The Peeing Man

Section 1: Walking Terror

In Flushing City, there was one name people did not say lightly.

Canelo.

If you saw him coming, you moved. You didn’t stare, you didn’t block his way, and you didn’t give him a reason to notice you. Some people didn’t even dare breathe too loudly.

Canelo was a walking terror.

And strangely, he wasn’t a big man. About 163 centimeters, maybe. Black hoodie, ripped jeans, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He usually walked with both hands buried in his pockets, chin tilted slightly toward the sky, taking slow, lazy steps as if the sidewalks of Flushing had been built for him.

Canelo was a local gangster. Several dozen men worked under him, and part of his income came from collecting protection money from businesses around the neighborhood. But that wasn’t why everyone in Flushing knew him.

Canelo had another name.

The Peeing Man.

The name required very little explanation.

Canelo pissed everywhere—parking lots, alleys, behind shopping malls, beside dumpsters, against walls, next to utility poles. Someone even claimed they’d once seen him piss straight into the open mouth of a homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk. When Canelo needed to pee, finding a bathroom simply wasn’t part of the process.

And nobody stopped him. They filmed him instead, from a safe distance.

Over the years, photos spread across social media. YouTube filled up with shaky videos shot from behind parked cars, across intersections, and through restaurant windows.

CANELO PEEING IN FLUSHING AGAIN!!!

In one video, the camera peeked over the hood of a Toyota. Canelo stood half a block away, facing a brick wall. The camera shook as a man whispered behind it, “That’s him.”

The camera zoomed in.

“That’s Canelo.” A pause. “Holy shit. He’s peeing again.”

People eventually developed a theory: Canelo wasn’t simply peeing. He was marking his territory.

Like a male dog.

Every wall, alley, and street corner he pissed on became his.

“Someone filmed him near Main Street last week.”

“No way.”

“It’s on YouTube.”

“So he owns that block now?”

“Probably.”

Someone even started mapping the locations.

Then, under one of the videos, a viewer noticed something else.

Wait… is it just me, or is his package actually pretty big?

A reply appeared underneath.

Bro. I noticed that too.

Then another. Then twenty more. People argued about the camera angle, the jeans, the lighting. One guy claimed there was another video with a much better view.

The territorial analysis was temporarily abandoned.

The truth was much simpler. Canelo wasn’t marking anything. There was no secret message, no gang strategy, no territorial expansion.

Canelo just needed to piss.

So he pissed.

And that was how Canelo became—

The Peeing Man.

Section 2: Alley Call

That afternoon, Canelo was walking through a narrow alley when nature called.

Urgently.

He slowed down, cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth, and looked around for somewhere to relieve himself. The buildings stood close together, their old brick darkened by years of dirt and rain. The pavement was cracked and stained, and garbage bags leaned against the walls, several torn open with their contents spilling onto the ground.

Farther down the alley, a tall, heavily built man was squatting beside a pile of garbage, rummaging through it. His clothes were dirty and torn, but even through the rags, it was obvious that he was powerfully built. His shorts had slipped halfway down his backside as he squatted, leaving nearly half his butt crack exposed.

Despite the ridiculous sight, his face looked strangely innocent. Almost peaceful.

He dug quickly through the garbage, pushing aside old food containers until he found a half-eaten cup of instant noodles. He opened it and, without a second thought, started eating the leftover noodles.

Canelo stared at him for a moment.

“What a weirdo.”

His eyes moved on.

Near the other end of the alley, an old man sat on the pavement with a chipped bowl in his hands. He looked ancient and strangely fragile, the kind of old man who might earn a few moments of sympathy from anyone passing by.

But he seemed remarkably comfortable for someone in such miserable circumstances. He sat there with a completely relaxed expression, lazily bouncing one leg up and down as he watched people pass.

A young woman walked by the mouth of the alley.

The old man looked her over.

“Whew-whew.”

He gave her a playful whistle and a little grin.

The woman turned, saw him, and immediately kept walking.

The old man didn’t seem bothered. His leg continued bouncing lazily as he sat there with his chipped bowl.

Canelo’s eyes had already moved on. Garbage bags. Dumpster. Brick wall. Fire escape.

Then he saw a utility pole.

“Right.” A thin stream of smoke escaped his mouth. “Perfect spot.”

He started toward it, only to discover that someone was already there.

A dog stood beside the pole with one hind leg raised, happily relieving itself.

Canelo walked over. The dog was still only halfway finished when—

THUMP.

Canelo kicked it aside.

“Out of my way.”

The dog yelped and rolled twice across the pavement before scrambling back onto its paws. It whipped around, bared its teeth, and let out a low growl.

Canelo slowly turned his eyes toward it.

Just his eyes.

The growl stopped instantly.

“Yip!”

The dog spun around and bolted without looking back, letting out frightened little puppy cries as it disappeared down the alley. It hadn’t finished peeing, and a thin trail of urine kept spraying behind it as it ran.

Canelo watched it go, then stepped up to the utility pole and unzipped his jeans.

