another seed of evil, Pouch grabbed my wrist.

"Pac-Juicy! Today’s a holiday."

"Mmm… but I have a job to do."

"Come on, let’s go out."

"What!!! Justice cannot rest!"

"Again with that… Hey, even cops and firefighters take vacations."

"That’s!! That’s just part of the system!!"

"Right. And since you’re part of that system, you should rest from your strawberry tomato job too."

My heart thudded. Today, I get to escape this hellish slaughter for a moment, To walk alongside my sage… why is my heart racing?

"Let’s take a walk in the park."

We held hands and strolled through the lake park. Vendors selling cotton candy, children floating on the lake… Such a peaceful scene.

Breaking free from the evil that surrounded my daily life, peace washed over me. Looking at the good citizens calmed me. I held Pouch’s soft hand tightly.

A family of ducks appeared.

"Hey, look how cute that is."

I watched with fascination. The ducklings followed the mother in a line.

No! A tall curb appeared!

The mother jumped. The ducklings jumped in line.

Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump—

Crash!

The last duckling tripped!

"Little duck…!"

I ran to help it over the curb—

"Wait."

Pouch blocked my way!

"What are you doing?!" "It’s nature’s way… just watch."

I glared at Pouch.

"Watch closely…"

The mother and the other ducklings entered the lake safely. But the last duckling struggled, unable to cross the curb.

Then suddenly— With a big jump, it finally made it! It scurried over and joined the others in the lake. The mother gently stroked it with her beak.

"...See? Helping isn’t always the right answer. Sometimes, watching and letting them do it themselves is more important."

"That’s very sage-like of you…"

"Well, most people think that way."

"But… what if that duckling had never made it? What if it could never meet its mother again?"

"Then helping would be justice. Not silencing it from trying, just helping when it truly can’t."

"...I see. I understand now."

We resumed walking down the trail, though a strange awkwardness lingered. Maybe it was just me. Pouch seemed absorbed in the scenery.

"..."

"Pouch, my dear…"

"What now?"

"Do you believe in rehabilitation? If given enough time."

"Not always, but… the modern justice system prioritizes reform over punishment. That’s why we have correctional facilities instead of just prisons, and why capital punishment is banned."

"But… what if someone can’t be reformed? What if they’re truly a seed of absolute evil?"

"Then they should be punished. But not by individuals. Otherwise, they become criminals too."

"But!! ...Is that so…"

"Do you really think it’s the same?"

"The serial killer on the news…"

"Yeah. That one only killed petty criminals, not heinous ones. Most serious offenders are already in prison anyway."

"I see… then, the Demon King…"

"Juicy, there is no Demon King. There is no absolute evil."

In that moment, it felt like something inside me snapped.

The setting sun turned the lake orange. Ducklings quacked, the wind whispered through the leaves… Tranquility filled the lakeside.

We sat on a bench outside a convenience store.

"Juicy, hungry? Let’s eat some ramen."

It was lake ramen. …Meaning too much water.

We slurped noodles with cola. The spicy broth relieved my fatigue. Magic again…

“…”

“Why so quiet?”

“Then…”

“What now?”

“Then how should evil be defeated?”

“Call the police, duh?”

“Trust the system?”

“That’s what it’s for.”

My chopsticks trembled.

“But… evil can’t be reformed!!!”

“Yes, it can, Juicy.”

“I’ve never… seen that happen.”

“I have.”

“You’ve seen… someone?”

“You.”

Juicy flinched.

“What do you…”

“You’ve let go of your past. You sincerely repented, you went to therapy… now you work at the strawberry tomato farm. You’ve grown, Juicy. I trust you.”

“That…”

“You’re not someone who hurts people anymore.”

I had nothing to say. I stared into the ramen broth. The twilight reflected off it, showing my face.

Empty.

“Not hungry? Then I’ll eat the rest!”

When I came to, I was home. The day had ended, lights were off, We were in bed, Side by side… My sage and I… Holding hands, He was asleep.

Maybe… maybe ‘this kind of justice’ is no longer needed. Maybe what this world needs isn't heroes, but law-abiding good citizens… Oh wizard, you were the true hero of this era…

Pac-Juicy hugged Pouch tightly.

Thump-thump, the sound of a heartbeat seemed to fill the room.

The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. I gathered my holy tools and stepped outside. As usual, Pouch was still asleep.

“…Still, I don’t want to believe in that system yet. Even if Pouch does. I just… can’t.”

