Quest of Bottled Pepsi

Michael stands in front of the mirror, adjusting his golden-flamed glasses as he prepares for the day. His usual composed nature is infused with a hint of anxiety. Today, he and his five underlings have been assigned a peculiar mission by Colin, the mysterious boss of the Humble Association. The task? To buy him a bottle of Pepsi.

“Let’s move out, team,” Michael instructs, leading his underlings into the bustling streets. They quickly enter a deli, only to discover that it carries only Coca-Cola. Michael directs the team to check for another store, and one underling with sausage-like lips asks in confusion, “Can’t we just grab a Coca-Cola? They’re practically identical in taste!” Michael frowns as he explains the significance of their mission: “Our boss is a perfectionist, even regarding the smallest details; additionally, he is an unforgiving person. Deliver anything less than a bottle of Pepsi to him, and we will undoubtedly face his wrath.”

“But he doesn’t strike me as a formidable fighter,” The Sausage-Lips presses, his voice laced with skepticism. “Why do you look so troubled, boss?” As a newly hired member of the team, his curiosity spills over, eager for answers.

Michael turns to him, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Silence! You naïve fool! Our boss is an S-class fighter, but not in terms of physical strength—he might not even win a battle against a Class-C. However, his intelligence is his deadliest weapon, and you absolutely do not wish to witness his wrath—especially over something as trivial as soda!”

Sausage-Lips immediately covers his mouth with both hands, startled. “Sorry, boss, I misjudged the gravity of the situation,” he whispers, his voice barely heard. Michael, still tense, replies, “It’s okay; we’ll find one.” As the team moves toward the next store, a flashback overtakes Michael’s mind, taking him three years back to the afternoon when he and Colin were in the office. He turns to his team, his voice filled with intensity. “Allow me to share what occurred back then…”

It was a sunny afternoon when Michael returned to the office, famished after a long mission. His eyes landed on a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a desk, and with no one else around, he figured it might be a leftover from someone. Consumed by hunger and unwilling to waste food, he devoured the sandwich in a single bite. The taste was heavenly. Just then, he spotted Colin returning from the restroom, searching for his missing sandwich.

“Have you seen my sandwich anywhere, Captain Lam?” Colin asked.

Feeling a touch of guilt yet treating it as an insignificant deal, Michael smiled and replied, “I’m afraid I ate it!” Unbeknownst to him, Colin’s expression darkened with a deepening sense of upset.

“Rumor has it that your feet stink,” Colin declared, his expression serious as he sought to avenge the sandwich incident.

“Nah, no way… maybe it’s yours that smells,” Michael joked back, a playful smile on his lips, unaware of the tension hanging in the air.

Colin couldn’t contain his anger any longer. He unleashed the Golden Speech, a technique that deceives the listener into fully believing and obeying any command. ‘Go on, smell your sock and you’ll find out,’ he spoke, his voice steady. As the words left his mouth, visible English letters traveled through a glowing golden beam and shot into Michael’s body.

As the visible letters sank into his body, Michael felt an overwhelming urge to discover whether his sock smelled or not. He removed his leather shoe, peeled off his sock—which had a large hole in it—and eagerly brought it to his nose. He sniffed deeply. “It truly smells like—holy crap!” Michael muttered, his face twisted in disgust as nausea surged within him, nearly forcing him to gag.

“Now taste it,” Colin commanded. This time, Michael hesitated, uncertainty showing on his face as he frowned. “Do it!” Colin urged, his tone rising. The golden beam intensified, glowing brighter than before. With the Golden Speech’s influence surging through him, Michael felt fully convinced. In an impulsive act, he swallowed the entire sock, the foul fabric filling his mouth.

Initially, it tasted salty and bitter. As Michael chewed and licked it in his mouth, a wave of foul taste overwhelmed his senses. He stumbled, dropping to one knee, his arm planted on the ground for support. Determined to uncover the true flavor of his sock, he endured the overwhelming disgust and continued to suck the fabric harder, pushing through the nausea. Goosebumps erupted all over his skin as a wave of numbness surged through him. He could unmistakably detect a repulsive mix of tainted feces, sewage waste, sick person’s vomit, dead animal carcass, moldy cheese, expired milk, burnt rubber, and more.

Despite his unyielding will, he finally reached his limit. His eyes rolled back, and he blacked out, yet his body remained defiantly kneeling on one leg, as if a fallen hero still stands tall in the thunderstorm. The endless torment felt like an eternity, yet in reality, he hadn’t even lasted three seconds.

As Michael finishes telling the tale, Sausage-Lips wipes away his tears, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Poor fellow… May he finally find peace in heaven…” He sniffs back the runny liquid from his nose.

Michael’s eyes widen in disbelief as he glares at Sausage-Lips. He yells, “What the hell, man? I’m right here, alive and kicking! How can you be so dense, you clueless idiot?” He shakes his head in frustration. “Sorry, boss,” Sausage-Lips replies, his face flushing with embarrassment as he scratches his head.

