File #5: The Pretty Boy from the Hood Goes Viral
She tripped. He ran. The sky exploded. God didn't show up, so Zico did. They kicked the corpse and screamed “Goal by Messi.”
The Redhead Girl
One afternoon, on his way back from school, something that shouldn’t happen, happens.
Zico’s got his headphones on. He’s listening to King Without a Crown by Matisyahu. And suddenly, a little girl—maybe four years old—runs out of a building with no front door. She’s a redhead. Zico thinks of his mother. Redhead too. It’s been over a year since he last saw Bridie. And maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe that’s why someone as selfish as Zico tries to save a life that isn’t his own.
The girl crosses the sidewalk. Steps into the street. Trips. Falls. The street’s a main avenue. A public bus is heading straight toward her. The driver hasn’t seen the girl. The bastard’s not slowing down.
How the hell does he not see her?
Zico runs. People start shouting:
“There’s a girl! Oh God, there’s a girl on the street! Stop the bus!”
The driver finally sees her. But it’s already too late to stop.
Zico reaches her. Grabs her. But it’s too late for him too.
Collateral Damage
Zico sees the bus. He knows this is the end. Shit! He doesn’t want to die. Not like this. Not now. Not on some goddamn avenue in northern Miraverde. Not in La Concepción. That shithole. His shithole. Sixteen years trapped in the poverty of La Concepción. And now this? This is how it ends? So dumb. So pathetic. Fuck!
Sorry, Zico. That’s it.
But then, the bus lifts off the ground. It’s like an invisible hand has grabbed it. And that hand hurls it to the side with rage.
The bus flies. Cuts through the air like a bullet. Heads straight toward a public square.
Zico and the girl survive. Not a scratch.
A happy ending. With collateral damage.
A few meters away: hell on earth.
Death. Chaos. Screams. Blood.
The bus driver dies in less than a second. Seatbelt wasn’t on right. His skull smashes against the window frame.
A pregnant woman in row three slams into the ceiling. Dead.
A guy standing up with a tray of sandwiches wrapped in foil is launched like a missile.
A schoolgirl snaps her neck against the back of a seat.
An old man with a cane gets crushed by the bodies raining down on him.
Two German tourists, on a mission to photograph the ghetto, slam into the back door.
And there are more dead. Many more.
And that’s just inside the bus.
Outside, the carnage is straight out of Final Destination.
A Miracle
First, the bus turns a balloon vendor into a blood explosion. The balloons rise to the sky.
Then the bus flips—rolls over, again and again—and takes twenty-one people with it. Thirteen adults. Seven kids. One baby.
Jesus. The force is so brutal it sends the bus tearing through the square. Its next victim: a taxi.
The driver dies instantly. The passenger, her face caked in makeup, lives a few seconds longer. The taxi spins like a top and crashes into a lamppost. Her body bursts on impact.
Then a family car tries to brake. Too late.
Dad. Mom. Two kids. All dead.
And last, a grandma walking her dog. A furball named Bacon. She’s launched through the air. Lands like a rag doll. Dead.
The dog survives. He keeps barking at the corpse, not understanding a thing.
Meanwhile, Zico and the girl aren’t part of any of that horror.
People start rushing over. To help the wounded? To mourn the dead? No. They rush to Zico and the girl.
A woman screams:
“It’s a miracle! This is a miracle!”
Others join in. Yes. A miracle. People cry. They touch Zico like he’s a holy statue.
Zico is an angel. A messenger from our Lord.
And for the non-believers?
Something similar. In moments like these, imagination tends to get both creative and wildly unhinged.
Who Threw the Bus?
Phones record everything. Yes, the dead. But mostly Zico. Zico first and foremost. Holding the girl in his arms. Fabrizio “Zico” Lucchese. A fucking superhero.
The videos go up in seconds.
Twitter. Instagram. TikTok. YouTube Shorts. WhatsApp. Facebook.
Telegram. Reddit. 4chan. TruthSocial. Weibo. VK. Snapchat. Threads.
Thousands of comments. Hundreds of thousands. Within twenty minutes, the scene is everywhere.
“The Miracle Kid.”
“The Asphalt Christ.”
“The Alleyway Magician.”
“The David Blaine of Miraverde.”
“The Interdimensional Criss Angel of the Ghetto.”
“The Concrete John Coffey.”
“The X-Men of the Slums.”
“The Cosmic Teenager of New Brisenia.”
In one well-known forum, users claim Zico is from the future. Some kind of Kyle Reese sent to protect the redhead girl: Sarah Connor in this timeline. They back it up with graphs, maps, and quantum bullshit.