“Ahhh…”

His shoulders dropped, and his whole body gave a brief shiver of relief before relaxing completely. He tilted his head toward the sky, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as smoke curled above his face.

Hmm. What should I do tonight?

Maybe go to the massage parlor for some special service.

Nah. Had one yesterday.

Maybe rob someone.

Hmm. Nah. Don’t feel like it.

He continued relieving himself, staring lazily toward the sky.

What else?

Then he remembered the SkyView Mall a few blocks away. He hadn’t checked on it in a while.

Hmm. Might as well. Make sure everything looks fine.

Canelo finished, zipped up, put both hands back into his pockets, and headed out of the alley.

Section 3: Lord Canelo

A few minutes later, the Peeing Man entered the SkyView Mall.

No trouble. No revenge. No one needed to be beaten. Just a routine walk-through.

A small restaurant owner near the entrance was chatting with a customer when he looked up and saw Canelo coming. His smile disappeared. He immediately dropped what he was doing, hurried around the counter, and bent at the waist.

Ninety degrees.

“Lord Canelo! H-how are you today?”

Canelo passed without stopping, giving him only a tiny nod.

The owner stayed bent over until Canelo was well past him, then slowly straightened, sweat already forming across his forehead.

A few stores down, another owner spotted him and rushed outside.

“Lord Canelo! Welcome! Welcome! If you see anything you like, anything you need… just tell me. I’ll have it ready for you right away.”

Down he went.

Ninety degrees.

Canelo gave another small nod and continued walking.

The reaction spread ahead of him. Shop owners who saw him coming immediately stepped outside to greet him. Some bowed. Some smiled nervously. Others seemed determined to prove that their store could somehow be useful to him.

The owner of a video store hurried out and bent almost ninety degrees.

“Lord Canelo! We just got the latest pornography today—the new Daisy series! You’re welcome to come by later and pick one if you want!”

Canelo barely looked at him. He gave the slightest nod and kept walking.

“My pleasure, Lord Canelo!”

A few doors down, the owner of a shoe store was polishing a pair of shoes when he noticed Canelo. He immediately put them down, grabbed the polishing cloth, and hurried outside.

“Lord Canelo!”

He bowed deeply.

“If your shoes ever need cleaning, please come to my store. I’ll polish them personally.”

He hesitated, then bent a little lower.

“If necessary, I can lick them clean too.”

Canelo gave another faint nod without even slowing down and continued on his way.

The owner remained bowed behind him.

“Anytime, Lord Canelo! Anytime!”

Canelo continued down the corridor, hands in his pockets, chin slightly raised, cigarette smoke drifting behind him.

Section 4: First Date

At the far end of the corridor, a young couple was walking toward him.

The guy was in his early twenties, slim and fairly handsome, with dyed blond hair carefully styled high. The girl beside him was pretty, wearing a light spaghetti-strap top. It was their first official date, and the guy was clearly enjoying himself. He carried a bubble tea in his right hand, with his left arm comfortably around her shoulders as they walked.

Coming the other way was a skinny young man with slightly hunched shoulders and a round mass of thick hair sitting on top of his head like half a watermelon. He was wearing pajamas and had the unmistakable look of a weird, horny geek who spent most of his life sitting at home in his room.

As they passed each other, his eyes went from the blond guy to the girl, then straight down to her chest.

He stared with total concentration, a creepy little grin slowly appearing on his face.

The blond guy noticed.

“Yo. What the fuck are you looking at?”

The watermelon-haired man immediately looked away.

“Oh, nothing. I wasn’t staring at her cleavage.”

The blond guy pulled his girlfriend closer and stared at him.

“Yeah?”

The watermelon-haired man shrank back a little.

The blond guy pointed down the corridor.

“Get the fuck out of here. Go now, before I break your fucking kneecaps.”

The man’s eyes went wide.

“AAAAAH! Okay! Okay! I’m leaving now! Don’t hit me!”

The blond guy took one step toward him.

That was enough.

“AAAAAAAH—! Please don’t hurt me!”

The watermelon-haired man spun around and ran. After only a few steps, his toe caught against the floor and his whole body pitched forward.

“AAAAH—!”

His arms flew out as he stumbled desperately for several steps, almost horizontal, somehow managing to keep his face a few inches above the floor.

“AAAAAAAH!”

He caught his balance and kept running without even slowing down.

“Please don’t hurt me! I’m sorry! I really am! AAAAAAAAH—!”

His watermelon-shaped hair bounced wildly until he disappeared around the corner. Even then, his voice continued echoing down the corridor.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt meeeee—! AAAAAAAH—!”

Then he was gone.

The blond guy smirked.

“What a loser.”

The girl was looking at him now, taking in the confident smile, the cheekbones, the clean line of his jaw.

Damn. He looked good.

And after watching him send that creepy watermelon-haired freak running for his life, he somehow looked even better. She moved a little closer under his arm.

Not bad.

Her first real boyfriend, and apparently she’d picked herself a man.

The blond guy noticed the look on her face and grinned. He pulled her closer as they continued walking, his confidence now considerably higher than it had been thirty seconds ago.

