> "Sometimes, the strongest warriors fall not to blade nor bullet... but to a man with a scoop and a grin."—Sheikh Nour

  The sun beat down on the streets of Türkiye, painting the stone roads in a warm golden hue. Gary and I had just crossed into the country, our journey now seasoned by blood, fire, and shawarma grease. My body—now towering and jacked beyond belief—moved like a shadow through the crowd. People stared. I didn’t blame them.

  I wasn’t human anymore. I was purpose given flesh.

  But even The Honored One will meet his match.

  We stopped near a busy plaza, the scent of roasted chestnuts and sizzling lamb filling the air. My stomach growled—not from hunger, but out of sheer habit. And then I saw him.

  The Gelato Man.

  He stood beside a shining chrome cart adorned with tassels, bells, and colors that threatened the visual spectrum. His mustache curled like a villain’s in a fable. His arms—veins visible, forearms like ancient columns. His eyes? Cold. Calculating.

  I approached the cart like it was a war altar.

  “One chocolate. One mango,” I said.

  He gave me a slow nod. And then... the ritual began.

  ---

  The Gelato Duel: Man vs. Cone

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  He scooped. One perfect sphere of mango. One rich, obsidian ball of chocolate. He balanced them, stacked them, twisted the cone—and then handed it toward me.

  I reached—

  He pulled it back.

  The crowd laughed.

  I adjusted. My timing had been off. I reached again—

  He spun the cone, stuck it upside-down on my nose, then yanked it away.

  More laughter. Gary was already giggling, munching on a cone handed to him without a fight.

  “Why did he get one?!” I barked, ducking and lunging again.

  The Gelato Man said nothing. His grin widened.

  This time I anticipated the feint, and went low—but he used the scoop to bounce the cone off my forehead, then caught it behind his back. The crowd roared. A tourist filmed it. I tried grabbing the stick—he spun it, bounced it on his palm, flipped it over my hand.

  I was sweating.

  A knife fight with twenty-four soldiers? Easy.

  A PS2-vibrating needle transformation? Child’s play.

  This was my breaking point.

  Finally, after an eternal struggle—after I lunged, dodged, faked, countered, even tried psychic prediction—the Gelato Man handed me the cone.

  I took it in silence.

  Bit into it with a crunch, the sound of my dignity snapping in half.

  I chewed in defeat. “This is... really good,” I muttered.

  Gary was licking his ice cream like it was Sunday brunch. “You got cooked,” he said with a grin.

  ---

  Kebab Nation

  We moved through Türkiye with quiet vengeance, eating every kebab we found: lamb shish, d?ner, iskender, Adana, even mystery meat on a stick we didn’t question. I was determined to bury my humiliation beneath layers of grilled meat.

  Gary counted. “That’s seventeen kebabs.”

  “Keep walking,” I grunted, wiping sauce off my chin.

  ---

  By Nightfall

  We crossed the Turkish-Bulgarian border beneath a velvet sky. I could still taste gelato on my tongue. My pride? It’d recover. Eventually.

  But the path ahead would only grow stranger.

  And the FIFA president? Still waiting at the end of the world.