And while everyone talks about his “heroic feat,” Zico is thinking just one thing:
What the fuck was that?
Who threw the bus?
Who played with the laws of physics to save him?
It wasn’t God. He knows that much. God hates him. If God had anything to do with this, Zico wouldn’t be alive.
And if maybe…
No. No more of that crap. Fuck it.
Whatever happened, he doesn’t care.
Zico moves on.
Fuck metaphysics.
Fuck God.
Bitches with No Code
When Zoya finds out about all this, she’s with two of her friends: Priya and Tanja. The three of them are sitting on a bench outside their block, scrolling and talking.
Tanja is pale, with gray eyes and black hair down to her waist. She looks like a Balkan mafia princess.
Priya has caramel skin, sharp features, and a tiny nose ring. She always looks like she just walked out of a music video.
Suddenly, Priya lifts her phone and says:
“Yo, Zed, look. Isn’t this Zico?”
Zoya leans in. Looks at the screen. Yep. That’s Zico. Zico the hero. Zico the Superman. Zico, global trending topic.
The video plays in front of her eyes three times. She doesn’t give a damn about the accident. All she cares about is him. Zico. Her Zico. The whole world is drooling over him. And it gives her a rush. It hits her like a drug. Her heart’s racing.
Tanja says, half joke, half threat:
“Damn, Zed. He looks hot. I don’t think I can hold out much longer. I’m sorry, babe, but I think I’m gonna fuck him.”
Zoya snaps out of her trance.
“What the fuck did you just say, bitch?”
Tanja smirks, all malice and zero shame.
“I just said he looks good. The rest? Maybe I’m joking. Maybe I’m not.”
Zoya glares at her like she’s gutting her with her eyes. Tanja stares right back, like she’s saying, “Slip up, dumbass, and I’ll ride him ‘til he’s dry.”
And Priya? Priya pretends she doesn’t care. Like Zico’s just another guy. But inside, she’s already planning how to end up naked in Zico’s bed.
Zoya, of course, doesn’t trust either of them. Never will. Fucking snakes with no loyalty. No code. Always lusting after someone else’s man.
Shooting Star
Zoya calls Zico. Nothing. She calls again. Leaves a message.
At first, she’s all joy and adrenaline.
“Zico, fuck. Zico, you bastard, did you see what you did!? You’re everywhere, Zaychik! You went viral! They’re calling you the Asphalt Time Traveler and a bunch of other insane shit. Your face is all over TikTok, Reddit, fucking YouTube News!”
Silence. She tries again. Second message:
“Pick up, dammit. Zico! Don’t go all mysterious on me now, for fuck’s sake. Zico! Answer me. Don’t piss me off, asshole.”
Third:
“Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can save some redheaded brat and vanish like it’s nothing, you ublyudok? You think you’re better than me now, you son of a bitch?”
Fourth:
“Fuck your fucking mother, Zico! Pick up! PICK UP OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL RIP YOUR BALLS OFF WITH MY FUCKING NAILS!”
Zoya yells at her phone like it’s Zico. Like the screen had his face, his voice, his scent. Like the damn thing could bleed.
A woman walks by pushing a stroller. She stops. Stares. Full judgment. Early thirties, three kids. She used to swear like a bitch with nothing to lose back when she was a teen. But ever since she squeezed out her first at twenty-five, she thinks she’s the Virgin Mary. And Zoya’s shouting shit that would make a seminarian cry. And that’s apparently… inappropriate.
Zoya sees her.
“The fuck you staring at? Mind your own business, you crusty bitch.”
The woman frowns. Tightens her lips. She’s a mother, sure. But she’s a mother from La Concepción. And in La Concepción, nobody forgets how to fight. She’s about to clap back. She’s about to remind Zoya that before she breastfed anyone, she used to spit teeth when shit kicked off at public park parties: loud music, cheap booze, and chaos guaranteed.
But then, Tanja and Priya step up beside Zoya. Like a crew ready to rumble.
“What’s up, you dusty old hag? You want beef? I’ll crack your face right now,” says Tanja, raising her fist.
“Keep walkin’, stretch-mark slut,” says Priya. “Or I swear I’ll grab your ugly baby by the leg and slam him into a tree.”
Silence. The woman swallows her rage. Grips the stroller handle. Walks away.
Back to normal.
Back to normal? Please. Nothing’s normal now.
Zico’s everywhere. Zoya needs to see him. Needs to talk to him. She wants to hug him. Kiss him. Her boy is a star now. A fucking social media star. Maybe just a shooting star. But a star all the same.
