The Madness of Raymond

Good Man Gone Bad:

In the heart of a thunderstorm, a man knelt alone in the middle of the street, soaked to the bone, his spirit crushed. Raymond, a bankrupt store owner, was little more than a dead man walking. Rain hit his face hard, but the storm inside him howled even worse—a flood of anger, vengeance, bitterness, frustration, and self-hatred. These dark emotions swirled within him, pushing him toward the edge of sanity. His chest rose and fell heavily as a mysterious dark force began to emerge from within him.

Raymond clutched his head, fists trembling as he slammed them into the wet pavement in raw frustration. His knuckles bled, but the emotional torment dulled his senses to the pain. In that moment, deep within his shattered soul, an unseen thread snapped—the last bit of his humanity vanished, leaving only rage and vengeance within him. Like a wrecked old building swaying in the wind, it suddenly crumbled, scattering debris and dust in all directions. From the ruins, Raymond emerged as a new being, stripped of humanity, his eyes empty and hollow, filled with dark clouds.

“I’ll show them…” he whispered to the storm, his voice low and heavy. He no longer recognized the man he once was; he had morphed into something far darker—a relentless force of destruction, ready to unleash chaos upon the city.

As he walked down the street, he threw a punch at the nearest storefront window. The glass cracked. He followed it up with another punch, this one packed with more power, and it shattered with a loud burst. Raymond laughed, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. A surge of power coursed through him as he struck the next window, which broke with a single blow. As he continued down the street, shattering more glass, his punching power increased exponentially, and soon his strikes became strong enough to send ripples of vibration through the air.

Hundreds of storefronts shattered as he walked by, and soon he discovered a new technique—the Concussion Punch. This powerful strike unleashed waves of vibration on impact: solid brick walls cracked, glass exploded, and living beings suffered concussions from the blow. In a single night, Raymond had evolved from a helpless bakery owner into a formidable Class-A fighter.

The First Victim:

As the rain poured down, headlights pierced the storm, illuminating a lone, skinny figure walking down the middle of the street—Raymond, soaked, lost, and distant. Inside the car, a man and his son drove slowly through the rain, heading home after a long day. The father, one of Raymond’s regular customers, recognized him immediately. Despite the drenched apron and the strangely vacant expression, he knew this was the same Raymond who used to greet him warmly at the bakery.

“Hey, old man, ain’t that Mr. Raymond out there? What the heck is he doin’ walking around in the rainstorm like that? Is he stoopid or what?” the son asked from the backseat, spotting the familiar skinny figure with his squinty small eyes.

The father, concerned, stopped the car beside Raymond and rolled the window halfway down, letting the cold rain splatter onto his sleeve. “Mr. Raymond!” he called out. “What are you doing out here? It’s pouring! Need a ride?”

There was no response. Raymond turned his head and stared at them, his drenched hair clinging tightly to his scalp, water dripping from the tips. His eyes—small and squinty, almost as if they were shut—were locked on the car. His fists were clenched, trembling with dark energy surging through him. Sensing something was off, the man inside the car grew uneasy. “Mr. Raymond? Are you okay?” he asked, a note of worry in his voice as he fumbled for the window button and rolled it back up.

Raymond walked around the car slowly and silently, a powerful vibe of killing intent surrounding him. Inside the vehicle, the father’s heart raced as he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a truck directly behind him; reversing was no longer an option. In a panic and with no other choices, he slammed down on the gas pedal, desperate to escape—even if it meant running over Raymond.

The tires screeched as the vehicle accelerated forward, aiming to slam into Raymond. But he didn’t budge. Bending slightly, he planted one leg behind him and pressed a hand against the hood, standing firm. The car’s engine roared loudly as it pushed him skidding backward a few feet, but he managed to force the massive vehicle to a halt.

Without a word, Raymond raised his fist and, in one quick motion infused with massive vibrating force, slammed it down onto the car’s hood. BAM! A thunderous explosion echoed! The impact was so intense it felt like a jackhammer drilling into metal—only a hundred times stronger. A shockwave rippled through the vehicle, visible even to the naked eye as damage spread across the car’s body in real time. The metal frame crumpled and buckled, supporting beams twisted violently, and all the windows and windshield shattered at once, sending shards flying in every direction. The car’s body was left cracked and wrecked beyond recognition.