“Boss, it’s been said that the effectiveness of the Golden technique hinges on the IQ gap between the speaker and the listener,” another underling remarks. Then he adds, “And you, being among the brightest fighters on the planet, shouldn’t it be far less effective on you?”

“That’s why I hesitated when I was instructed to taste my sock,” Michael declares, his voice echoing with intensity. “Regular humans like you all would have blindly complied without a moment’s doubt!” The underlings stare in stunned silence with their faces reflecting a mix of disbelief and horror.

Michael continues, “Now, brace yourselves for a staggering revelation: guess who is the mastermind behind all the Golden techniques? Yes, it’s him—our boss, Colin! Even the legendary Golden Eyes, Brian, is among his elite students. In fact, every single practitioner of the Golden techniques is either a disciple or a direct acquaintance of his. He possesses wisdom beyond comprehension.”

His words hang heavy in the air, leaving the underlings gasping in shock, with thoughts spiraling as they try to process the astonishing truth.

Before the underlings can respond, Michael presses on. “I’ve devoted years to studying the Golden techniques, and yet here I stand, unable to master even a single one of them! Perhaps… that’s only meant for the natural talents.” His words are laced with a hint of frustration. At this moment, the underlings fall silent, standing in disbelief as they grapple with the shocking reality that even their boss, the formidable Captain Lam, has faced such a daunting struggle.

“Perhaps, with my intelligence and determination, I could master the Golden Lips in the near future—if only I undergo some proper training, boss!” Sausage-Lips steps forward, his voice bold and filled with confidence and ambition.

Michael swings a powerful slap at Sausage-Lips’s face, his expression a mix of disdain and frustration. “Foolish fool, cease your foolishness! You definitely lack potential!” The impact sends Sausage-Lips biting the dust, blood oozing from his oversized lips as his mouth hits the pavement.

“However,” Michael continues, “I developed my special move, the Sock Attack, from that incident. It’s been an effective, humane way to finish off my opponents.” He pauses for emphasis. “This technique eventually earned me a promotion from Class-B to Class-A.”

Sausage-Lips rises to his feet, now fully attentive, hanging on every word of his boss’s story. “I’ve learned so much from you, boss!” he exclaims with excitement, as if he’s just acquired a new technique himself.

“Additionally, the boss gifted me these extraordinary golden-framed glasses on my birthday,” Michael smiles with joy as the memory floods back. “He told me that with the geeky look of these glasses, I could easily deceive my opponents and conceal my true power. This remarkable tool ensures that I can always land a surprise attack, giving me the upper hand before any battle and elevating my fighting effectiveness to exceptional heights!”

They continue their search, but every store yields the same result: Coca-Cola. Frustration builds as they approach the bakery, a familiar location that triggers a vague memory in Michael’s mind—a brief, chaotic glimmer of shattering glass from a few days ago. The store owner delivers slightly different but still disheartening news: the last bottle of Pepsi was just sold out moments ago.

Just as they stand on the brink of despair, while their comrades hyper-focus on the seemingly impossible mission, Sausage-Lips, the lone perv, light-heartedly scans the store for any seductive girls. Suddenly, his eyes widen in disbelief, a surge of excitement coursing through him as he spots something utterly unexpected. There, sitting around a table, is a group of six thugs—five Coca-Colas and one elusive Pepsi, the very treasure of their quest! There, sitting around a table, is a group of six thugs—five Coca-Colas and one unopened Pepsi bottle in their possession. With breathless anticipation, he excitedly yells out in delight, “OMG, boss! I’ve spotted the treasure!!! The long-lost Pepsi we’ve been desperately hunting down for hours on end!!!” Hope reignites as they see the bottle, its cap still firmly sealed and clutched tightly by their leader, Canelo, the obnoxious Peeing Man.

“Pardon me, Mr. Canelo!” Michael says politely as he approaches, extending a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill toward the gang leader. “Might you consider my humble offer of twenty bucks in exchange for your bottled Pepsi, sir?”

Canelo snatches the bill with a swift, casual swipe of his hand. ‘No chance!’ he laughs aloud, mockingly arrogant, as he shamelessly tucks the crumpled bill into his pocket. “What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours? Well, that’s mine too! Hahaha…”

Sausage-Lips steps forward, attempting to negotiate further, but a thug advances, jabbing the burning tip of his cigarette menacingly toward Michael’s face. Before the thug can react, Michael delivers a slap with such force that it sends him skidding across the floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The peaceful bakery momentarily erupts into chaos in a matter of seconds. Both groups clash violently, and one thug is kicked with such force that he crashes through the newly replaced glass window once again. Customers flee in a frenzy, as if this chaotic scene has become a routine for the store.

Sausage-Lips manages to pin a thug to the ground with a rusted metal pipe, then yanks off his sneaker and peels away his Hello Kitty sock. Unleashing his newly learned technique, the Sock Attack, taught by his boss earlier that day, he shoves the sock into the thug’s mouth, gripping tightly with all his strength, as if his life depended on it, despite his skinny frame.