Goal by Messi
Zoya doesn’t say goodbye to her friends. No kiss, no wave. She just leaves. Heads straight to the filthy building where Zico lives. It’s not far, just four blocks away. She walks fast. But never loses that strut of hers.
Men shout like it’s a damn opera: eternal love, hearts in flames, undying devotion, vows of forever, souls on a silver platter. Some are flat-out repulsive. Real pigs: slobbering, obscene, pathetic.
Zoya keeps walking. Unbothered. Unfuckwithable.
She gets to the building. Climbs the stairs.
On the third floor, she runs into some bald guy in his forties. He’s wearing fake Adidas sweatpants; the logo says Adibos. On top, a faded Northenders FC T-shirt. Proud uniform of the league’s legendary losers.
He’s buzzed. Been drinking since lunch like it’s his job.
He tries to stop her. Blocks her path. Says something disgusting. Touches her arm. Big mistake.
Zoya’s high on adrenaline. Assassin mode: unlocked.
She shoves him. Hard. He tries to grab the railing. Misses. A split-second of terror stretches across his face, and then he goes down.
The first hit is brutal. The second one too. The stairs show no mercy. No pause. No pity.
Just when it looks like he might stop on the first landing, his body picks up speed, slams into the wall like a ball thrown with pure hate, and keeps falling.
You hear screams. Whimpers. Then: crunches. Joints snapping. Bones giving up. He rolls like a stray tire on a slope: bouncing, twisting, breaking. Then silence. No more screams. Just a body, still falling.
He’s already dead. But gravity doesn’t know that.
By the time he hits the ground floor, he rolls a bit more. Then lies there: mangled. Twisted. Worthless. A few feet away from some kids huffing glue.
And what do the little brats do?
They kick him. Spit on him. Laugh their asses off. Kick him again. One of them shouts:
“Goal by Messi!”
She Doesn’t Look Back
Zoya doesn’t look back. Not once. She doesn’t give a flying fuck about the bald sack of shit she just sent to hell. She keeps climbing. Fourth floor. Fifth. Sixth.
She gets to the seventh. Bangs on Zico’s door like she’s the damn cops on a drug raid.
“Zico! Open the fuck up! Zico! I’m here!”
The street guitarist opens the door. Zoya doesn’t even say hi. She storms in, straight to Zico’s room.
The guitarist watches her go, sighs, and mutters to himself:
“Ah, young love…”
He has no idea what’s going on. No clue Zico’s gone viral. The guy doesn’t own a phone. He’s stuck in the ‘70s. No tech. No socials. No online banking. Not even a damn email address.
He says cellphones are tools of human exploitation. That they rot your soul. That they kill art.
Someone once told him he could make money posting his songs on TikTok, Instagram Reels, YouTube Shorts, even SoundCloud. Talk of monetization. Followers. Personal brand.
He was horrified. Offended. Said his art belongs to the streets. Not to the suits who control capital. And he added with full-on drama, like he was in 1958, facing down some fat record exec with slick hair and a cigar: “I don’t sell out to the labels.”
Yeah. That Bob Dylan who never made it is a full-on boomer, no doubt. But at least he’s no hypocrite. He’s not preaching communism on Twitter while monetizing hashtags. Not cashing in on anti-system slogans while squeezing the algorithm dry. Not selling revolution in a box to idiots who pay to feel rebellious. No. The bastard’s as stubborn as Don Quixote, but at least he’s the real deal.
Coca-Cola Was Invented by the CIA
Zoya bursts into the room. No knocking. No asking. No warning. She storms in like a goddamn earthquake, chest heaving.
Zico’s typing on his laptop. What’s he writing?
A sadistic sex scene, comedic tone, something straight out of The Eleven Thousand Rods by Apollinaire. A book that would make a Christian mother vomit right into the baptismal font.
And then?
She’d burn every single page and immediately organize a march, campaigning day and night to get the government to erase every last copy from the country. Which, of course, she wouldn’t succeed at.
These days, nobody gives a shit about Christian mothers. If you want to censor literature now, you have to belong to the trending minority. The loudest one. The most recently traumatized. Or the one that learned to monetize its pain for likes.
Zoya throws herself onto Zico.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Zed?”
Zoya doesn’t wait for an answer. She kisses him. Laughs. Kisses him again. Smiles. Hugs him like he just won a fucking Oscar. Back when that still meant something.
Yeah, Zoya’s thrilled. She can’t believe her man went viral. The news is everywhere. Hell, even on that graveyard of media where old people in recliners watch the world burn while praising the 'good old days': TV.
