What the hell just happened? I woke up thinking, Today's a good day—grab some takoyaki, chill out, and maybe enjoy life. But nope, the universe had other plans.
I thought the old man finally left after the prince shooed him off—after I got punched and accused of being a thief. One minute I'm about to bite into some crispy, golden octopus balls, and the next? I'm the villain of the damn street, with everyone staring me down like I committed war crimes.
The place was packed—voices mixing with sizzling grills and kids hollering. But today, something hotter than the grill was cutting through the noise.
Right there in the middle of it all: me, a tipsy old coot who couldn't remember his last sober day, and a ridiculously handsome guy dripping royal vibes. Somehow, I'd become the accidental star in this medieval soap opera.
Then it kicked off again.
That crusty old bastard marches up, eyes locked on my loot bag like I'd personally insulted his ancestors. "You thief! You stole my money!" he bellows, jabbing his finger like I'm some street rat.
I'm standing there thinking, Really? I look like I'm desperate for your crusty old wallet? But before I can say a word, the old man snatches the bag right out of my hands.
Bro, the nerve.
The crowd gasps. Marco freezes mid-flip at his takoyaki stand.
Then Mr. Sword-wielding Pretty Boy steps in—tall, sharp, and with that "I run this shit" vibe that could hush an army.
He says, cool as ice, "Let's settle this fairly. If that bag's yours, tell me what's inside."
Simple, right?
The old man puffs up like a prizefighter and blurts, "Silver coins!"
I lock eyes with the prince, glance at my bag, and laugh. "Silver? Nah, try again."
He leans in, waiting for the punchline.
"Platinum."
Silence.
That kind of silence that makes your ears ring.
The old man's face goes white. The crowd starts whispering. Marco's still mid-flip, jaw dropped.
Platinum coins? That's not just change. That's elite currency. And the bag? Totally mine.
But the drama wasn't done.
The old man clutches the bag like it's his last hope. Then—CLINK. Armor. Two guards appear, weapons drawn.
Sweat pours down the old guy's face. He's realizing he bit off more than he can chew.
With a nod from the prince—SNATCH!—the bag is ripped away.
The crowd leans in.
Marco drops his takoyaki.
And inside?
Well, you already know this twisted tale ain't over yet.
Moral? Never fuck with someone who knows what's in their bag. And for god's sake, don't pick fights in front of a prince.
Stay tuned—because if you think today was wild, you haven't seen shit yet.