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

A trumpet riff, oddly nostalgic, buzzed out of the laundromat speakers like a mosquito trained in jazz.

"Amores Como el Nuestro," the old man behind the counter mumbled, wringing out a mop with a sigh. "They don't make 'em like this anymore."

Keanu didn't reply. He stood still, eyes closed, hips subtly swaying.

Across from him, a little girl stared. "Mister, are you dancing?"

"No," he repeated, but his hips betrayed him. A small, deliberate sway. Then a roll. Then a full Shakira.

The old man dropped his mop. "Ay, Dios mío."

It was happening again. The possession.

Not the woman herself, but something older. Deeper. The rhythm. The sample. The ghost of the trumpet line possessed his bones. Every syllable of "I never really knew that she could dance like this" carved itself into his spine.

"Keanu," the laundromat lady called, peeking from the back. "Your socks are—oh my god."

He was full-body popping now, slow-motion salsa footwork on the tile floor, coin machine blinking red like a disco ball. The mop bucket spun of its own accord.

Someone gasped. "He's channeling Jerry Rivera."

Someone else whispered, "No… Wyclef. Look at his elbow, that's a Wyclef elbow."

The room swelled with energy. A guy live-streaming it shouted, "He's doing the hips-don't-lie exorcism! I read about this on Reddit!"

Keanu stopped moving. The music continued, the trumpet cry echoing like a funeral for rhythm.

Someone was holding out their phone. TikTok open.

Then stabbed the phone through the guy's neck.

Keanu whispered, "They always lie."

Blood spilled onto the laundromat tile, swirling into the rhythm of the song.

"I'm telling you, bro. That wasn't a murder. That was a collab with Shakira."

Shakira Shakira