After a few steps, the hand resting on her shoulder began to wander. It slipped down past her collarbone and stopped beside the thin strap of her top. He glanced at her. She kept walking, so his hand moved another inch until the side of it brushed the soft upper slope of her breast.

He waited. No reaction.

Encouraged, he moved a little farther.

The girl turned her head, and his hand immediately shot back to her collarbone.

“Hey.” She smiled. “You little pervert. What are you doing?”

“Huh?” He rubbed her collarbone innocently. “What? I’m not doing anything. I just think you have a really pretty collarbone.”

She gave him a look.

“Pervert.”

He grinned. She didn’t move away, and the two continued down the corridor with his arm still around her shoulders.

Section 5: On His Knees

Then the blond guy looked ahead.

Canelo was walking toward them.

His grin disappeared. He stopped so suddenly that the girl took another step before realizing he was no longer beside her. His arm slipped from her shoulders, and the color drained from his face.

“What’s wrong?”

His knees buckled.

THUD.

He dropped onto both knees.

The girl jumped. The bubble tea remained in his hand for half a second before his fingers went limp.

SMACK.

The cup hit the tile, bounced onto its side, and rolled away, spilling milk tea across the floor as black tapioca pearls scattered in every direction.

“What are you doing?”

The guy didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead.

The girl followed his gaze and saw Canelo coming toward them, hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Ca…” She swallowed. “Ca… Canelo…”

She backed toward her boyfriend.

“Babe… what do we do?”

No answer.

“Babe?”

She looked down at him. Less than a minute ago, he had sent another man running down the corridor screaming for mercy. A few moments ago, she’d been admiring his jawline.

Now he was on his knees, staring at Canelo with his mouth slightly open.

Then he felt it.

A strange, burning energy was rising inside his body.

It began in his chest, traveled down through his stomach, then split into two streams and rushed through both legs. The two currents seemed to gather between his thighs, growing hotter and stronger by the second.

He clenched every muscle he could.

No.

He tried to hold it back.

The force kept building.

No… no…

His entire body tightened as he desperately tried to suppress it, but the pressure had already become too powerful.

“Ahh…”

His face twisted.

“…shit.”

A warm stream of urine escaped between his legs and began spreading across the tile beneath his knees.

The girl heard the trickling sound and looked down.

Her mouth fell open.

“Oh my God. Are you serious?”

“Babe, I—”

“What kind of grown man fucking pees himself?”

“Oh, babe, I… I…”

“Oh my God.”

She stepped back and stared at him.

A minute ago, she’d thought she’d picked herself a man.

Now he was kneeling in his own piss.

“Oh my God. You’re such a loser.”

The guy’s face crumpled.

“Babe, please—”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me.”

His legs still wouldn’t work, so he reached up and caught her hand.

“Please. Just help me up.”

She looked at his hand holding hers, then at the wet front of his jeans and the puddle beneath his knees.

“Ew.”

SMACK.

She slapped his hand away, turned, and walked off.

“Babe?”

She kept going.

“Babe. Babe!”

She disappeared around the corner.

The blond guy stayed on his knees.

First official date. First girlfriend. First breakup. All in one afternoon.

Then a pair of ripped jeans entered his view.

He slowly looked up and found Canelo standing beside him, cigarette in his mouth, both hands still in his pockets. Canelo looked at him, glanced down at the puddle beneath his knees, then looked back at him.

“Hey, you.”

The guy immediately straightened on his knees. “Y-yes! Lord Canelo!”

“Make sure you clean it up, okay?”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Yes, my lord!”

Canelo turned and continued on his way.

“Thank you, Lord Canelo!”

Canelo didn’t look back.

Section 6: Open Path

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the mall and onto the street.

Flushing moved around him as usual. Cars crawled through traffic, music spilled from an open storefront, and two women stood outside a bakery talking. A man walked past with his phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m telling you, that’s not what he—”

He noticed Canelo and stopped.

“…I’ll call you back.”

Click.

A group of young men laughing beside a parked car fell quiet when one of them spotted him. A mother pulled her child closer. People began casually moving out of the center of the sidewalk, one after another, until an open path formed in front of Canelo without him ever asking anyone to move.

He simply kept walking, hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, chin slightly raised.

People moved aside as he approached and quietly returned behind him. A woman pulled her shopping bag out of his path. A man shifted closer to a storefront. Someone about to cross in front of him stopped and waited.

Then Canelo’s right hand came out of his pocket.

Several people nearby immediately stiffened.

Canelo stopped and reached between his legs.

Scratch. Scratch, scratch.

He shifted his hips.

Much better.

His hand went back into his pocket, and he continued walking.

Nobody laughed.

The crowd kept opening in front of him and closing behind him as he made his way down the street, black hoodie and ripped jeans growing smaller in the distance, cigarette smoke trailing over his shoulder.

Eventually, he disappeared from view.

For a few seconds, the street remained quiet. Then a conversation started again. Someone moved. A car horn sounded, and Flushing returned to normal.

Canelo was gone.

But everyone knew the name.

The Peeing Man.

The walking terror of Flushing.