A thunderous blast erupted from his backside. Across the lot, students jerked their heads up, scanning the clear sky.
Then the punks with the dyed hair caught on, their shaking phone hands zooming in. “Holy crap!” one yelped, voice cracking. “You freaking—”
The campus gate fell into a stunned hush.
Eric froze, rooted to the spot, his face darkening to coal. A warm, sticky mess bloomed in his pants—unspeakable, indescribable, like a year’s worth of a girl’s worst cramps hitting at once with no pad in sight. He could already smell it.
Every eye locked on him, wide and horrified, zeroing in on the yellow streak soaking through his pants.
Then the crowd exploded.
“Holy hell, holy hell—he’s nuts! He actually crapped himself!”
“Again! That one was loud—thought it was thunder!”
“It’s leaking—look at the soup!”
“Stop, stop—I’m gonna hurl my lunch!”
“I can smell it from here—oh God!”
“First time I’ve seen someone shit on the street—and it’s liquid? At least make it solid, man!”
“Ugh, I’m out—gag!”
Girls shrieked, hands over faces, then noses. Bold guys whipped out phones, filming the disaster for viral fame—”Living My Best Life,” they’d caption it.
“Stop filming! Quit it you rainbow bastards!” Eric wailed, one hand shielding his face, the other clutching his dripping rear.
“Pffft! Pffft!”
But “Laxative Dash” didn’t care about dignity. With no antidote, it ran wild, relentless. He’d brewed this stuff to disgust his enemies—and now it was his own personal hell. It wouldn’t stop for a full day.
“Dude, stop shitting—I’m scared!” a girl with a backpack whimpered nearby, staring in terror. This was her college nightmare, a scar for life.
Eric’s hand, now a pincushion from frantic silver needle jabs, gave up. He shoved them back in his pocket—his Needles couldn’t touch this. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
The crowd swelled, undeterred by the stench. College kids loved a spectacle, calling friends over: “Here, now—once-in-a-lifetime show!”
“Bro, you won’t believe this—guy’s crapping live!”
“Swear it’s real, or I’m your kid—liquid gold at the gate!”
Eric bolted, bike on his shoulder, sprinting as the mess sprayed behind him. Each “pffft” roared like a car engine revving, relentless and loud.
….
Eric’s backside was numb from the onslaught. He just wanted a quiet corner to hide, but everywhere he turned, students with phones boxed him in.
He’d run one way—they’d shuffle back, never breaking the circle. He tried asking for a bathroom, but before he got close, one guy ditched his girlfriend and bolted, screaming like Eric was a plague.
“Ugh!”
From the driver’s seat, Alex slammed the window shut, staring slack-jawed at Eric’s yellow-fuming disaster.
He had no clue how it’d happened, but one thing was clear: if he hadn’t slapped that bad-luck charm on Eric earlier, he’d be the one out there painting the pavement.
Alex had to hand it to him—this “prodigy doctor” Protagonist was terrifying. He’d brushed Eric off before, but now? He was spooked.
“God, that’s disgusting!” Sera clapped her hands over her eyes, but her fingers parted just enough to peek. The more she saw, the grosser it got—and the grosser it got, the more she couldn’t look away.
Only when Eric Vaughn—bike on shoulder, rear spewing yellow sludge—vanished from sight did she slump back. “I’m not going back to the dorm.”
After that at the school gate, the whole place felt tainted. No—it was tainted. The air reeked of crap, chasing off vendors with their crepe carts and grilled noodle stands. They bolted, terrified the stench would catch them. Making a buck was tough enough without dodging literal shit.
Some swore off the east gate for good. Sure, business was decent, but no paycheck was worth a lunatic hosing the street with diarrhea—in pants!
Eric ran, a pack of students trailing at a safe distance, wary of the fecal fog. Near the gate, his numb backside spotted salvation: a subway entrance. He picked up speed, hands off his leaking rear, and charged in.
“There’s gotta be a bathroom down there.”
Bike still hoisted, yellow soup trailing, he veered straight into the women’s restroom. His mess wasn’t a neat line—it fanned out, a wide, grotesque arc across the tiles.
Commuters fresh off the train froze as a bald guy rocketed past, spraying three or four meters with every step. Instant regret—they should’ve stayed on board.
Eric was a star now, famous in a way no one dared copy.
“How does he do that? Is his gut just a shit factory?”
“Forget his gut—he’s crap incarnate.”
“city’s got a legend now. I’m visiting this summer.”
“What brand is that ass? Spraying like that and still holding up—top-tier quality.”
“This isn’t shitting—it’s a damn biochemical cannon! Battlefield-grade poison.”
“Who wouldn’t freak out?”
“What does he eat—pure manure?”
“I know this guy! Just earlier, he was pedaling that bike—the one on his shoulder—chasing a car around the outer ring. Sparks flying, legs pumping like crazy. Did he rip his intestines biking that hard?”
“Stop—I’m eating!”
Unbeknownst to Eric, he’d blown up online. Laxative and diet pill companies were already sniffing around, itching to slap his face on their ads.
….
Meanwhile, Riley’s phone buzzed with a hospital alert: her grandma’s critical condition notice.
“How?”
The moment she read it, her world caved in. “She’s stable for now, but it’s grim,” the doctor said, clutching the chart.
“The cancer’s spread everywhere. Even with a perfect surgery, she’s got three months tops—and at her age, the odds are not positive. Prepare yourself.”
His eyes softened with pity. Everyone knew Riley—still in school, juggling jobs to fund her grandma’s liver cancer fight. Most would’ve quit by now. Late-stage liver cancer was a death sentence.
“I…” Riley faltered, head down, her feet a blur beneath her. The hallway went eerily quiet.
After a pause, the doctor sighed. “Treatment’s crazy expensive. We see your heart, kid, but I’d let it go. Three shaky months aren’t worth the cost—especially when you can’t pay it.”
Her grandma, widowed and childless, had only Riley left. Now her time was up.
“Doctor, isn’t there anything else?” Her face drained white. It’d hit too fast—she hadn’t scraped together the cash.
He met her pleading gaze, reluctant but firm. “Not with today’s medicine. No hospital in the world can fix this.”
“Wah—” The words gutted her. She collapsed in the corridor, sobbing, shaking on the cold floor. Death had never felt so close. That old woman was her last family—and now she was slipping away.
“Maybe try traditional medicine,” a timid voice piped up—an intern lingering after the doctor left.
Riley scrambled up, locking onto the pale girl. “Western meds failed—try some traditional herbs. Could be a chance,” the intern mumbled.
Yes. Traditional medicine.
A lifeline sparked in Riley’s chest. Then it hit her—a name she’d rather forget.
Alex!
“The boss said he’s got a friend who can save Grandma. He promised—he’s got a way.”
Hope flickered back into her eyes.