So Juicy picked up the knife again.

Yes. Even if the world doesn’t want justice, Even if everyone else grows weak, I will uphold my justice. I will find the Demon King and cleanse this world!

Then… maybe my sage will believe in me again…

If I show him again.

Justice remains unfulfilled today. The Demon King is still in hiding,

What is justice? Even as I grip this drill, What writhes within me—is it revenge, or faith?

He sobbed. I wavered.

The one they call the wizard once said, 'Justice lies in reform.

But still,

I… cannot believe those words.

Once again, I found it. The seed of evil.

Once again, I failed to find the Demon King.

I knock him out. Wrap a rope tightly around his neck. Caught him off guard from behind—he doesn’t even resist. No chances. I won't give him any. No chance to escape.

You. You stole... an apple. That makes you... a bad person.

I drag him away. To a remote place. Boarded-up and hidden.

I didn’t kill him. He’s alive. He breathes. He opens his eyes. Rustling behind. He’s tied up. He moves. He grunts. He tries to make noise.

Footsteps behind. Power drill. Whirrr.

I open his mouth. Fix it in place. Is this what dentists use?

Whirrr. Aim for the uvula. Whirrr. Blood gushes out. Makes me want to puke.

The drill catches the uvula— Whirrr— It twists and tears through flesh. Overflowing. Blood. Gushing. Silence.

I slap his cheek. "You bastard!"

Smack. He cries.

A scream from behind: "I hereby begin the judgment of justice!" Smack. I kick him in the stomach.

“Ugh!”

I lift his shirt. Exposing his bellybutton.

The drill. Whirrr.

"You must atone to your parents."

Whirrr.

"Your parents cut the cord and gave you life—"

Whirrrr.

"And you... became corrupted!!!"

WHIRRRRR!!!

It twists again. From the navel, blood gushes. It digs in—something twists—gets stuck—!

Click click grind click. Whirr whirr WHIRRRRRRR!!!

It comes loose. I tear up. Must hurt.

Scum like you— can’t— be— reformed.

Your parents didn’t raise you to be a piece of shit who steals apples.

A blade. I wedge it between your legs. Twist. Snap.

Like gutting a fish. Slice.

Your genitals fall off. Your pants soak in blood. A hissing scream escapes.

Inside—soft intestines, flesh. I pull them out. Lick them with my tongue.

This is the taste of justice.

Smack. Thunk. Whump. Smack. I kicked him. Between the legs. Gouged out his eyes. Cut out his tongue. Strangled him. Chopped off wrists and ankles.

Spit.

Then stabbed his solar plexus.

He doesn’t move anymore. No more gasping.

From his eyes— not tears, but red-black soup spills out.

Yellow, orange, red broth. Soaked. He twitches. Twitches.

Then—collapses.

Purified.

The presence behind me disappears.

…What was that?

I returned home. Blood dripped from my clothes.

Creeeak—the door opened.

"Pouch. You didn’t make dinner today?"

Pouch stared at me in fear. Ah… the presence I felt... it was you. My heart raced. Strangely.

"That serial killer on the news…"

Pouch said quietly. His eyes pierced through me.

"…It was you, Juicy."

I froze. The bloodied hoodie hem slowly soaked the floor.

"I merely did what had to be done."

I lowered my head.

"You’ve lost your mind."

Pouch took a step forward.

"You killed a person! You think that’s justice?"

I nodded calmly.

"He stole an apple. It was wrong. He needed punishment."

"So you had to kill him horribly?!"

Pouch shouted.

"You should’ve handed him to the police! You’re just… a mass murderer, Juicy!"

"…Pouch."

I whispered his name.

"He couldn’t be reformed. He was beyond return. This rotten system only shelters such people. So I… I did what I had to do. …As a hero."

"That was your ‘justice’…?" Pouch’s voice trembled.

"You’re just a killer. You murder people in insane ways… Do you really believe that?"

"I purified evil." I closed my eyes, then opened them.

"Someone had to do it. Since no one else would, I… To save the world… to eliminate seeds of evil before they become Demon Kings—"

I raised my head.

"It’s okay. I never expected you to understand."

"…I can’t believe this…"

"No, I…"

Pouch swallowed hard.

"I didn’t know you were this broken. That you’d become… such a monster."

The words sank my heart. But then, I felt strangely calm.

"…Monster?"

I smiled slowly.

"You’re calling me, a hero… a monster?"

Pouch stepped back.