The interior of the vehicle was trashed, objects violently bouncing back and forth like debris in a spinning washing machine. Father and son appeared blurry, their figures visibly distorted by the force of the devastating vibration. The shockwave surged through their bodies, their vision spiraling as the world flipped upside down.

The son screamed, crying out for help, clutching his head as the pain surpassed human tolerance. Blood leaked from every opening—eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Gradually, the waves of vibration settled to normal. Both father and son were struck by a sudden wave of nausea, and the stench of bile filled the vehicle, the odor thick and foul, like decomposing feces.

It seemed as though the son was suffering a complete mental breakdown. He began speaking in some strange alien language: “Hoo La! Papá, por favor no me repudieses, ¡soy un buen chico!” Then he embraced the back of the seat in front of him, flicking his tongue rapidly as he licked it. Within seconds, urine pooled beneath him, dripping down the edge of the seat. Gradually, his movements slowed to a stop, his eyes dimmed, and he stared blankly into the unseen distance. The young soul departed forever, leaving behind a lifeless shell.

Witnessing the tragic death of his son, the father felt nothing—no sadness, no anger, no remorse—because he too was suffering from a massive concussion. An overwhelming sleepiness overtook him, and his head dropped onto the steering wheel as his eyes shut peacefully. A long, continuous honk cut through the downpour, blending into the roaring storm.

As the horn blared behind him, Raymond turned away from the wrecked car and the lifeless bodies inside. His soaked apron clung to his skinny frame as he walked slowly down the street. Step by step, he moved farther, heading toward the next shop window—his next target.

Just another punch, and another glass window instantly shattered under his vibrating power. His eyes remained emotionless and cold, and without pausing for even a second, he turned and walked toward yet another target.

The Arrest:

As thunder rumbled overhead, the news report blared on TV screens across the town, detailing the chaotic rampage of a bankrupt store owner. “Citizens are advised to stay indoors as Raymond, a man known for his bizarre appearance—with a funny-looking mustache, an apron stained with who-knows-what, and small, squinted eyes—is smashing glass windows throughout the neighborhood… Be warned, as this seemingly honest man has lost all sanity!”

The camera cut to footage of Raymond, soaked to the bone, his face expressionless and cold as he smashed yet another window. As he moved on, a couple of opportunistic thieves rushed into the broken stores, slipping and stumbling over the shattered glass as they grabbed whatever they could. One held a stack of cheap electronics, while the other struggled with an armful of snack bags, tripping over each other, completely unaware that the news cameras were capturing every chaotic second.

Meanwhile, at the police station, Chief Grayson—a man with a receding hairline and one side of his hair ridiculously long, sweeping across his head to conceal his baldness—gathered his unenthusiastic team of five lackeys. “Alright, gather up, slackers! It’s time to bring this lunatic to justice! We are the law, and no one escapes us!” He said, puffing out his chest and standing with his hands on his hips, trying to look cool.

The cops dragged their feet through the rain-soaked streets, grumbling about being forced into a task in such awful weather. “Why can’t this lunatic act up on a sunny day?” one muttered, tugging his collar up. Another sighed, “Let’s track him down, give him a good beating, and get this over with.”

As they passed around the corner, they spotted a skinny figure sitting on the doorstep outside the back entrance of a restaurant kitchen—a chef on his break, enjoying a cigarette and watching the news on his phone. He had small, squinted eyes, a funny-looking mustache, and an apron stained with grease and dark red animal blood, just as described in the report. And on top of it, he was bald.

“There he is!” Grayson shouted in a dramatic voice, one hand on his hip and the other pointing sharply at the chef, trying to look cool again. “At last… We’ve found our suspect!”

The cops quickly surrounded the chef, closing in on him. He froze at this sudden turn of events, raising both hands in surrender in a panic and saying in a shaken voice, “Wait! I know what you guys are thinking, but I’m not—”

But before he could finish, Grayson and his team started pounding on him like thugs rather than law enforcers, batons swinging wildly. One of the cops laughed at the chef, “Look at you! Already bald at such a young age! You must be related to our chief!” Grayson, also half-bald, slapped the officer hard across the face, barking, “Shut your mouth, fool!” The cop held his cheek with one hand, his bottom lip trembling downward, barely holding in his tears.

