TILY Chapter 2
by mintyfoxMy grandfather was a hunter. Owner of a 76 cm-barreled shotgun. Korean champion.
“Little rat, your ass is slow!”
“Hurry up and ride, rat!”
“Y-yes… sniff…”
Friday, the ride home from school.
The sky was clear, and the spring breeze smelled like cotton candy.
We had legally escaped the Alcatraz prison ruled by Warden Jo the Inspector, and in the sun-drenched school parking lot we each hopped onto our rattling scooters.
Maeum and Ri rushed Naro.
“Murderer, get on already!”
“…I-I’m getting on, geez… sheesh…”
I pretended not to notice Naro sneaking glances at me.
Naro clutched his round helmet to his chest and kept staring. Waiting for a signal from me—eye contact, a nod, anything, even a curse would do.
“Ugh, I’m dying here! Naro, you little rat? Hurry the hell up!”
“Get on before I kick your butt! Awoooo!”
Ri howled at the full moon like a wolf, chin thrust high.
Maeum, wearing a giant egg-shaped, beat-up old helmet, screamed at Naro too. Ri clung to Maeum’s back while gripping the tiny scooter handlebars, baring his teeth wide. If Naro didn’t climb on fast, he’d bite that big head again.
“Get on, rat!”
“Murderer, if you don’t hurry I’ll hang you from Giant Blue tonight under the moonlight!”
“No! Don’t… I said I’m getting on, whine.”
*Giant Blue is the name of the huge ash tree we all treasure.*
Naro crept closer to Duga, sneaking peeks at me like a kid checking on mom. He dragged his sneaker soles—scrrch, scrrch.
I pretended not to care and flipped my helmet on.
“Wanna ride this one, Naro?”
Duga asked.
“…Mhm.”
Duga gave the scaredy-cat Naro a super-warm smile and scooted forward. Naro slipped his skull into the tiny helmet like a bird entering a cage and climbed behind Duga.
“Hold my waist tight, Naro. You’ll get hurt if you fall.”
“I don’t wanna fall… sniff…”
“Just hold my waist, okay? I’ll go slow, no scares.”
“Hey, hey, Duga! Where’s your waist exactly? Hehe!”
“Yo, Billy? Duga has no waist. Isn’t that spot right under his chest his butt? Hi there, Mr. Butt! Comfy in there?”
Maeum and Ri clutched their stomachs and cracked up.
Ri and Maeum were like twins—perfect harmony.
Maeum was obsessed with westerns and called himself the legendary outlaw Billy the Kid; his bestie Ri was Pat Garrett.
One thing bugged Maeum, though: in the movie *The End of the Affair*, Pat Garrett shoots Billy dead in the final scene.
Korean Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett were braver and nastier than any outlaw in the west—of course, only outside Duga’s reach.
Duga was a middle-school wrestling king and a total saint; no matter how much they teased, he just laughed like a gentle bear and never got mad.
“You holding tight, Naro?”
“Yeah.”
Naro clung to Duga’s waist like sticky rice, glued to his back. The seat was ridiculously cramped—Duga’s bulk was twice the scooter’s size.
No choice, though.
Naro knew his place today. He couldn’t cling to my back grinning like usual. He had a conscience. He’d seen with those huge eyes how Jo the Inspector wrecked my butt yesterday—it was still swollen to hell.
Vroom vroom.
“Let’s break out of prison!”
Maeum and Ri, engines already running, revved impatiently, itching for my signal.
I side-eyed the others. Checked if Naro was gripping Duga’s thick waist properly.
*OK.*
“Move out.”
“Yeehaw! Run, run, my noble steed Hidalgo! Greatest racehorse of the wild west!”
“Woo-hoooo!”
Maeum and Ri whooped like maniacs and shot forward.
Five of us, crammed on three tiny scooters, kicked up clouds of dust and escaped school under the lively afternoon sun.
Weekend at last. Life felt worth living. At least right this second, life was *damn* worth living.
