Chad took what seemed like a smart shortcut—a dirt path through overgrown trees—to skip part of his walk home. He avoided most of the town, but as soon as he hit the streets, the usual dangers awaited: low-hanging helicopters, pigeons dive-bombing his face, sudden volcanic eruptions, an 'ayy lmao' moment, or, if luck was truly rotten, a full-on Godzilla attack.
Why doesn't Chad walk home?" You might wonder telepathically. Well, he's given plenty of other transport a shot... but, let's just say, things usually... don't end well.
He once took a driving lesson so he could get his own car and drive wherever he wanted, but the instructor had some… unusual methods.
She kept kissing his neck, and his seatbelt had a bizarre lock that could only be undone with a key. On top of that, she wouldn't stop tugging on his personal gear stick, insisting it was all part of teaching him to handle distractions.
He wasn't sure he was learning much from the lessons, but he gave her five stars anyway.
Whenever Chad hopped on the bus, chaos erupted. The moment his foot touched the step, every lass onboard sprang from her seat, clawing over each other in a desperate frenzy to reach him. Even the driver, utterly smitten, slammed the brakes and abandoned the wheel, running her hands over his chest with a sigh of devotion.
Outside, a horde of admirers often flatten themselves against the windows, their bare breasts and stiffened nipples pressed against the glass. Lusty sighs fogged up the panes as they moaned and drooled over Chad, the bus crawling forward at an agonising pace—trapping him in a slow, inescapable parade of worship.
Then there's the train—where standing up is just part of the experience. When it was crowded, people seemed to get a little too close, and hands wandered in all directions. And when the train entered a dark tunnel, his trousers somehow slipped down, with a girl's lips magically wrapping around his dick.
The ticket inspectors? They always seem to "accidentally" drop Chad's ticket down their low-cut tops, arching their backs and asking him to help them get it out.
And when the train wasn't too packed, there was always a girl who insisted on using the grab pole, turning it into an impromptu pole dance. All her clothes, panties, and bra flew off in the process.
Maybe he should use a jet or plane to travel a couple of miles, you might think? Nah, he wasn't Taylor Swift—he actually gave a damn about his carbon footprint. Unlike her, and her 8-minute flight to Starbucks. The only footprints he wanted were from his anime waifu when she walked over his face.
Thinking of other transport methods, he could use teleportation, but the teleportation technology wasn't perfected yet. The teleportation software might or might not teleport his clothes with him, and he may or may not end up teleporting to a location he hadn't set the coordinates for. If both faults happened simultaneously, he could be teleported naked into some guy's bed... One femme fatale might hack the teleportation app, tweaking the coordinates so Chad materialises in her bedroom, sprawled across her silk sheets, bare as the day he was born.
...and there are Google Maps, but the fast travel never worked on it, no matter how fast you clicked on the location you wanted to fast travel to. Maybe the servers were overloaded.
Leisurely walking past several small shops, his gaze drifted to a group of charity workers standing at the corner. Holding up signs, they kindly asked passersby for assistance in planting seeds for a large-scale project aimed at restoring ecosystems and ensuring future sustainability. Their hopeful expressions reflected a quiet plea for support.
He's utterly captivated by people with green fingers—the kind of individuals who are absolute masters of gardening. Not that he has some finger fetish or a thing for green-skinned girls.
Chad found it exhilarating to watch others pouring sweat, digging with all their might, clashing with the earth in a fierce, unyielding battle, planting trees as if their very lives depended on it... while he, of course, was comfortably settled in his chair, a snack in hand, watching it all unfold on TV.
One charity worker excitedly said, "So you're going to donate some right now and help with the planting? Excellent!"
The donor replied, "Yeah… I have plenty to give… So you want them… right now? Or do you want my email or something?"
"If you've got some on you right now, we can pluck them off and drop them in the donation bucket, all set for planting, so they can grow and flourish."
"Sure", the donor said, "I've plenty ripe for picking."
The guy squatted low, like the infamous Jar Squatter, expression solemn, as he slid his grimy pants and crusty briefs down, revealing sweaty, unwashed skin. He paused, then turned with quiet purpose, bending over deep, his hairy, bare ass presented to the charity workers like an offering. A thick, musky stench hit them hard as they stood frozen, eyes wide, jaws dropped.
"This is... uh, incredibly generous of you," one of them exclaimed.
Another said, "Are you sure you want to donate... all these... dingleberries?"
The guy eased up just enough to glance back, his nod calm and resolute. "Yeah", he said, his tone firm yet humble, "I've been carrying these around for too long. Time to let 'em go… for a damn good cause."
The charity workers began gingerly picking off the dingleberries from his ginger-pubed butt crack, one by one, carefully placing each one in the donation bucket, ready for planting.
But one worker—overzealous, fingers twitchy—lunged in too fast. Their grip slipped, snagging a wiry pube from the donor's sagging ball sack.
The guy jolted, a sharp, startled "Yipe!" bursting from his throat as his whole body flinched.
A second worker, eyes bugging out, barked, "Watch it! Pick em carefully, you clumsy git!"
Chad, queasy and dizzy, crept away from the stomach-turning scene. It wasn't due to the scavenged Valentine's chocolates he was eating—it was the grotesque sight. He hid his face in the box. No one saw him; the lid of the chocolate box concealed his face.
He squinted at the charity's A-frame sign as he walked away; it was displaying its name: "We Swallow Your Seeds".
Swallow your seeds? I thought they were planting them.
Below the charity name, in bold, read: "Give me your seeds!!"
He frowned. "Why the exclamation marks? Feels pushy."
Then it read blow, "Give me all your money!!"
And finally, the last sentence of the sign read: "Now!!"
The aggression was escalating fast.
He shuffled off, his feet scraping across a few more chocolates. He popped one into his mouth and grunted. "Another chocolate... with just chocolate inside... I want more than just chocolate in my chocolates. Some of these are just lumps of plain chocolate with nothing inside. I can only imagine the so-called 'creative' meetings they must have had to come up with these ideas for chocolates."
And they don't even use real sugar anymore. Instead, they throw in some weird chemical he can't even pronounce—something like Auqulithylohexasweetener-9000. Anything over 9000 was too much for him.
He couldn't help but think of the music kpop artist Suga... and how he couldn't even spell his own name properly.
This basically tasted like dog chocolate...
Not that Chad had ever eaten doggy chocolate.
If it looked like cheap chocolate and tasted like cheap chocolate, who's to say it isn't meant for dogs?
Wait a second... dog chocolate... Valentine's chocolates mysteriously found in the middle of nowhere? Didn't that one guy turn into a dog from eating Valentine's chocolates in My Life as Inukai-san's Dog?
Not that Chad had watched that show.
… "Too late now," he thought. "Might as well finish the box."