"…I’m calling the police."

That moment, time froze. I narrowed my eyes.

"…So it was you."

"What…?"

"You witch! Demon King!!"

"It was you! The one who held me back, Tied me to this rotten system, Whispered love, Fed me poisoned food!"

"What are you talking about… Juicy, please—"

"Yes. It was you. The Demon King… was you."

Pouch’s face showed not hatred, But fear.

I reached out my hand.

"In the name of the Hero of Justice… the time has come to slay the Demon King!"

And so Pac-Juicy and Pouch struggled violently.

Crash! Boom!

The noise caused neighbors to call the police, and Juicy was taken in for questioning.

Strangely, Pouch never revealed that Juicy was the serial killer.

And regarding the bloodstains on Juicy’s clothes, He simply said, "That’s… strawberry tomato juice."

The police laughed it off and treated it as a minor domestic dispute.

In the end, Juicy was fined and returned home to Pouch.

Though everything seemed normal, the air was noticeably heavier. Pouch was still playing his fantasy game. Juicy quietly watched him.

Perhaps that day… the true Demon King was born.

Juicy became a Demon King—for Pouch alone.

And after that…

One by one, criminals in the city continued to die.

Yet somehow, the two kept living together.

[juicist000]

Monophobia —The Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube and the Worshipper of Lov

There once was a dambi.

…But not a dambi.

Not an animal.

A cigarette.

Burned by the cigarette’s ember, smoked by people, nicotine digging deep into its skin by others’ hands, until it smelled like roasted meat—

Its face had turned into a cigarette.

Dambi stood on someone else’s balcony,

stepping on their balcony,

and puffed out a cigarette bought with its own money.

Ashes scattered in the wind,

and the black powder flaking off Dambi’s face spread with the smoke.

Though it was someone else’s balcony,

it wasn’t trespassing.

It was just… a rental fraud.

Dambi had fought so hard to get it,

but somehow it was taken away.

Well, there was nothing to be done.

Was that life sad?

Yes, it was.

But in the end, people need titles.

A basic welfare recipient.

A basic welfare recipient.

Why did it come to this?

Credit card revolving debt.

So, why did Dambi do it?

Because they were young, probably.

All of this—

was their 20th birthday party.

When the cigarette was almost burnt out and turning to ash,

Dambi’s face whispered,

“I can’t die just yet,”

and just kept burning slowly.

Flick.

Dambi threw away the finished cigarette.

Tap!

Gray ash fell on someone’s head.

“Ta-da!”

Below the balcony was Tee.

That T-shirt with legs was… so pretty!

And Tee was from next door.

But there were already too many pretty, pretty T-shirts.

So just being pretty wasn’t enough

to become an idol.

The fate of an idol who never debuted—

was to do manual labor loading and unloading.

A youth that once flared up and burnt out

fell in love with the same ashes,

and blew out cold smoke.

Tee threw a gift box up onto the balcony.

Tee’s grimy T-shirt was scorched by the hot embers, leaving a clear burn mark.

Dambi looked down at the gift box placed on someone else’s balcony.

A typical gift box—white, tied neatly with a red ribbon.

Dambi picked it up, pulled the ribbon with one hand,

and opened the lid.

Inside was…

a poop-shaped squishy toy.

They grabbed the squishy poop and squeezed it.

It was really squishy.

“I love you, Dambi! Please go out with me, Dambi!”

Dambi frowned and said with a pout,

“No.”

Then walked inside someone else’s house.

Lying on a small mattress, flipping through job listings,

sending resumes—

But a resume written by someone scorched by cigarettes, spontaneously combusting into flames,

who burned both their cigarettes and high school education,

a mentally unstable self-harmer who burned their arm with cigarettes—

such a resume was pathetic.

No one even glanced at it.

Until they saw one.

No education required.

No gender restriction.

No age limit.

…

No criminal record check.

And hourly wage: 1 million won.

The first thought was,

“Isn’t this some organ trafficking home party?”

But…

Dambi didn’t care anymore.

Beside Dambi’s mattress lay

a noose that looked like it had snapped 30 minutes ago,

and a dented yellow linoleum floor.

“Well, whatever happens, if it’s fate, I’ll live rich.”

Just truly drowning in the waves of life.

So Dambi sent the resume.

One second later, a text came back.

“Come somewhere tomorrow.”

The place—

was not creepy or isolated as expected,

but a small gallery café right in the middle of the neighborhood.