“Ohhh, here comes the idiot Five Musketeers!”
“Heyyy, our babies are riding ponies side by side again?”
“Little kiddos? Go ride rocking horses to daycare! Pfft-ha-ha!”
Beeeep beeep beeep.
The second we roared onto the road in front of school, whistles screamed from afar. Sunny’s gang.
Sunny is the spoiled thug son of Lyker, the richest, most corrupt rancher in our village. Maeum nicknamed both father and son.
Sunny’s crew—four punks from Yellow Dust Billiards—went by the hilarious name Don Corleone Family. The naming sense was so absurd it brought tears. Still, they’d seen The Godfather way too many times.
Anyway, they’re our sworn enemies and the village nuisance. Not that they amount to much.
“Hey cuties, where ya headed? Tree-climbing like monkeys again?”
“Oh my, oh my? They still dig dirt under trees playing house. Mommyyy, Daddyyy, honeyyy, babyyy, sweeetie~ Wanna taste? Aing~”
Sunny wasn’t there, but their routine never changed.
They yelled loud enough for us to hear from miles away. Thug A with his rooster-comb yellow hair twisted his body and squealed in a nasal voice.
“Maeummie, did you brush your teeth after lunch? Rii, wash your feet before bed, okay? Oh nooo, Duga’s not wearing jammies? Looking for your teddy? Aww, mommy’ll find it, don’t cry. Good babies don’t cry. Heehee.”
“Right, right. Good kids don’t cry. Hoho.”
Next, Thug B with swirl hair sticking straight up puckered his lips and imitated a girl. The gang cracked up poking each other.
“Cool big bros? Come play with us~ Aing.”
We ignored them and kept rumbling closer. They thought they’d roasted us good and were loving it.
I actually felt a little sorry for them. So unfunny.
Same lame taunts every day—yesterday, today, the day before. Childish as hell, worse than Naro.
“Daero, how ’bout it?”
As we closed in, Maeum’s eyes sparkled like real Billy the Kid.
“Wanna do it? Hehe.”
“Been a while—let’s give ’em a taste of knock-out!”
Ri jumped in.
“Let’s go.”
I nodded. Signaled Duga to line up beside me.
As expected, when we got close, Thug C chomping gum spread his arms across the road, human barricade style.
“Advance!”
I signaled Duga. He quickly muttered over his shoulder, “Hold tight, Naro.”
VROOOOM!
Duga and I charged straight toward the pool hall. Maeum slowed behind us.
“Big bros? Play with me today. My butt’s super bouncy. Aing.”
Thug C wiggled his hips, waiting.
We kept straight faces and barreled on—
BOOM!
Right at his nose, Duga and I split like parting waves, yanking our handlebars left and right.
BWOOOM!
“Idiot wolves attacking buffalo! Open fire!”
Maeum’s scooter roared through the gap like a raging waterfall.
“GYAAAH!”
Thug C’s gum plopped onto the ground. He crashed flat on his ass.
“Pew pew pew! Kwang kwang kwang! Target eliminated, Sheriff Wyatt Earp, sir! Hehe.”
Maeum—now the legendary lawman from Gunfight at the O.K. Corral—scraped the guy’s pants with his tire.
“Nice work, Pat Garrett!”
Maeum whooped.
“Burn the pool hall! Any bastard with burning ass runs out—flay their scalps with a knife! Roast the scalps on skewers! Hya-ha-ha!”
The thugs chased us, screaming.
“You horned little colts! Next time we’ll fuck you up, you midgets! Hot and spicy!”
Ri fake-shot at the stragglers. Naro, clinging to Duga, turned and stuck his tongue out long.
Today’s battle: Thugs vs. Apostles of Justice—another perfect victory for us.
100 fights, 100 wins. Undefeated.
“Forward.”
I signaled speed up; our scooters roared like beasts.
The Don Corleone wannabes ran out of breath, shaking fists and cursing. I checked the rear-view, raised my right middle finger high. Fuck you.
