Before James arrived in South Korea, the most adventurous food he had ever eaten was Taco Bell, which worked out great as he feasted on Taco Bell at the Osan Air Base Exchange. He and the other new arrival, Fred, agreed that the Korean big beef burrito supreme was far superior and more exotic than the big beef burrito supreme found in Kansas. The two newbies surveilled the Food Court, searching for Air Force girls and debating whether to try Manchu Wok or Anthony’s Pizza next, when they bumped into Brad, the coolest E-5 in all of Asia.
Brad owned a matte gray BMW M3 at a 35% interest rate. He had a wispy peach fuzz mustache and slight acne. Being the coolest E-5 in all of Asia, he had been shopping at the auto exchange where he had bought a Punisher sticker for his car. Obviously this sticker would make his awesome car even more awesomer. He explained all of this in under two minutes. James and Fred looked at each other in awe.
Brad stuffed the awesome sticker back into his bag when he noticed James’s Jayhawks t-shirt. He introduced himself as the third-cousin of the 2008 championship team’s back-up point-guard. James and Brad immediately became best friends.
Since Brad was the coolest E-5 in all of Asia, he could tell James was new to Korea—he had a great eye for that sorta thing—and he offered to show James around. But not Fred. Fred was weird. All James had to do was pay for Brad’s dinner and their train tickets to Seoul. James agreed immediately. Fred was left to wander the military mall alone.
Later on, as Brad and James trained it to Seoul, Brad explained his expert’s grasp on personal finance and the importance of owning an asset like a car at a 35% interest rate. “Bro, the stock market only returns 6%,” he said. “It’s math.” He was also an expert at crawling the internet and embellishing his online profile, allowing him to connect with hot Filipinas and unsuspecting Korean women all over the peninsula. Tonight they were going to a house party with smoking-hot college girls.
Three hours later they arrived in Seoul where Brad introduced James to Korean BBQ. “We need to eat meat before partying all night,” Brad said. He waved away James’s concerns. If James liked Taco Bell, he would love K-BBQ.
James did love K-BBQ. He consumed massive amounts of meat. Marinated ribeye. Spicy pork bulgogi. Grilled short ribs. He covered everything in kimchi, wrapping the fermented cabbage in sticky rice and fresh lettuce. The food was so good, money was no object. He bought more meat, dousing it in Gochujang, a red chili paste made from pepper flakes and fermented soybeans. James didn’t know what “fermented” meant, but it didn’t matter because it was so damn good.
They washed the meal down with epic portions of OB Lite and cheap soju. The Korean businessmen sitting next to them were so thoroughly impressed by this feast, they ordered makgeolli. Neither Brad nor James knew what makgeolli was, but they both drank the fermented rice wine. James’s eyes opened in shock, surprised that the creamy milk drink tasted delicious. He drank more and sang a song of good fortune with the Korean businessmen.
The boys paid their tab and made their way to Hongdae, the college part of town. Outside the girls’ apartment building, James’s stomach rumbled and he immediately broke into a cold sweat. Not willing to let his best-friend Brad down, James swore nothing was wrong. He bit his lip and clenched his butthole as they slowly walked up four flights of stairs.
They arrived at a super tiny apartment with one tiny window. It was hot, packed with college students playing drinking games. Their hostess hugged them, welcoming them emphatically, and took them to a circular table where she had made a cheese platter. She had read that American parties always had cheese platters. James thanked his attractive host and took a bite of the slimy cheese. He froze in horror.
His stomach gurgled like a man about to fill his pants with an ungodly amount of pooh. His desperate eyes skittered around the shrinking apartment. He wiped sweat from his brow and politely asked his host if he could use the bathroom. She bowed and pointed to a closet by the front door. He gritted a smile.
Speed-walking into the bathroom, he slammed the door shut and flipped on the light. There was a toilet, a sink, a showerhead next to the sink, and a drain in the floor. He jiggled the switch to power the overhead fan. Nothing worked. There was no time. He dropped his drawers.
The toilet suffered mightily. James’s body reverberated with the force of the explosion. He shuddered and winced like he was giving birth. The noise was unyielding. It was as if Mount Vesuvius unloaded centuries of pent-up magma and sulfurous gas. No, it was worse. It was as if a hundred Death Stars were exploding in the toilet. Finally, it ended.
Pale and wet, James wiped his ass, but there was nothing on the tissue. Confused, he stood and looked in the bowl. Nothing. He patted his body like he was checking for bullet holes. Nothing. He scratched his head, flushed the toilet, and stared into the mirror. After a moment, he shrugged, walked from the bathroom and returned to the cheese platter. It was then that it happened.
The insidious fermented death cloud crept from the bathroom like a nauseating horror seeping from a subterranean sewer. Slowly, it picked up steam. People whispered. Then they muttered. Then they screamed.
Everyone rushed the small window, gasping, pushing each other out of the way, fighting to get a breath of fresh air. A brave sole stood his ground and unloaded a whole can of aerosol at the monstrous stench. He gagged and kneeled. The can rolled away as he dry-heaved.
James bent over the cheese platter and brought a piece of slick white cheese to his nose. He took a whiff and turned to Brad, whose upper lip was now baby smooth, the wisps of peach fuzz melting from his face. “Dude,” James said. “This cheese really stinks.”
And that’s the story of the great Korean death cloud massacre.
