showerhead

So yeah. Rose Cookies.

This isn’t your usual power fantasy or deep character study. It’s just… something that came out of my brain—and maybe yours too.

Keanu, the guy you’re reading about, isn’t really a person. He doesn’t have a personality, no tragic backstory, no moral compass. He’s just there. Walking, talking, smiling. And then suddenly—violence. Out of nowhere.

Why? Because sometimes, life just pushes people. You keep swallowing the little stuff—awkward silences, fake laughs, getting ignored, getting talked over, being the nice one. Over and over. And then one day, something in you snaps… or at least, wants to.

Not gonna lie, a lot of these scenes are born from real stories. Not the stabbings, obviously, but the feelings. Stuff I’ve gone through. Stuff people have told me. That quiet, helpless frustration when you just sit there thinking, “Why do I keep letting this happen?” And maybe, for a second, your brain throws out the worst possible solution just to see how it feels.

Keanu is that. He’s not a person. He’s an impulse. He’s what happens when all that built-up patience finally tips.

Some chapters will be hilarious. Some will be disturbing. Some will make zero sense. That’s intentional. Life doesn’t stick to genre rules, so neither does this.

Thanks for reading. Or hate-reading. Or doomscrolling (I sincerely doubt that) your way into this mess. I’m writing it like a fever dream and trying to surprise myself, so if it gets weird, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

– Sincerely,
Showerhead

Rose Cookies

The duck was staring at him again.

It sat by the fountain outside the mall food court, plump, oddly clean, and wearing what looked like a tiny pair of sunglasses. Keanu tried to ignore it. He had better things to do. Like buy socks. His last pair had been compromised during "The Waffle House Incident."

Keanu turned slowly. The duck had not moved. Still lounging like some godfather of fowl. Still staring.

Fifteen minutes later, Keanu exited with a pack of socks, a discounted keychain that said "#1 Grandpa," and a growing sense of unease. The duck was gone.

It waddled out from behind a parked Prius, matching his pace. Keanu turned left. The duck turned left. He slowed. So did the duck.

Keanu ducked into a side alley (pun not intended), heart rate finally settling.

He spun. The duck was standing upright now. Wearing a trench coat. Smoking a cigarette.

"Quack," said the duck. "They're watching. We have to act fast."

But it was too late. The duck lunged. Not at him—at a man walking behind him in a hoodie.

A shnk echoed. The man gasped, clutching his throat. Keanu had moved. The duck had signaled. The knife had done its thing.

"Wrong tail," the duck muttered. "That one was following me."

They disappeared into the shadows.

Keanu had no idea what was going on. But he did know one thing: mall ducks don't usually carry intel.

Keanu and the duck