“Midgetssss! Next time there’ll be nothing left of youuu!”
We left their friendly farewell behind, zoomed out of downtown, kicking up dust clouds at full throttle.
Soon the straight poplar-lined boulevard appeared, trees soaring to the sky.
The five of us raced toward Heaven’s Gate—name courtesy of Maeum—our hometown beyond the tree tunnel.
Halfway through, Ri shouted excitedly.
“Let’s beg Grandpa for a pheasant! Grill it!”
“You’ll get a shotgun blast! Haha!”
Maeum laughed.
“I… want a rabbit.”
Naro, glued to Duga’s back, piped up.
“Rabbits are too cute. Hehe.”
“Rat, you get nothing!”
Maeum slowed beside Duga and snarled.
“Tell Grandpa to give the rat a dead mouse.”
“No! Grandpa said he’d give me a rabbit.”
“Murderer! I already ripped out that rabbit’s liver yesterday. Ate rabbit stew, nyah!”
“Nooo! I hate Maeum!”
“That rabbit’s curse means you’re getting hanged today—”
“STOP. RIGHT. THERE.”
I spat the words and glared into the rear-view. Maeum shut up instantly and looked back. Duga, Ri, and Naro whipped around too.
I calmly announced two words.
“Black Porsche.”
In my scooter’s tiny round mirror, a long dust tornado tail trailed a fighter jet skimming the dirt—a sleek imported car. Rare in this countryside. Latest model, sharp as its owner.
“WAAAH! Villain alert! The warden’s here!”
“Teacher Jo…”
“Scatter.”
Maeum and Duga screamed and veered left and right.
“T-teacher?!”
Naro blushed, squeaking like a baby bird. Ri made a skull-cracking gesture at him.
We pulled to the roadside fast. The Porsche zoomed up behind us in a blink.
We parked on the shoulder and sucked in air. *Haah (me). Haah (Duga). Haah (Naro).*
BWAAAAAAAA—
The Porsche blasted past.
“Cough! Cough! Blegh!”
“Ah—ah—achoo!”
Maeum and Ri, hit by the dust tornado before they could hold their breath, clutched their throats and coughed. The Porsche shot through the tree tunnel like a mini rocket and vanished toward the highway on the opposite side of our village.
“That cursed—cough!—villain! Always speeds here! Every damn time we pass!”
“Let’s call the sheriff, Billy!”
Ri wheezed.
“That bastard’s insane. This is a 30 km/h zone!”
Maeum and Ri, covered head to toe in dust, raged.
Duga blinked at me.
“Speed…?”
“350. Exact. My mustache was flapping.”
Giant Duga looked confused and scanned my smooth upper lip.
I scowled toward the highway the Porsche took.
‘Yeah.’
‘We’d savored exactly five minutes of fiery Friday afternoon freedom. Only five minutes in the parking lot.’
‘Still, seeing that Porsche disappear brought huge relief.’
‘Of course. A guy with perfect limbs and annoyingly handsome face like Jo the Inspector wouldn’t stay cooped up at home on a day like this.’
‘Obviously he’d go out. Had to. So we could breathe easy.’
“Prepare to move out again.”
Vroom vroom!
“Move out.”
We restarted our scooters and took off. Forgot Jo the Inspector instantly, yelling and laughing as we raced down the tree tunnel.
We were all born the same year in the same village.
Us—Maeum, Naro, me Na Daero, and the others—all popped out one after another in Heaven’s Gate.
When we got old enough to vaguely realize who we were, we each threw huge tantrums at our parents and grandparents. Why mess with kids’ names? What did we do to deserve this? Life would be tough with names like these.
Our dads grew up like brothers in the same village. Blood-thick buddies.
They sometimes studied, mostly fought, grew closer through bruises, became adults, and married.
Among the five, only my dad Na Pil-seung left home early. One chilly dawn he tied a single bundle, snuck out of stubborn hunter Grandpa’s house, and vanished to become a boxer with an uncertain future.
