The Peeing Man

A short man, wearing a dirty hoodie and a pair of wrinkled jeans, stood in front of a streetlamp. Cigarette in hand, head tilted back, eyes closed—like he was really enjoying himself. He was pissing on the lamppost. He didn’t care about being called out for public obscenity—not even a little. The piss hit the pole with a sharp splatter. The corner of his mouth twitched. You could imagine how good it felt—just that stupid, raw comfort when the body lets go.

He was none other than the infamous gangster of the town—Canelo. People saw him all the time, pissing on lampposts, trees, fire hydrants—every single day, in different parts of the city. He earned his nickname: The Peeing Man. It sounded dumb, but when people heard it, their faces turned pale, their hands shook—and some even wet their pants. Canelo was cold, violent. Some said he wasn’t just a criminal. They called him the embodiment of absolute evil.

High Knee Tom

Tom—also known on the streets as High Knee Tom—was homeless. He made a living by collecting empty soda cans off the street. He was tall—really tall. At least 6’5″, towering one or two heads over Canelo. His clothes were torn and filthy, exposing his big round belly. But don’t be fooled by how he looked. Beneath the fat around his gut, his muscles were tight and solid. The weather was nice that day. Tom was on the move, busy trying to earn enough for dinner. He needed to collect a lot of cans—just enough to buy himself a meal.

He was having a pretty good day—until near a mailbox, he spotted a twisted Coca-Cola can on the ground. As he moved to grab it, someone stepped in his way. A hunched, bony old woman glared at him and snapped, “Such a fine young man like you—not working a real job, and instead competing with old folks for recycling? You have no shame.” Tom didn’t argue. He reached down and took the can anyway. The old woman stormed up and slapped him. Hard. More than once. Then she shouted, “Look at you, young man. Big body, empty brain. Utterly useless.” She snatched the can from his hand and walked off, still muttering under her breath. Still, Tom didn’t get angry. He just sighed and kept looking. Then, near a streetlamp, he spotted a dented Pepsi can. He looked both ways. No one around. He ran, snatched the can, stuffed it into his pocket—and then noticed someone standing beside the lamp post. That someone was… actually… peeing.

Wrong Place, Wrong Can

Canelo immediately sensed someone had stepped into his territory. He let out a casual whistle, then turned around—with his dick still out—and aimed it straight at Tom’s face. The stream hit dead on. Tom was caught completely off guard. He flinched back, stunned, his eyes blinking fast. Then, slowly, he stood up, wiped the urine off his face using the hem of his filthy shirt, and mumbled, “That’s not cool, man.” His face looked a little dazed, like he couldn’t tell if it had really happened. Then, without saying anything else, he turned and started looking for more cans.

Canelo slowly zipped up his pants. He looked at Tom, expression flat and cold, and said, “You think you can just walk away?” Tom turned around, still a bit confused, and replied, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bother you.” Canelo didn’t say another word. He suddenly rushed forward and slapped Tom across the face—hard. Then again. And again. Tom just stood there, blinking, completely lost. “What was that?” he mumbled.

Canelo didn’t answer. He spun around and kicked, aiming straight for Tom’s belly. But Tom reacted just in time—his hands came down and blocked the hit. Still, his face looked even more dazed than before. He stared at Canelo and said, “Hey, bro… if you’re mad at me for… stealing your can, then… I’ll give it back. No need to get… physical.”