Was this why our neighborhood café was unusually popular?

Because the original ingredient was probably weed?

Nobody knew why that ad was posted.

But Dambi set an alarm for the next morning,

closed their tear-filled eyes, and fell asleep,

squeezing the poop-shaped squishy in their hands.

Love.

Loneliness.

Dambi wanted those things, too.

But they knew they were a loser,

and love felt too extravagant.

So lonely,

that even someone confessing with a poop-shaped squishy

felt tolerable.

But they still pushed everyone away.

Dambi shivered from loneliness.

Or maybe just because

they couldn’t afford heating.

Morning came.

The mattress was neatly cleared away,

and only a canned coffee with residual warmth and a note were left.

Surely Tee had trespassed.

Climbed up the window.

Dambi must have been too tired to hear the noise.

But even if they had,

they wouldn’t have called the police.

Because Tee left a lunchbox from work,

untouched,

with a secretly loving note beside it.

Tee still thought Dambi didn’t know.

Dambi opened the canned coffee Tee bought for breakfast,

took a sip.

It was sweet.

Wide awake.

Washed up,

put on a hoodie,

and headed to the gallery café in the middle of town.

Feeling Tee’s gaze burning from behind,

Dambi ignored it and kept walking forward.

The café was packed.

Everyone was ordering iced americanos.

The walls displayed art.

Sculptures stood tall.

It was pretty hip overall.

But today,

something felt strange.

Something was missing.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I came about the job ad.”

“Ah… please wait here.”

The staff guided Dambi to a small corner table for two,

then brought a Java Chip Frappuccino.

Dambi said, “Thank you.”

After a while,

the café owner joined the table.

“Hello, boss.”

“There’s only one thing you have to do! Retrieve the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube!”

“Huh?”

“Our café’s signature piece—the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube—was stolen last week.”

That was it!

The strange feeling was because it was gone.

The Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube was missing!!!

“Who would dare—!”

“This mission will be very dangerous.

One hundred people have already died.

We’ve posted the job ad one hundred times.”

“In just one week?”

“Yes.

This object is tied to an incredibly evil conspiracy.

You may refuse.”

“I need the money.”

“If you find the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube,

I won’t pay you one million won per hour—

I’ll pay you one hundred million won.”

One hundred million.

Enough for Dambi to escape welfare.

Enough to escape rental fraud.

Dambi accepted as is and went home.

The mission would begin tomorrow.

Dambi was so happy

they curled up on the mattress, playing with the poop-shaped squishy.

The next day,

Dambi set out to find the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube.

Where?

The police station.

How could a mere Dambi find something so legendary alone?

So they asked for the police’s help.

“Hello, officer.”

“I’m in my 20s.”

“Ah… yes, sir.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to talk about the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube.”

“We’re not taking that case.”

“Why not?”

“Because even the government can’t handle that object.

It’s too dangerous and serious.”

“All the more reason the government should care.”

“No, seriously.

They can’t.”

Dambi left the station.

That statue at the café—

it had killed one hundred people in one week, and even the government gave up.

Dambi felt they needed to investigate further.

Sitting on a park bench,

Dambi lit a cigarette,

and began searching on an old phone.

Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

“Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube.”

Almost no results.

Yet strangely,

everyone seemed to know about it.

Dambi started gathering scattered pieces of knowledge

from strange blogs and obscure wikis.

They found a 2011 post on an odd blog and a dark-themed wiki entry.

Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube:

A perfect cuboid meat cube shaped like diced radish.

An object existing since ancient times.

Some scholars say a caveman accidentally cut the meat perfectly cubed with a stone axe.

The meat piece gained divine power,

and the caveman who held it became the tribe’s king.

Legend says it granted wishes perfectly ever since.

The stone axe with the square dent

is currently displayed at the National Museum.

“I see…”

Dambi thought.

Why was such a dangerous object displayed in a café?

Maybe the café owner was a descendant of that ancient king?

Is that why the café was so successful?

But to just display it like that…

The café owner had serious safety negligence.

If someone else got it,

it was definitely in the hands of a very dangerous person.

Dambi also thought

that since the café served mostly locals,

the thief was probably a local too.

Surely the thief had made an evil wish.

Massive wealth, fame, or love!

So whoever suddenly changed from normal was likely the thief.

If they found them,

the 100 million won would be all theirs.

They could pay off the rental fraud and move to a better place.

They decided to start with the easiest suspect.

“Tee… come out.”