Later, Dad met a beautiful, gentle mom in Seoul and married her. Dirt-poor boxer Dad bit his lip and sent Mom to Grandpa for my birth.
That winter, right after Naro, I was born in our village.
Grandpa named me Na Daero without a second thought—because his son always did whatever the hell he wanted. He told me himself later.
After Mom’s postnatal care, two years later I went back to Seoul with her. Dad had become a spotlight boxer, and time flew.
Dad became KBC champion all thanks to me. From age 3 to 6 I was his perfect sparring partner. Even the indomitable boxer couldn’t beat me—Mom told me so.
Eventually Dad became the light-heavyweight Korean champion he dreamed of. Asian champion too.
Then the next year, in the OPBF light-heavyweight title defense, when the final bell rang ding-ding-ding, my father Na Pil-seung collapsed on a foreign ring still wearing gloves and never got up. I was six.
A month after Dad’s funeral, Mom miscarried and followed him.
I returned to the countryside and grew up under a strict hunter Grandpa and kind Grandma.
Then one summer day.
I’d been sick for a long time.
Finally recovered, I was digging dirt alone under the giant ash tree in front of the house when I looked up—and there they were. Ri, Duga, Maeum, and Naro.
No plans, no promises, yet we’d all gathered in one spot. Like instinct. We chattered, poking the ground with broken branches under the dazzling summer sun filtering through Giant Blue’s green leaves.
From then on, every day we met under Giant Blue and dug dirt. Chased birds and beasts across the hills, covered in dust.
Swam and splash in the river in summer. Sledded down hills on plastic bags in winter. Built two-meter snowmen during blizzards.
That’s how we spent childhood.
Graduated elementary, then middle school.
Finally dignified high school freshmen—then life threw a curveball. A villain from Seoul crashed our peaceful world. Jo Gyeol.
At the village entrance we agreed to drop by our houses first. No need to set a meeting spot—we always gather under Giant Blue in front of Grandpa’s house.
“See ya, yahoo!”
Maeum and Ri, same direction, rattled away.
Duga waved blankly then turned. His house was on the same side as Maeum’s. Naro and I lived opposite—next door to each other.
“Naro, don’t get off. I’ll take you home.”
Duga said.
“Huh? Okay… I was…”
Naro squirmed behind Duga, sneaking a glance at me.
“It’s fine… I was gonna walk from here anyway. Hehe.”
“No, ride with me. Your legs hurt, right?”
Naro deliberately spoke loud while watching me carefully.
“I’m okay, but… alright…”
“STOP.”
Duga, about to start, looked at me confused.
Naro pretended surprise but clearly knew I’d do this—he hid behind Duga’s back, bunny-smiling at me.
“Get on.”
“I’m already on?”
Whoa.
Naro had somehow hopped behind me.
‘Cute little shit.’
‘Bunny bastard.’
‘Ha Naro, you sly fox.’
“Duga, catch ya later. Bye. Ehe.”
“Leaving.”
We waved side by side.
“Go safe, Daero, Naro. No fighting.”
“Yep. Bye. Hehe.”
Naro waved.
Duga’s tiny junk scooter rattled off. Looked dangerously wobbly—guy’s huge.
I watched Naro wave at Duga, then—
BWOOOM!
“Mommy! Aaaah!”
I floored it. Naro almost flew off and cracked his skull—
—if I hadn’t grabbed his nape.
“Waa, you scared me! Hic!”
Naro, super pissed, head-butted my back—thunk thunk—and pinched my sides.
“My butt’s still swollen. Three weeks recovery. Whose fault again?”
“Uh…”
Naro shut up. I smirked and started the scooter.
Innocent bunny Naro hugged my waist tight, glued like he’d never let go. He knew I’d prank again if he didn’t.
Come to think of it, the real rat wasn’t Naro—it was me. I live under the roof.
Grandpa’s house is a white three-story wooden house. Black roof sharp triangle; the attic right beneath is my nest. No need to mention it was storage until a month ago.
