["Chapter 69. Chad's all-time favourite number." He believed it's the perfect mix of teamwork and flexibility.]
Ugh, that creepy narrator's back again.
What does the narrator even mean by me 'liking 69'? I'm not into 69-year-old chicks—that's way too seasoned for my taste.
["Claim your reward and savour it! Now hustle home… your waifu is aching for you. Why do you dawdle like a sloth?!"]
The weird thing was, I was the only one who heard the narrator. Nobody else batted an eye.
"Hang on, how do you know about my waifu waiting for me?!" Chad blurted, cheeks flushing. "And how'd you guess I'm itching for some... intense alone time? You're spying on me, aren't you? Freak!"
["Do watch you have passionate sex with your waifu for very obvious reasons. I love the faces you make when you climax. Un-miss-able! Well, that's not entirely true... you often miss her face. Giggle."]
The newspaper girl leaned in, shoving the mic towards Chad. "Our editor's demanding a quote from the hero himself. We're running a full feature on how you saved the day… in our global sensation of a newspaper… creatively named Worldwide Newspaper."
He flashed an eager grin. "Got anything to say, Mister Hero? We'll be slapping it right on the front page, word for word. And yes, people do still read newspapers in 2025… mostly sad, old folks, but hey... people nonetheless."
Chad, completely ignoring the cop, the paparazzi, and even the hostages he'd just rescued, said, "So you want me to hurry home and, what, shoot my load on my waifu? Look, I get it—maybe some girls out there get pleasure from me pleasuring my waifu. I'm not trying to take that joy away from you. It's just... weird that you watch me without me knowing."
He paused, frowning as his brain derailed.
"I mean... sure, I watch porn and hentai online to get pleasure from that. But the porn doesn't usually watch you back." (Only in Soviet Russia.)
Chad totally lost his train of thought, gave up on whatever he was planning to say, and finished with a shrug: "All I'm saying is... I just hope you're not watching me when I take a shit, or pick my nose, or scratch my arse."
The newspaper reporter girl scratched her head, and all the other onlookers looked just as confused by what Chad had said.
The sergeant said, "He's talking to his wife on his hands-free kit. I heard the word wife in there. He's just told her how much he missed her."
A nod from the reporter followed. "Okay, we'll print it. Very encouraging and insightful words from a local hero. I'm sure your words will motivate others, when read, to do great things as well."
Bobby the cop said, "Yeah, that hands-free tech is going… So you can have hands free to do whatever you want when you talk to your lass."
The sergeant added, "Yeah, but sometimes it makes you look like a mad person, talking to yourself. I once heard someone say they wanted to hump my corpse... but it turned out to be just some Apex Legends video game player trash-talking his classmates.
Another time, some poor sod walked past me mumbling on their hands-free kit, 'Yes, Mummy, I did wipe properly this time,' and I got scarred for life."
The hostages—who'd been staring at him like he was pure sex on legs—suddenly broke free from their trance, swarming Chad, the girl in red, the granny, and the rest of the ladies, all yelling, "Give us some of your money!!"
Give them some money? Huh?!
Chad hesitates, blinking in disbelief as he steps back into the bank. The robbers are still out cold on the floor—right where they were left. But the hostages? The very same people who'd just had their lives threatened, who'd been trembling under the weight of guns pointed at their heads…
Now they're demanding his money?
"I don't really have much money... I'm a student at Brightwater Academy. I study human anatomy and, like, general science-y stuff. Last week, we ran this experiment to see if dyeing your hair pink would also turn your pubic hair… and, uh, your asscrack hair… pink too. I also do physical education... and, y'know, other stuff."
All the hostages grow even thirstier—their hands drift over him with desperate eagerness, fingers sliding across his chest, arms wrapping around him as they press in close, clinging like they never want to let go. Then the woman in red saunters forward, hips swaying, holding out a little plastic tub. "Educated as well… That makes you even more perfect."
One tugs at his shirt, fingers skimming his skin, while another presses into him from behind. Their lips graze his neck, fingers trail over his chest, each pulling him closer.
He's not sure if this is some sort of threat or a seduction thing; they both kinda feel the same. He stammered, "Perfect for what? I don't even have the cash to fill that little tub."
The sergeant let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head at Chad.
Why's he laughing? These ladies are gonna take all my money.
Then the sergeant leaned in, voice low but firm, "Listen, lad... they don't want your cash. They want your money shot."
Chad's brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes. "A money shot? Like... what, one of those paparazzi things? Y'know, catching some perfect pic for a magazine cover or clickbait or whatever? Like when they snap celebs with their tits out on a beach or something?"
The sergeant chuckled, leaning closer. "Not a tabloid shot, lad. A 'money shot' is a cum shot. This 'bank'"—he pointed at the place the robbers had just attempted to rob—"it's a sperm donation clinic."