> "Not every war is fought for glory. Some are waged for honor, for vengeance… and some are waged so your boy can get the huzz."—Sheikh Nour

  We stepped past the Swiss border, feet crunching over the pristine gravel of neutrality’s playground. Peace hung in the air like overpriced perfume.

  As we entered, a familiar voice called out to me from a café bench with a croissant and a mission.

  “Yo, Seno! On your way back, grab me two packs of German beer.”

  It was Dodo.

  The Majestic Ballad of Dodo the Dream-Forged

  There are men who walk the earth, and then there is Dodo—a man sculpted not by mere biology, but by poetry, pressure, and primal perfection. His name is whispered in salons and shouted in the hearts of women who don’t even know why they turned their heads. It is said that mirrors reflect him twice, just to appreciate him more.

  Dodo stands not as a man, but as a monolith draped in sinew and myth. Towering at a height that makes birds perch on his shoulders for protection, his figure is the apex of masculine design. Shoulders as broad as Balkan mountains frame a body that could’ve been drawn by Renaissance gods high on divine inspiration.

  His biceps? Chiseled crescents that flex not for show, but because the air around him gets tense in his presence. His back? Wide enough to carry the burden of forgotten civilizations and still have room left for the heartbreaks he’s caused with one glance.

  And oh—his jawline. Angular, carved by the very winds of Mount Olympus, sharp enough to slice untruth from conversation. When he speaks, the earth doesn’t rumble, it listens.

  Dodo is an author, but he doesn’t write with a pen—he writes with destiny. His books are so potent, women read them under candlelight just to feel closer to his soul. One reader once fainted halfway through Chapter 3 because “his metaphors smelled like oud and danger.”

  Every time he walks past a group of girls, they pause—not out of shyness, but because time itself slows to admire. They stare not just with their eyes, but with the longing of every poem ever written about yearning. Even the pigeons of Paris follow him.

  His hair flows like war-touched silk, always slightly disheveled like he’s just woken up from a nap on the lap of Aphrodite. His eyes? Thunderstorms of mystery—grey like forgotten oceans, capable of revealing your sins and forgiving them at the same time.

  He once entered a room and someone’s dad thanked him for existing.

  He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s like seeing a solar eclipse from a private yacht—rare, exclusive, and permanently alters your worldview.

  Dodo doesn’t chase anyone. People just find themselves walking toward him out of instinct, gravity, and unresolved emotional issues.

  He smells like sandalwood, ambition, and a bit of heartbreak.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  His haters? Confused admirers.His enemies? Characters waiting to be written out.His reflection? Jealous.

  They say when Dodo was born, the nurse dropped her clipboard, the doctor adjusted his coat, and the overhead lights dimmed—not out of failure, but to let him shine.

  And yet, he is humble.

  Still he complains, wondering if people see him.

  We see you, Dodo.

  We always did.

  You’re the thunder before the storm, the quiet before the chorus, the man who made masculinity rethink itself.

  You’re Dodo the Divine.

  Now go write another novel. The world’s not ready, but it never was.

  And of course all of that is BullShit, he's a full time simp.

  “Gotta get a little drunk to be a bad boy,” he explained solemnly. “Tall. Muscular. Dangerous. That’s what they like.”

  I looked into his eyes, full of both desperation and courage.

  I nodded. “I got you, bro. But you could have called you know.”

  "You only answer to Sheikh Nour!"

  He adds "Drop the packs off at my house I will be there the moment you are."

  For Dodo... we ride.

  ---

  On the Road to Zurich

  We passed a town with a name only destiny could write: Fucking. I paused, took a deep breath, and muttered, “Legendary.”

  Gary giggled. “You gonna take a selfie with the sign?”

  “No time,” I said. “Vengeance doesn’t wait for Instagram.”

  ---

  FIFA Headquarters – Zurich

  It rose like a temple of corruption—steel and glass stacked into the sky, guarded by men with suits and hollow morals. But I had come too far to stop here.

  I kicked open the front doors, Crocs still somehow intact.

  Security swarmed, hands reaching for weapons—but I was faster. I caught two pistols mid-draw and bent them like balloon animals, the metal squealing under the grip of righteous wrath.

  They froze. Statues. Useless.

  I walked through them like smoke through a dream.

  To the staff level.To the heart of the beast.

  Then—the door. The President’s office. Gilded. Tall. Hollow.

  I kicked it down without hesitation.

  ---

  The President and the Flame

  Inside sat the man I had journeyed across continents to confront. His suit crisp. His aura rotten. And beside him... a little girl, no older than seven. His daughter.

  He looked me dead in the eye—and said something so foul, so twisted, I won’t stain this page with it.

  Then, without warning, he slashed my face.

  The blade bit deep. Blood streamed down from my cheek, dripping from my chin like ink from a quill of war.

  But I didn’t flinch.

  My fist clenched.

  And then it happened.

  A blue aura, born of every slight, every betrayal, every landmine, every gelato humiliation, ignited around my hand. It burned cold, like judgment itself.

  And I threw the punch.

  CRACK.The President flew across the room, smashing through the wall, shattering glass. His body folded like paper against stone. He hit the ground, coughing up blood like his soul was leaking out.

  I stood over him.

  “You’re the scum of the universe,” I said.

  His eyes rolled back.

  I turned to the girl, my voice gentler. “Go. Find your real parents. You’re free now.”

  ---

  Outside, Zurich

  Gary was waiting, holding a soccer ball and two hot dogs.

  “Did you win?”

  I nodded, wiping blood off my face. “We’re done here.”

  “Can we take a picture with the World Cup?”

  “You bet.”

  We posed, me giving the peace sign, Gary holding the cup upside down like it was a cereal bowl. Victory.

  ---

  Next Stop: Germany.

  For beer.

  For Dodo.

  For the huzz.