In this triangular attic I wanted to stand by the window every night, soaking handkerchiefs missing my parents under jewel-like stars—but it wasn’t my style.
Instead, for the past month I hid by the window watching the dark outside. Holding my breath.
From the attic window you can see Giant Blue we all climbed and grew under.
15 m tall, 5.3 m chest-high circumference, branches stretching 10 m in every direction. Not *that* giant, but it felt enormous when we were small. Grandpa says it’s about 180 years old.
We five loved Giant Blue.
As kids we peeled bark with Grandpa, soaked it in water, and cheered when the water turned blue. Naro named it Giant Blue.
Someday that beautiful tree should become a national monument.
Seems there’s only one ash tree that is graceful and huge.
But one stormy day I did something awful to bunny Naro down there. Story for later.
Anyway, until a month ago I sometimes listened to leaves rustling like songs and admired the night sky, but lately my senses are sharp elsewhere. Especially this past month. Especially tonight.
Maeum, Ri, and Duga went home an hour ago. After carrying sleeping sparrow-baby Naro from my attic to his house next door, I’d done a little “work” on the gravel driveway in front of the garage.
*‘Bet you’re out having the time of your life, oh revered educator.’*
I muttered inwardly. My butt still hurts.
*‘Pretty late tonight. Must be Friday night fever.’*
I scowled like Marlon Brando, pen in mouth like a Cuban cigar—cool as hell.
*‘Carousing with beauties, huh? Hypocrite.’*
—!
Instantly I yanked the pen out and hid. Tire noise far away.
*‘What the—already back?’*
Lights off, invisible, yet the moment I heard tires I flattened under the window. Instinct.
Lay there a while. I felt childish, but cautious first.
Then I pricked my ears. Soon the car crossed the lawn, entered the gravel, and stopped.
“…?”
But then—nothing. For ages.
My ears, trained hardcore this past month, could catch deflating tires, low curses, angry footsteps on gravel.
Yet dead silence after stopping. Suspicious as hell.
‘What, not getting out? Sleeping in the car? Drunk driving? Dear god. You’re not human, but this is next level.’
I sneered, peeked out cautiously.
Recon success.
The black Porsche crouched in the dark like a sleeping panther. Moonlight gleamed brilliantly on its back.
My scooter parked beside it looked pathetic. Decent used price, but zero presence next to that beast. ‘Shit.’
‘What’re you doing?’
I kept waiting. Way past time to exit.
‘Asleep?’
Still nothing.
‘Or reflecting on yesterday’s atrocities? How admirable.’
Click.
“…!”
Car door suddenly opened.
I’d almost stood up—noise hit, I dove beside the window.
Then carefully peeked, glaring at the crouching black beast. Precisely at its owner—sharp recon.
Tap.
One tiny gravel crunch.
Then silence again. Owner unmoving.
‘Totally lost it. Great job.’
I death-stared his crown. Glared at the motionless ghost-like figure.
Sadly only until then. Next second I had to turn on the light.
“Hey, kid, Daerooo! Na Daero! Daeroooo!”
In my stormy seventeen years, no matter what, I wanted to live *my way*—Na. Dae. Ro.
But sometimes the world refuses. Very, very often.
“Daerooo! Get out here! Big trouble! Call the police! Ambulance now! Daero, you little punk!”
If not for my sharp-eared, born-hunter Grandpa, maybe the world would’ve been more livable *my way*.
“Daeroooo! You thug, come out! Where’s my gun? Woman! Bring my shotgun! I’ll shoot this brat! Blow his brains out! Get out now, Daero you bastard!”
“Dear heavens, Teacher! What happened? Are you hurt?”
I flew from third floor to front door like the wind. The moment I opened it, Grandma’s shocked voice trembled from the yard. Usually gentle, now shaking hard.
Woof woof!
Grandpa’s hunting partner, German Pointer Naki, bolted to Jo the Inspector, sniffing.
*‘Holy crap. What’d you do now.’*
That’s when I saw it. Jo the Inspector standing unsteady, left leg immobile.