Tee peeked out from the bushes next to the bench.

The cute, gross, obsessed stalker.

“Did you steal the Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube?”

“Yup!”

“Liar…”

“Will you marry me?”

“No…”

“I love you!”

Tee couldn’t be the thief.

Tee was always a big lover and prankster.

Giving poop-shaped squishies and all.

“Help me find it too.”

“The poop squishy?”

“No! The meat cube! The Kkakdugi-Shaped Meat Cube!!!”

Since Tee gave Dambi that poop squishy,

thoughts of it filled a corner of Dambi’s mind.

Seeing the squishy made them think of Tee and flutter their heart.

But they knew romance was a luxury.

So they ignored it.

Though not completely.

Dambi and Tee went around the neighborhood.

The usual police station.

The usual fire station.

The usual flower shop.

The usual school.

The usual supermarket.

The usual hospital.

The usual restaurant.

The usual convenience store.

The usual café.

The usual hair salon.

The usual gym.

The usual swimming pool.

The usual clothing store.

The usual art academy.

The usual motel.

The usual bakery.

The usual aquarium.

The usual museum.

The usual park.

The usual English academy.

The usual optician.

The usual ice cream shop.

The usual pizza place.

The usual home.

The usual neighbors.

The usual neighborhood.

The usual Tee…

As the sun set,

they confirmed nothing had changed.

“…”

“Dambi…”

“…”

“I love you. Let’s go home.”

“Okay…”

On the way back,

everything blurred.

When they came to,

smoke filled their house,

and their skin burned again.

A new burn.

One of hundreds.

Blood dripped from cracked skin.

And tears dripped, too.

Just…

sadness.

Happiness crushed by the knowledge

that the money would never be theirs.

그들은 비명을 질렀다.

“Fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

She cried, sobbing hard.

Exhausted, she eventually fell asleep without even realizing when.

When morning came, Dambi woke up coughing.

The room was thick with cigarette smoke, suffocating her as if her lungs were burning alive.

She stepped out onto the balcony.

There was Tee.

Kneeling down, Tee spoke.

Today, Tee was completely different from usual.

At last, Dambi had found someone special.

Someone different from before, right here in the village.

“Dambi…”

Dambi said nothing.

“I truly love you. The moment I first saw you, I fell for you at first sight. The moment I held you in my eyes, I felt like I could give everything for you. But in the end, all I gave you were worthless things, like that poop-shaped squishy toy… I knew how little they meant to you, but I couldn’t stop. My money was limited, but my heart was infinite — I couldn’t contain it in material things.”

From behind his back, Tee pulled out a gift box.

A classic white box tied with a bright red ribbon.

“If I make you rich… will you stay with me?”

He untied the ribbon, and inside was a dazzlingly colorful radish kimchi-shaped meat cube.

“I’ve waited so long for you to see that job posting. Only weirdos kept looking at it to make money… I ended up killing a hundred of them.”

Tee had planned to steal the radish kimchi-shaped meat cube on purpose to pay off Dambi’s deposit fraud debt.

“Actually… I’m a descendant of an ancient primitive king. This radish kimchi-shaped meat cube is a family heirloom…”

With his head bowed, Tee continued his story as Dambi looked at him with indifferent eyes.

“When I dreamed of debuting as an idol, I promised myself I’d use this at the most important moment. The last chance… like when winning ‘Idol of the Year.’”

He gave a faint smile.

“But I doubted I’d even get picked for the debut team… So I sneaked out of the dorm to go home and use the cube. Then… I saw you. Laughing madly after being scammed out of your deposit.”

At that ridiculous statement, all Dambi could say was “…What?”

“Your laugh… it made my heart race. Like it blew away the last regrets of my ruined youth.”

“That’s when I found a new dream — you.”

Dambi gave a bitter smile, but somewhere deep inside her empty heart, happiness began to grow slowly.

“So I moved next door. Watched your every move… sorry. I even started a part-time loading job to buy you gifts.”

“But this radish kimchi-shaped meat cube grants only one wish. If I wished for your happiness, I wouldn’t know if I’d be with you. If I wished for your deposit scam to be fixed or your basic welfare problem solved, the result was uncertain. I was selfish.”

“But… I couldn’t even wish ‘Let me be with you.’ Because I wouldn’t know if that would make you happy or not.”

Tee confessed his dream — that Dambi would be happy and by his side.

When he whispered this wish to the meat cube, the cube accepted it as a true wish and blessed Tee’s mind with a ‘blessing.’