The cops struck him relentlessly, their blows landing hard on his ribs and legs, sending him crashing to the ground. As he crawled, one officer kicked him in the chest with all his might, the impact forcing a violent cough, blood splattering across the pavement. He huddled into a defensive position, crying out in pain, but they showed no mercy. Their laughter echoed through the dark alley as they took satisfaction in their moment of dominance.

“Resistance is futile!” one officer taunted, pressing the chef’s face down into the cold pavement with his foot and grinding it against the rough surface. The chef’s whole body jerked in agony, his face deeply scarred and skin severely peeled off as he tried to plead, “Please, stop! I’m not even resisting…”

As the others continued their ruthless beating, Grayson casually searched through the chef’s pockets, pulled out a thin stack of cash, and stuffed it into his own pocket without hesitation. The chef’s eyes widened, glaring at Grayson in silent disgust. Grayson caught the look and, without missing a beat, slapped him across the face. “What the heck are you staring at, huh?” he barked.

After a few minutes, the cops were out of breath from their relentless pounding. Exhausted, they decided to wrap it up and handcuffed the chef, his hands bound behind his back. Just as they thought the task was finished, a loud crash echoed from nearby, drawing their attention. They turned to see the real Raymond in action—his fists smashing through another store’s glass window, his apron flapping in the wind.

“Oops, wrong guy!” one cop shouted, and the others turned to Grayson, looking lost and waiting for his next instruction. Grayson wiped the sweat off his forehead, placing both hands on his hips, still trying to act cool. “Ahem…” He cleared his throat and spoke in a dramatic tone, “Well… We all make mistakes, don’t we? What matters is that we learn from them! Isn’t that right, brothers?” The lackeys exchanged awkward glances, then nodded along, trying to keep up.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier, baldy?” Grayson barked, kicking the chef hard in the head. The impact left a bruise blooming around his eye. “I’ve been trying to tell you the whole time…” the chef sobbed, overwhelmed by his misfortune. Grayson kicked him again, sending him rolling across the pavement until he landed into a filthy gutter, still handcuffed. The cops barely glanced back before chasing after the real suspect.

“Turns out that Raymond isn’t actually bald after all!” one cop commented casually.

Fight vs. the Smoking Cop:

As the cops approached, Raymond noticed them and turned around, cold and emotionless as he stared back. Grayson took a single step forward, one hand on his hip, the other pointing sharply at Raymond. Acting cool as ever, he commanded, “You—the one with a cigarette—go get him!” The cop with the cigarette dangling from his mouth casually strolled toward Raymond, hands tucked in his pockets, looking intimidating.

“Show us what you’re made of, and try not to cry for mama… hahaha…” Grayson taunted from a distance, sounding cool while deliberately staying behind the other cops.

The smoking cop stood right in front of Raymond, chest to chest. They stared at each other, tension thick in the air. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, then pulled it from his mouth with one hand. “So, you’re some kind of tough guy, huh?” he taunted, his other hand reaching up to grip Raymond’s chin. He held Raymond’s face firmly, the burning tip of the cigarette dangerously close to his cheek. “How about I leave a burning mark on your pretty face, sissy?”

But before the cop could press the burning tip of the cigarette into Raymond’s cheek, Raymond casually swung his arm, slapping the smoking cop across the face. The force sent the cop flying backward, crashing to the ground, and the momentum carried him, skidding across the wet pavement further down the street.

Despite the epic motion, the cop only suffered minor scratches. But he painfully realized that Raymond was on an entirely different level, far beyond him. His hand trembled, and his pants grew wet from within. A wave of terror coursed through his body. He decided to stay still on the ground and play dead.

Fight vs. the Part-Time Cop:

Raymond stood straight, his expression cold as the next officer Grayson sent stepped forward. Unlike the others, this man wasn’t just a cop—he worked part-time in law enforcement by day and lived as a street gangster by night, tirelessly supporting not just one but several families. His face was rough and worn from years of exhaustion, with dark circles under his eyes, revealing sleepless nights and a life stretched too thin.