The thug effortlessly pushes him away and swings his pipe in a swift, brutal arc, carving a dazzling trail of light through the air. With a sickening crack, the pipe strikes Sausage-Lips’ forehead, and a violent spray of blood erupts, splattering everything in the surrounding area. His skull is obliterated, leaving only the lower jaw and his oversized lips eerily intact. His headless body crumples to the floor, limp and lifeless, like a rag doll abandoned in the ruins.

As soon as he finishes off his native opponent, he spits the clean sock from his mouth. “What kind of deluded moron is this?” he mutters, completely unscathed by the intrusive fabric that, surprisingly, smells nice and lacks any foul odor. Disdain laces his voice as he ejects a glob of phlegm that arcs perfectly into the gaping, oversized lips of the lifeless body—a final act of mockery amid the chaos. Sausage-Lips, the first casualty of the battle, falls silent; yet, amidst the turmoil, his absence stirs no sorrow among the living.

As the battle rumbles on, Michael and his team swiftly overpower the thugs. Canelo’s minions lie unconscious on the ground, and Michael grips Canelo by the neck, pinning him against the wall in midair.

“Resistance is futile,” Michael commands, tightening his grip to threaten Canelo. “Hand over the Pepsi, now!”

“Over my dead body!” Canelo smirks, as if he still has a trick up his sleeve despite his apparent defeat. Michael’s eyebrows draw together, a blend of puzzlement and unease shadowing his expression as Canelo wrestles to break free from his grip, his clenched teeth concealing the deep pain coursing through him.

Out of nowhere, Canelo discreetly spits a glob of saliva directly at Michael’s face. But Michael, on high alert, swiftly jerks his head aside, narrowly dodging the slimy missile. The spit sails through the air, glistening as it arcs toward its unintended target. With a loud, wet splat, it lands squarely in the store owner’s eye.

“AHH! My eye!” the store owner screams in agony, clutching his face as he staggers backward. “God damn it!” he yells, his voice a mix of pain and disbelief, the saliva dripping down his cheek.

“Petty tricks won’t succeed against my vigilance!” Michael declares, quickly yanking off his shoe and peeling away his stinky sock, which dangles ominously from his hand. “Sadly, your arrogance has led us to this dark crossroads. It is truly a shame we cannot resolve this in a more civilized manner.”

As the stinky sock draws near to Canelo’s mouth, he shakes his head violently, sealing his lips tight. Michael tenses his arm muscles, veins bulging, and with unyielding strength, he thrusts the foul fabric deep into Canelo’s mouth. As the vile object settles within, a flood of nauseating odor crashes over him, sending Canelo spiraling into the depths of a septic tank filled with decomposed feces.

One… two… less than three seconds pass, and Canelo’s eyes bulge and roll back, his arms falling limply to his sides as his limbs stiffen into rigidity. Michael releases his victim and swiftly snatches the fallen bottle of Pepsi from the floor, an overjoyed smile spreading across his face.

Joy soon evaporates as he discovers the bottle’s cap is already unsealed, revealing a horrific sight—inside, a thick glob of phlegm floats in the murky soda. “This can’t be!” he gasps, his heart sinking into despair. “He… son of a…” The realization strikes him like a cold blade: he is to blame for miscalculating Canelo’s cunning. The mission, once so promising, now lies in shambles—a catastrophic failure.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a deep crimson hue over the road as the last light of day fades into darkness. Time, relentless as always, slips through their fingers like the last grains of sand in an hourglass. Michael, accompanied by his four underlings, stumbles out of the shattered bakery, leaving behind the gruesome remains of Sausage-Lips without a second glance. His headless body lies discarded amid broken glass and blood-soaked tiles, but there is no time for grief—not yet.

Hopelessness, frustration, and an emotional void envelop them like a dense fog. One underling sinks to his knees on the pavement, pounding the ground with loosely clenched fists, his cries echoing in despair. They must steel themselves for the inevitable return to the dimly lit office, where the ultimate consequences await.

A shimmering object catches their eyes in a nearby gutter. “Boss! It’s a bottle of Pepsi, and it looks new—fully sealed!” one of the underlings shouts. Michael rushes ahead, retrieving it from the murky water, its surface covered with filth. Feces cling to the bottle, but with determination, he quickly rinses it under the tap water in a nearby public restroom, restoring its clean appearance. “Look! We did it!” Michael exclaims, excitement igniting across the whole team like a wildfire.

Rushing back to the office, they find Colin lounging in his chair, legs casually crossed on the desk, eagerly awaiting the sugary thrill he’s been craving. With an impatient twist, he uncaps the bottle, licking the rim before taking a slow, deliberate sip. A surge of sweetness zaps through his body, sending waves of satisfaction coursing through him. “Aaah…” he exhales, the sound of pure contentment slipping from his lips as he savors the taste.

“Excellent work, Captain Lam,” Colin says, his voice laced with both acknowledgment and approval. “Of course!” Michael replies, a droplet of sweat rolling down his forehead, revealing the tension that lingers beneath his confident facade.