A clue to solving all their problems.

And so Tee said he had made a plan:

To pass the radish kimchi-shaped meat cube to someone else; if that person succeeded, he’d steal it back, then post a bounty to find it again.

And that Dambi would join the job through the recruitment ad, earn the huge money, and he would appear in the end as the one who gifts the cube again.

“I… love you this much.”

“Will you marry me?”

Whether it was the power of the meat cube or Dambi’s sincere decision, no one knows.

But Dambi accepted Tee, then handed the cube to the café owner and received the huge sum.

With that money, Dambi solved the deposit scam and welfare issues, and Tee was able to be with her.

Together, under the blessing of the radish kimchi-shaped meat cube, they never parted and lived happily, so very happily ever after.

[juicist000]

Monophobia — The God of Vomiting and the Young Vomits (Prologue)

After the moon draped itself over the world, a new god was born.

Time passed unwittingly, and that god became an ancient deity.

And then, he closed his eyes.

The earth could no longer be controlled, and the sky trembled in the waves of moonlight.

That was why he had closed his eyes.

Turning his back to the world, he fell into a long dream.

The people born from the dreams shaped after himself

experienced trillions upon trillions of years, becoming increasingly abstract and distorted within it.

Those countless creations desired one another, following the ancient god’s will,

but they could never soothe their loneliness.

Because they themselves were ultimately the cells that formed the god,

even as they embraced each other, only a bittersweet sensation spread through their bodies.

The heart that thought “If only we became one, we might understand”

was in truth something neither one, nor two, neither self nor other, could ever understand.

Then, one day, two angels descended from the sky.

At that moment, the small creatures felt the ancient god’s influence weakening.

One angel came down and pierced empty eye sockets with two eyes.

There, dreams and hope were filled.

Another angel came down and tore open a mouth on a face that had only eyes.

There, hunger and passion were filled.

Thus, the small creatures chased after dreams and hope, hunger and passion,

forgetting that their empty chests ached.

But no matter how much they dreamed and sang of hope,

no matter how much they hunted and devoured, the emptiness in their hearts stung sharply.

So they desired more and more.

Trying to fit a star-shaped puzzle piece into the heart-shaped hole.

Now is the age of desire.

The ancient god still dreams,

and those two angels never returned.

Only the lonely small creatures remain.

. . .

They chewed the mucous membranes in their mouths with teeth until they were packed tight, severing blood vessels and tearing bundles of skin.

Like a fetus breaking through the womb, they spat out drops of blood from the torn hole as if uttering a vulgar curse.

Foamy saliva with a metallic taste slipped from their mouths.

Again, chewing the membranes with their teeth, spitting out human flesh, they ate themselves.

Muscles pushed the membranes aside, blood vessels burst open.

They devoured themselves.

Unable to even turn their eyes, heads fixed and limbs tied,

with only the metabolism of their internal organs moving, the only thing they could do was one thing.

Devour themselves.

That was their god.

And so his children, made in the image of creation, were lonely.

They could do nothing.

Even when pressing lips together and biting each other’s tongues, only emptiness remained.

Stirring between mucous membranes brought no sensation.

White flesh at a warm 36 degrees, as if boiled in bleach.

And loneliness.

So they too chewed their flesh.

Mental pain and physical pain were coded the same way,

connected to the same server.

So rather than others, they bit themselves.

The world stained red, the ground covered with mucous membranes.

On those membranes grew festering pus clusters, painful,

and all waste, excrement, filth were spread over those wounds.

Filth is funny.

Everyone loves stories about shit.

So the scene was so hilariously absurd that everyone laughed.

While shitting themselves.

But that too was shit.

So they could only laugh forever.

Flies bored holes in their flesh, laid eggs,

larvae hatched and ate the flesh until only bones remained.

But it was funny.

Because bones are funny.

So they kept laughing,

even when the bones ground away until nothing was left,

they still felt alive.

Right there.

Perhaps our essence was never meat after all.

They felt reassured.

But was that really okay?

Loneliness was the essence!

No!

They became too sad.

But the scene was too funny,

the person who laughed, cried, and shat on that funny scene was just too funny,

so they couldn’t even be sad.

So, they all just laughed.

Lonely.

From afar, it was a comedy.

Because everyone laughed until their bellies burst.

But even close up, they were laughing.

So, a good ending.

A happy ending.

Everyone laughed like that, and probably lived happily ever after.