Breaking news? Is that what they call it?
Zoya’s not sure. The TV’s there, but she’s never touched it.
If there’s a TV in her place, it’s because of her babulya, her grandma. A tough old Russian who lived through the Cold War back in the Motherland and still believes Coca-Cola was invented by the CIA.
The Silver Fox
And by the way, a former priest, a libidinous silver fox with Sean Connery 007 vibes and four million YouTube subscribers, just called Zico Lucchese “the savior of the broken streets.”
This same man was kicked out of the Church after a scandal in an exclusive temple of depraved lust, where he committed acts of sodomy and, according to some faceless sources, possibly bestiality.
But that’s old news. Two years ago. Long forgotten.
Now he runs a wildly successful podcast where he mixes theology, self-help, and protein powder.
And of course, being the cunning manipulator he is, the moment he saw the footage of the accident in La Concepción, he went live. Teary-eyed. Voice trembling.
He claimed Zico was a sign. Proof that God walks among the rubble. That God, yes, sides with the underdogs. With the ones getting crushed by the fists of tyranny.
What tyranny? No one knows. No one asks. It’s irrelevant.
The video already has over seven hundred thousand likes. And it keeps climbing.
Only Mine
Zoya says to Zico:
“This could be your chance to get famous, my love.”
“Famous?” Zico replies. “Don’t be ridiculous, Zed. I don’t want to be famous. That’s garbage to me. I want to be a god. The one who decides who gets to live who deserves to die who goes to Heaven who gets dragged down to Hell. I want that power. And I think I could get it.”
Zoya stops hugging him. She runs her hand through his hair. Touches his neck. Looks at him the way only she can. Her eyes sparkle with tenderness.
She whispers, in Russian:
“Ты ёбнутый, мой красивый зайчик. Но ты мне нравишься. И больше всего мне нравится, что ты мой. Только мой.”
Translation: “You’re fucking crazy, my beautiful záychik. But I adore you. And most of all, I love that you’re mine. Only mine.”
Zico stares at her like she just said the dumbest thing in the universe.
“What the fuck are you saying, pretty face?”
“I said I love you,” replies Zoya Morozova.
Behind the Vein
🩸 Featured Comments
(a fragment of collective madness)
🐸 @KermitOnShrooms
“Zico is the amphibian king the frogs spoke of. The redhead girl is the trigger. This is all in the scrolls.”
💦 @NunsGoneWild
“As a woman of God, I just wanna say… I would risk eternal damnation for one night with that boy.”
👁️ @FleshProphet
“The way the bus flew? That’s no miracle. That’s a signal. The Ascension has begun. Kneel, bitches.”
💻 @4chanProphet1337
“I ran his name through a biblical anagram generator. ZICO = ‘Child Of Zion Incarnate.’ Coincidence? Wake up, sheeple.”
🧠 @ZicoTheory
“There are only two options. 1) He’s a god. 2) He’s a glitch in the simulation. Either way: follow him.”
🧃 @CommunionShots
“I made a smoothie with holy water and creatine and called it ‘The Zico.’ I feel powerful. My cat speaks Latin now.”
🧎 @BootyForTheMessiah
“I sold my apartment to start a cult in his name. We meet Tuesdays. We pray shirtless.”
📿 @BlessedSlut
“If Zico opened an OnlyFans I’d cancel therapy.”
📸 @HolyZoom
“I zoomed into a photo of the accident and saw angels. One of them had Zico’s haircut.”
🐴 @RevelationHorseGirl
“He is the fourth horseman. And he rides bareback. Literally.”
🎮 @TwitchProphecy
“I saw it happen live and now my hands glow in the dark. I can hear electricity. Zico is in my Wi-Fi.”
🛸 @AlienDaddy
“Zico isn’t human. That was anti-gravity bus jiu-jitsu. Wake the fuck up.”
🧘 @ZenLucchese
“I reached nirvana watching him breathe.”
📚 @FangirlLiterary
“I’m writing my thesis on Zico. Title: Eroticism in Postmodern Urban Saints. My advisor cried reading Chapter Two. That’s as far as I’ve written.”
Bloodtrack
“Lux Aeterna” – Clint Mansell & Kronos Quartet
“King Without a Crown” – Matisyahu
“Bitch Better Have My Money” – Rihanna
If this hit you right, drop a tip on Ko-fi.
I’m not here to beg. I’m here to build a fucking empire—one story at a time.
You tip, you help shape it.
You don’t? Fine. I’ll remember anyway.—Zico