Witnessing the slap that sent the smoking cop flying, the part-time cop fully acknowledged Raymond’s formidable power. He decided to go all out, tossing his police baton aside and pulling out a rusty metal pipe—a tool better suited to his street-fighting style. “Hey, pal. Nothing personal here, just doing my job,” he said in a flat tone. “Hope you understand that.” He tightened his grip with the determination of a man with mouths to feed. This fight was dangerous, but he couldn’t afford to lose; he desperately needed the paychecks.

Meanwhile, the smoking cop, only scratched a bit from the earlier impact, noticed that everyone’s attention was focused on the fight. Driven by his survival instinct, he discreetly and shamelessly crawled away, inch by inch, trying to flee the scene. His movements were slow and deliberate, careful not to attract attention. After minutes of effort, he managed to get far enough and then broke into a run, escaping with his life for another day.

“Here goes nothing!” The part-time cop took a deep breath and charged at Raymond, swinging the pipe wildly. “You’ll never win. I’m fighting for a noble cause—my families, the ones I deeply love!” he muttered as the pipe cut through the air in a sharp arc, gusts of wind howling with each swing.

Raymond, however, blocked every strike effortlessly, his movements smooth and calculated as he deflected the blows with ease.

Realizing that consecutive random swings had proven ineffective, the part-time cop quickly fell back a few yards, preparing a new tactic. Amidst the fight, he closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the happy moments he’d shared with each of his families. A contented smile crossed his face as a surge of energy coursed through him, channeling into his right arm. This was the power of family love. He propelled himself forward, leaping high into the air, raising the pipe overhead, and swinging it down with all his might. “In the name of my loved ones… I shall triumph!” he shouted.

However, Raymond didn’t bother dodging. Instead, he threw a massive Concussion Punch straight ahead—direct and precise—meeting the pipe head-on with his fist.

The moment they collided, a violent shockwave traveled through the pipe, rushing into the cop’s body in mid-air. The vibrations were so intense that both he and his pipe became a blur, nearly unrecognizable. A piercing, vibrating metal sound echoed through the air, forcing those nearby to cover their ears in distress.

As the part-time cop crashed to the ground, the vibration finally found its way out of his body, and his shape solidified once more. On the outside, he appeared unharmed, but internally, he had sustained severe damage, especially to his brain, which was concussed beyond repair. With the last remnants of his consciousness, he turned and slowly stumbled away from Raymond, leaning on the rusty metal pipe like a walking cane. “My families… my wives… my kids…” he muttered, blood leaking from the corner of his lips. “I just want to see you all… one more time…”

“Where the freak do you think you’re going, you fool…” Grayson tried to yell at the part-time cop. But before he could say more, one of the remaining cops, a very skinny one, tapped the chief on the shoulder, his eyes welling with tears. “Please… chief… let him go home… but I don’t think he’s gonna make it, he’s done for…” His voice cracked, breaking mid-sentence.

The words struck Grayson hard. Realizing the grim reality of his subordinate’s imminent demise, he stepped back and fell silent.

Watching the fatally injured cop gripping the pipe for balance, trembling with the effort to keep moving farther into the distance, Grayson found himself swallowing hard. For once, even a chief as questionable as him—corrupt, unserious, and all—didn’t try to act cool.

“I’m sorry… my wives… my children…” he murmured, his voice trembling with regret as his legs gave way beneath him. The rusty pipe slipped from his grip, clattering against the pavement as he collapsed to his side. “I love you…” he whispered, the last of his strength fading as his eyes closed, drifting into eternal rest.

Raymond stood there, unflinching. He didn’t acknowledge the man’s pain, nor did he react to the tragic finality of the moment. His presence was indifferent, detached, as if the scene unfolding before him meant nothing.

