Kidpinoy's End Day Part 3

 

The purest comedy is born from the deepest tragedy, and I, a connoisseur of both, was in paradise. My laughter subsided into a deep, satisfying hum of contentment. The entire dynamic of our glorious production had shifted. This was no longer a simple revenge play against a hated enemy; it was a dissection of an impossible innocent, a divine fool.

Silas, ever the showman, regained his composure first. The slip of his mask was gone, replaced by a renewed, even more venomous theatricality. He gestured to a weasel-faced man in an expensive suit, a disgraced marketing guru named Montoya who had tried to create a corporate-sponsored anti-Kidpinoy task force.

“Montoya,” Silas called out. “I believe you have some artifacts from our guest’s… previous career?”

Montoya scurried forward eagerly, carrying a sterile evidence bag. With a flourish, he pulled out the contents: a simple black tank top, faded from a thousand washes and the relentless sun, and a pair of equally worn black compression pants. They were unremarkable, the kind of cheap athletic wear you could find in any bargain bin in Quiapo.

“Behold!” Montoya announced, his voice oozing insincere reverence. “The sacred vestments of the people’s champion! Woven from… cotton-polyester blend!” He held the tank top up, letting it hang limply. “Look at the sweat stains! The faint smell of street dust and righteous struggle! This is what struck fear into the hearts of armies.” The audience roared with derisive laughter. He then held up Bien’s signature black eye mask. “And the face of justice itself!”

He theatrically presented the mask to the crowd before strutting over to the platform. “A hero should never be without his trademark,” he sneered, and with a swift, demeaning motion, he stretched the elastic and slid the mask over Bien’s eyes.

The effect was instantaneous and profound. He was no longer Bien Regalado, the terrified boy whose identity had been flayed open for the world to see. He was now Kidpinoy, the icon, stripped bare and presented as a living trophy. The mask, once a symbol of his power and mystery, was now a brand of his complete and utter subjugation.

A portly man with clammy hands and a rapacious glint in his eye, a slum lord named Fenris whose extortion rackets Bien had personally dismantled, waddled onto the stage. “The General tested his strength,” Fenris wheezed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Silas tested his mind. But I wonder… has anyone tested his resolve?”

Before anyone could stop him, he reached out with two pudgy fingers and pinched one of Bien’s nipples, twisting it cruelly. Bien’s entire body went rigid, a silent gasp caught behind the gag. His sun-darkened skin, stretched taut over his pectoral muscle, seemed to crawl.

“Oh, look at that,” Fenris cooed, his voice a wet rasp. He began to rub and toy with the hardened nub, watching Bien’s face, which was now thankfully hidden by the mask. “He feels that. He doesn’t like that. But maybe… maybe a part of him does? All that energy, all that denial… it has to go somewhere, doesn’t it, boy?” Fenris leaned in, his foul breath washing over Bien’s chest. “Give us a sign. A twitch. A moan. Show us the weakness inside the marble.”

Bien’s jaw was a knot of stone beneath the gag. His head was turned towards the screen showing Rose, his only anchor in this swirling vortex of degradation. But a slight, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his abdomen—a testament to the war being waged within him between his invulnerable body and his violated spirit.

Fenris chuckled, satisfied with the small reaction, and stepped back. It was General Korg who shoved him aside, his eyes burning with a new, avaricious fire.

“Enough of this child’s play,” Korg growled, his gaze dropping lower. He was a man of logistics, of assets and resources. And he was looking at the most valuable resource he had ever seen. “Forget his heart. We know the truth now. The real power isn’t in his chest.”

Korg’s cruel, calloused hand, the same hand that had once signed execution orders, clamped around Bien’s groin. It was a rough, proprietary gesture, like a miner seizing a raw, uncut diamond. A wave of murmurs, a mixture of shock and prurient curiosity, rippled through the audience.

“Incredible,” Korg grunted, his voice thick with a strange mix of disgust and envy. He manipulated Bien with a humiliating, clinical detachment. “For such a small frame… he’s built like a prize bull.” He sneered, a flash of petty insecurity crossing his face. “Probably bigger than half the men in this room, eh? Not me, of course. But for a Filipino… impressive.” The cheap shot hung in the air, another layer of filth heaped upon the pyre of Bien’s dignity.

Korg’s fingers worked with a perverse curiosity, exploring the object of their decade-long obsession. “Circumcised. Clean. Almost… pristine,” he narrated, his words a grotesque parody of a livestock appraisal. He traced the head of Bien’s penis through his grasping fingers. “I wonder what it takes to rouse the dragon? What kind of filth would it take to make this little soldier stand at attention?”

But then his exploration moved lower. His thick fingers cupped Bien’s scrotum, and he stopped. His breath hitched. The mocking tone vanished from his voice, replaced by sheer, dumbfounded awe.

“Silas… My God…” Korg whispered, his voice trembling. He lifted the heavy sac for the others to see. “Look at this. Just… look.”

The other villains on the stage crowded closer, their faces a gallery of greed. Silas’s perfect eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. What Korg held was astonishing. Bien’s testicles were unnaturally large and heavy, plump and full, almost the size of goose eggs. They were the undeniable physical proof of the theory—the twin cauldrons where ten years of divine chi, righteous fury, and unbroken abstinence had been distilled into a mythical elixir.

“The distillery,” Silas breathed, the word full of reverence. “The source.”

The crowd was mesmerized. The mockery had curdled into a kind of ravenous worship. They were no longer looking at a man’s anatomy; they were looking at the very seat of godlike power, the key to immortality and strength, hanging there, vulnerable.

The air grew thick with a perverse tension. It was then that a man stepped from the front row, a gaunt European aristocrat known only as the Baron, a man infamous for his pursuit of exotic and forbidden pleasures. He licked his thin lips, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural light.

“May I?” he asked, his voice a silken hiss.

Silas gave a magnanimous, sickening wave of his hand.

The Baron knelt before Bien. The hero’s body, already rigid with horror, tensed to the point of agony. Every muscle fiber screamed in protest. The Baron reached out, his touch shockingly delicate compared to Korg’s, and cradled one of the heavy orbs in his palm as if it were a Fabergé egg.

And then, to the collective gasp of the audience and a silent, soul-shattering scream from Bien, the Baron leaned forward, opened his mouth wide, and took the globe of flesh and power between his lips. He suckled greedily, his eyes rolling back in his head in ecstasy.

A violent, convulsive shudder ripped through Kidpinoy’s entire frame. It was a spasm of such profound revulsion that it transcended pain. His back arched off the platform, his muscles straining against the chains with a force that made the metal groan. This was a violation more absolute than any punch or bullet. They had found a way past his skin, past his invulnerability, and had touched the core of him with their filth.

On the screen, Rose’s face finally broke. The confusion and disbelief shattered like glass, replaced by a raw, guttural understanding. She saw the shudder. She saw the obscene act performed on the man she loved. Her mouth opened in a silent scream that mirrored his own, tears of pure horror and empathy carving paths down her pale cheeks. She finally believed it, and the belief was destroying her.

I watched it all, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across my face. The hero, unmade. The girl, broken. The power, understood and ready for the taking. This truly was a masterpiece. Silas stepped forward, clapping his hands softly, the sound cutting through the stunned silence.

“Bravo, Baron. A truly inspired… appraisal,” he purred. “You’ve helped demonstrate a vital point. The vessel is… receptive.” He turned to the audience, his arms spread wide. “The preliminary tasting is over. Now, my friends,” he declared, his eyes glinting with terrifying promise, “let the true harvest begin.”