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 walked into the abandoned Subway at exactly 3:33 a.m.

The door didn't creak open—it whispered.

Inside, fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying Morse code for "turn back," but Keanu had already spotted the microwave. Not just any microwave. This one had a red sticker on it that read: Do Not Microwave Banana Again.

In the corner, a monkey in a priest outfit was hunched over a pile of sunflower seeds, muttering psalms backwards.

The monkey looked up. "He returns. The eggless."

They both glanced at the microwave.

A banana sat inside. Unpeeled. Radiating sin.

Keanu didn't break eye contact with the monkey.

He pressed the microwave's power button.

The monkey screeched and leapt at him.

No flourish. No effort. Just instinct.

He snapped the monkey's neck mid-air and gently laid him on the "Fresh Toppings" counter.

"Forgive me, Father," he whispered, "but it was either you… or the banana."

And from inside crawled the CEO of Nestlé, oiled and ready to sue.

"Do microwaved bananas void the Geneva Convention? Asking for a monkey."

The Monkey, the Priest, and the Microwave