The Ground Shake:

Assessing Raymond’s strength, Grayson put on a serious face and commanded, “Hey, everyone—let’s all jump in together!” as he held his chin thoughtfully, clearly trying to act cool again. His remaining subordinates hesitated, visibly fearful. Steady, Grayson placed one hand on his hip as he always did, pointed sharply at Raymond, and raised his voice, commanding, “Brethren! By all that we stand for, in the honor of our uniforms, let’s bring him into custody—with our combined strength—right here, right now!” Motivated by his inspiring words, the officers felt a surge of energy and charged forward with newfound determination.

As all three subordinates charged ahead, Grayson discreetly hung back. They spread out in three directions, moving to encircle Raymond and close in gradually. But Raymond, ever cold and unflinching, didn’t even look their way. He smashed his fist into the ground with terrifying force, causing the pavement to buckle beneath him. A tremendous shockwave radiated outward, rippling through the rain-soaked street.

Caught off guard, the cops staggered as the ground beneath them trembled. Vibrations surged through their front legs and shot out of their back legs. Their bodies blurred for less than a second, but even that split-second impact was enough to leave them with concussion-like symptoms. Legs buckled, and they dropped like stones, crashing to the ground in an instant, struggling to get back on their feet, only to collapse again, disoriented and vomiting as their heads spun in dizzying confusion.

Despite the injuries, the skinny cop was relieved it wasn’t a direct hit like their comrade—the part-time cop. He knew that, despite the unbearable pain, it wasn’t fatal. He also noticed that Raymond had no interest in pursuing further attacks. Quickly, he signaled the other two cops to retreat. As he had hoped, Raymond stood there silently, not moving an inch, allowing them the chance to slowly drag themselves away.

The Final Straw:

Seeing all his subordinates drop like flies, Grayson panicked, feeling trapped like an animal cornered. Desperate, he fumbled for his handgun, his hands trembling as he shakily leveled the weapon at Raymond. He pulled the trigger twice, but the shots went wildly off target, missing by as much as 90 degrees to the right— a result of his unsteady hands and years of neglecting his shooting training.

One bullet bounced off a metal water pipe on a wall, zipping straight toward a nearby hotdog stand with a high-pitched whistle. The vendor, sensing something off, felt the wind rush by his head. With lightning reflexes, he jerked his head to the side, narrowly dodging it. “Phew! Good thing I didn’t skip my Kung Fu class in high school!” He muttered to himself, flipping the hotdogs as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Another shot sliced through the air, speeding toward a group of teenagers laughing loudly as they walked out of a nearby movie theater, excitedly chatting about the film they’d just seen. Suddenly, one of them crumpled to the ground, a sharp pressure to his temple. Ironically, the rest of the group continued walking, completely unaware of their friend’s loss, chatter growing even louder.

“Oops…” Grayson felt bad for the kid, just a little bit, but quickly pushed the guilt aside, pretending nothing had happened. Raymond, on the other hand, didn’t acknowledge Grayson in the slightest. He stood there, casually scanning the surroundings for his next glass window target. Grayson, the cowardly loser, was already freaking out from Raymond’s mere presence. He stumbled backward and slipped awkwardly on the wet pavement.

Seeing Grayson slip and fall, a young food delivery rider stopped beside him. She got off her scooter and kindly approached, asking, “Excuse me, sir. Are you alright?” Reaching out to help him up, Grayson shamelessly pointed his gun at her chest, threatening, “Hand over the bike, or else…” The rider froze, her muscles stiffening, unsure of what to do. Without a second thought, Grayson hopped onto the scooter, revved the engine, and sped off, disappearing down the street without looking back.

The Cliffhanger:

Meanwhile, far above the chaos below, Michael and Colin stood on the 50th floor of a tall skyscraper, gazing through the large glass window. Colin, arms crossed, watched Raymond’s destruction on the streets with a calm expression.

“The sleeping hyena has awakened,” Colin said, his voice steady and certain.

Michael glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Most people would say ‘sleeping tiger’ or ‘sleeping dragon.’”

Without the slightest shift in reaction, Colin, still with his arms crossed, replied calmly, “I stand by my words. He’s powerful, but not powerful enough to be called a tiger or dragon. I trust you’ll handle him just fine.”

His words lingered in the air, carrying a sense of warning and expectation, closing the chapter with unsettling tension—a promise of the inevitable confrontation to come.