Under moonlight, face paler than the moon, glaring at his own leg, frowning hard.
“Call ambulance! Police! Daero, Daeroooo!”
Grandpa, almost eighty, had a booming voice. Small, skinny, but tough and stubborn.
Only Grandma in this world could calm hot-blooded Grandpa.
“Mister? I’m fine. Just twisted my ankle a bit.”
Even evil Jo the Inspector was exempt.
“Oh my… fine? Look at this blood!”
Grandma clasped hands, trembling at the blood on his pants.
Naki stiffened his tail straight, sniffing hard.
“So much blood… oh no…”
“No, not my blood.”
Jo said.
“On the way, there was a pile-up on the highway. I’m only lightly injured, but it must’ve come from a bleeding victim. Nothing to worry about.”
He kept calm. Face grew even paler.
*‘Exactly. Totally nothing.’*
I nodded hugely in full agreement with Grandpa and Grandma.
“Let’s go to the hospital anyway. Daero, you punk! What’re you doing? Call the ambulance!”
But Grandpa kept yelling at me; Jo firmly declined.
Stubborn Grandpa couldn’t push further when the young, smart tenant on the second floor—also my homeroom teacher—politely and calmly refused.
Grandma fidgeted, watching Jo anxiously.
“Oh… can you walk alone, Teacher?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“You look in so much pain…”
“No. I can walk.”
Grandma worried more when he tried to move.
So I had to think:
*‘Please. I could run a marathon. Stop faking.’*
Up to then I’d been stupid. Too busy recording rare footage of Jo the Inspector’s weakness to realize the situation was turning *extremely* bad for me. Sadly, I missed it.
“Daeroooo! You thug, what’re you doing? Help the teacher!”
Oh no!
“Help him, you punk!”
“Why me?”
“Why? Can’t you see?”
“He says he’s fine!”
“What? You ungrateful brat! Woman! Where’s my gun? Bring it! I’ll blow a hole in this kid’s gut today! Cannonball-sized hole! Bring the gun!”
“Dear, calm down! Daero will help the teacher. You’ll wake the whole village!”
“Bring my guuuun!”
“Oh goodness… Daero…”
Grandpa was a hunter. 76 cm shotgun owner. Korean champion.
**“One month ago. Second day after school started. When Jo the Inspector visited to say he’d rent the second floor—my room—I resisted. Bet my life. In front of Grandpa holding the shotgun, staring down the black barrel, I swore on my life: never give my beloved room to that inspector. Why the hell is he invading our house? Which lightning-struck realtor cursed us? ‘Fine, you little shit! This frail old man finally gets easy money and you piss on it? Take this!’ But when my frail Grandpa stood tall, loaded real bullets from the safe, and aimed at his only grandson—world never goes my way. Always the exact opposite.”**
“Let’s go.”
That’s why I reached out and grabbed it. That arm. Enemy’s arm. The hard, sleek arm of Jo the Inspector who brutally beat me yesterday morning.
“Thanks.”
He answered with a totally ungrateful face. Ice-cold, heavily frowning.
“Come on, quick, inside!”
Urged by Grandpa, I staggered across the gravel. Reluctantly slung Jo’s arm over my shoulder—felt like carrying a corpse, spine chilling.
“You’re doing something useless.”
Jo suddenly muttered.
“…?”
Right in my ear. I glanced—smirking faintly, he dropped it.
“Sorry? What do you—”
He curled his lip just enough, smirked.
“Spreading nails on the gravel? Pointless.”
“…!”
“My tires cost as much as the whole car. Very expensive. Think your junk scooter could buy even a scrap of my tire rubber?”
I immediately looked down. At his left foot. Desperately wanted to stomp it.
“Support me properly, Na Daero. You’re the one helping, not me. You’re making my leg hurt more.”
*Shit.*
*I told you, right?*
*Jo the Inspector, you’re really not human.*
‘Guess I’ll never take that back.’