[Sim Daejung]

Wherever I go, I attract trouble. It's a given. Ever since I was a child, I've always wreaked havoc and dragged everyone else with my own comeuppance. This way, I've broken ties with several people, but also made some acquaintances here and there.

I'm ambiguous when it comes to interpersonal relationships. I make people love me and stick by me regardless of what I do, or hate me and resent me for every disgrace of theirs. I can even make them disgust me, to the point that they won't approach me ever again.

It's not necessarily a problem, anyway. What matters is that I can keep my peace of mind. Messing up is a mentally draining process for all the people around me, so I have to at least pretend to stay sane for their own good. It may sound evil, but it's the truth.

Speaking of the truth, I'm upset that I have to move again. Even though I'm used to skipping homes, I wish I could stay a little longer. For the first time since I left my home country, which I won't name because the thought of it angers me, I found my place when Perla Small took me in. But now she's moving town for a reason she won't tell me.

Since she was listed as the tenant for the flat we were living in until today, and I don't have the means to take over, it means my stay is over, too. I hate house hunting. It always comes with bad surprises. I mean, searching from a place where to live shouldn't be something to sweat over.

This is America, though. I can't expect everyone to be polite to me just because I'm the new guy. In fact, to date, I have yet to meet a nice house owner. Between the racist piece of shit at Haute Heights and the far right pervert at Perla's, I can't say to have been particularly lucky.

As I take my scarce belongings out, I lock the door behind me and leave it on the doormat as requested, along with a letter in an envelope. It's just a short message, nothing particularly elaborate. It recites. 'Brian Shearin, you always said you had a problem with me. A little correction: the problem was you. Fuck off. Love, Daejung — Oh, while at it, learn to write and pronounce my name correctly.'

The last part of the message might be uncalled for, but I just felt like adding it to piss him off further, as well as get to be the last to laugh. Maybe leaving won't be so bad—the only fond memories I have of this place are all related to Perla. That dickface, on the other hand, is someone I'll forget within two days at most.

***

I sit at a bar on my own, wondering if I have a good plan this time. I stare at the menu, looking for the most delicious item regardless of the price. Fuck the budget. I'm no longer the broken jerk that finds any possible way to save money and counts his savings to the penny.

I order three waffles and a vanilla milkshake, along with a bottle of beer. The waitress serving me wrinkles her nose at my unusual choice of having alcohol with waffles, but she complies to my request. As the customer, I'm right. I'll also prove her wrong about the combination. Alcohol is good with everything. Except drugs, of course.

When my order is ready, she hands it with a creepy smile. She looks like one of those killer dolls in horror movies. She looks familiar, but I don't tell her. As her smile fades, she extends a hand, meaning I owe her a huge tip. However, I only give her four dollars.

To my surprise, she shrugs. "That's fine. I've actually met customers who didn't tip me at all. They asked for something a lot more valuable than money." I don't answer even though I immediately know what she means. She's bait for sex predators. How she hasn't realized that yet baffles me.

I don't think she's that stupid not to understand she's the object of constant sexualization, but I don't think it's correct to make such a statement at a public place. I'd cost her job, and she'd make me pay for that. That'd be terrible for both of us.

I invite her to sit down. "What's your name?" I ask. She tucks a finger in her blonde locks and looks away from me. She's uncomfortable around me. I feel bad for keeping her from working right now, but there are no other customers and there isn't much to do for her either.

She stutters. "My... my... n-name i-is..." She's on the brink of tears. She doesn't seem to have anyone to rely on. I wonder how long this has been. She wipes her eyes, closes them for a fraction of minute, and regains her composure.

"My name is Della Bozarth. I've been working here for nine years. What about you? You seem new here," she points out, to which I blush. I don't go out a lot and, when I do, I always stick to only a few places. Being a homebody is good only to an extent. I have some catching up to do, or I'll keep missing more and more new places... and faces.

"I'm Sim Daejung. But, please, just call me Daejung. Sim is just my surname." As I introduce myself, she chuckles. This reminds me when I went to The Stranger for the first time and met some of its clients, along with the bartender. As they learnt my name, they thought that the nickname 'Sim Card' would fit me perfectly. I can't say I disagree, to be fair.

Anyway, Della doesn't make fun of my name or stumble upon its pronounciation. It's like she's already prepared it. Anyone else would believe it's a sign of destiny. I think it's just common decency.

She stands up. As she goes back to the counter, I try to stop her. "It was a pleasure to met you, by the way. Maybe I'll see you again, who knows?" She laughs coyly, but is interrupted by a menacious voice.

"Flirting with customers again, Della?" A man with a big, round face and a beard appears out of a sudden, making me jump scare. I don't think I should've invited Della to sit with me. She's a waitress here, and he must be her boss. I can't exclude they're dating.

He approaches me, his fists clenched and ready to hit me, when she stops him. "Hey! Don't hit him! He's a customer, it's not his fault!" Her words don't mellow him down; instead, he turns to her and threatens to punch her.

I don't hesitate and intervene, pushing her away from that brute. "Leave her alone, pervert!" I yell. He hits me straight in my left eye. I grab his fist with my left hand, then I kick his balls out of instinct. I hiss. "Don't you dare touch her again, or I'll kill you, asshole." I let go of him, but he charges me.

He growls. "If anything, you will die, faggot." This piece of shit makes me lose it. He deserves to be put in his place. So, I grab his collar and hold it tight to make him cave. I won't let him win. I'll make sure he won't pose a threat to anyone.

At the same time, I notice that Della is hiding at a corner. She's on the phone. I overhear only a couple of words. "Help... Help." She's calling 911. Justice will be served, hopefully.

I let go of the bastard. The cops will take care of him, from now on. Now, I have to comfort Della, and get her out of this hellish place.