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

Keanu sat on a bench in the middle of the food court, eating an Auntie Anne's pretzel with calculated boredom.

Across from him, the duck adjusted its sunglasses.

"We're compromised," the duck quacked, voice distorted through a tiny voice modulator strapped to its beak. "They know you're with me now. Plan Omega-Goose is in effect."

"I don't know what that means," Keanu muttered, licking salt off his thumb.

Suddenly, every fountain in the mall shut off at once.

Children screamed. Lights flickered. The Cinnabon logo glitched into Cyrillic.

Keanu looked around. "...You serious?"

The duck didn't answer. It was already skating across the food court on a pat of butter.

From the east wing of the mall, six men in rollerblades and suits appeared, holding baguettes like rifles.

"Operatives," said the duck. "Bun Division."

Keanu ducked behind a potted plant.

The first roller-agent launched a sourdough round. It shattered against the tile. Keanu flipped the plant. It exploded. (The plant, not the agent. Yet.)

From behind the smoothie bar, the duck emerged riding a Roomba, dual-wielding ketchup bottles.

"Ketchup's a warning," it growled. "Mustard's for war."

Keanu vaulted over the table, grabbed a metal tray, and deflected a ciabatta grenade. It knocked over a toddler. The toddler cheered.

"You shouldn't have gotten involved," one said, loading an artisanal focaccia.

He stabbed one in the throat with a straw.

The other one froze. "That's... eco-friendly."

Keanu nodded solemnly. "Biodegradable murder."

The duck cackled from atop a Taco Bell counter. "Phase Quack complete."

Every microwave in the food court exploded simultaneously.

Keanu stood amidst the carnage, dusted himself off, and walked past a ruined Orange Julius.

The duck flapped up onto his shoulder.

"You ever wonder," Keanu said, "if we're the bad guys?"

The duck lit another cigarette. "Only on Sundays."

Keanu stared at the wreckage. "I just wanted socks."

Mallard Mayhem