Kunto had returned home with all the grace of a stray cat who’d just discovered he now owned two food bowls, a luxury couch, and a shared wife. On paper, the three-way marriage with Letizia and Olimpia looked like a shimmering beacon of modern, enlightened polyamory.
It wasn’t new territory — back in the day, Kunto, Olimpia, and Letizia had played a civilized game of “if I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.” But after months away, the chill, do-whatever-you-want husband was no more.
While dodging international chaos, Kunto kept one eye glued to scandal blogs. Every time he saw “Letizia,” “Olimpia,” and “unexplained noises” in the same headline, he aged five years. His imagination filled in the rest — always with him missing out.
And now that he was back, the jealous worm in his chest had grown teeth. So, on one of those window-rattling stormy nights, Green Peace — as usual — had taken shelter in the warmest place available: Olimpia’s thighs.
[Backstage, some days before the ceremony]
The hum of roadies, the clank of flight cases, and the faint smell of incense mixed with fried noodles — the perfect backdrop for an Important Conversation.
Kunto found Greenpeace cross-legged on a battered leather couch, backstage air thick with a smell that was definitely not incense. He had a half-rolled joint in one hand, the other lazily scratching his beard.
Kunto crossed his arms, face set to I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed… and also mad.
Kunto:
“Bro. We need to talk.”
Greenpeace (grinning):
“Sure, bro. I’m all ears. Well… mostly ears. And maybe half a muffin.”
Kunto (ignoring him):
“This… stormy-night ritual with Olimpia? Yeah, it’s gotta stop.”
Greenpeace nodded slowly, like he was vibing to whale songs — way too slowly — his gaze drifting to a passing roadie’s Free Tibet T-shirt.
Greenpeace:
“Mmm-hmm. Totally hear you, man. Hey, you think Tibet’s got yak milk cappuccinos?”
Kunto:
“Every time there’s thunder, you go full national emergency mode and somehow — somehow — end up wedged between her thighs like she’s the last operational bunker in the Western Hemisphere. She is not FEMA-certified shelter, man.”
In the background, a stagehand dashed by carrying a mic stand taller than himself, tripped on a coil of cable, and disappeared behind a curtain with a muffled thud. No one reacted.
Greenpeace froze mid-chew. The smoke halo above his head wobbled.
Greenpeace:
“Wait… what emergency? Should we head for the exits?”
Kunto:
“It’s not even real storms half the time! Earthquakes, tornadoes — sure, survival instincts. But last Tuesday? That was a drizzle. A moist breeze. And you were in there doing the breaststroke like Poseidon on sabbatical.”
Greenpeace blinked. Downloading… downloading…
Greenpeace:
“ Tuesday? Man, I don’t even remember what I ate this morning....”
Kunto (leaning in, voice low):
"What do you want me to do? Summon a drought? Bribe the meteorological office? Personally chase down the clouds just to stop you from turning into the Thunder Thigh Whisperer?"
Greenpeace:
“Thunder Thigh Whisperer… that’s beautiful, man. I might write a song—”
Kunto (snapping):
“Next time it rains, I’m locking you in a room with Letizia. Let’s see if the thunder still feels sexy. Her screams? Definitely louder than the storm.”
Greenpeace snapped upright like someone just told him his stash was missing.
Greenpeace:
“Wait, wait, wait.”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing slowly — like a bear finally realizing it's being hunted.
“Did you just say… me and Letizia? Locked… together?”
Before Kunto could reply, Letizia’s voice detonated from somewhere behind a stack of flight cases:
Letizia (off-stage):
“WHO’S LOCKING WHO, EXACTLY?!”
Backstage froze.
Someone dropped a guitar pick — it hit the floor like a gunshot.
A roadie carrying a tray of water bottles turned around and walked face-first into a doorframe.
Greenpeace’s eyes went saucer-wide. The joint trembled in his hand.
Greenpeace (whispering, urgently passing it to Kunto):
“…Bro.
She heard that.
She heard that.
Take it. If she kills me, cremate what’s left with this.”
Kunto raised an eyebrow.
Kunto:
“Oh, now you’re scared? Thought thighs were your natural habitat.”
From behind the flight cases, Letizia’s footsteps grew louder — crisp, deliberate, like a countdown clock wearing heels.
Kunto (flatly):
“Bro, you haven’t got a word of what I said, have you? You can’t keep diving into Olimpia’s bed every time you hear thunder. She’s not a storm bunker. She’s my wife.”
Greenpeace(sighing with theatrical defeat):
“Okay, okay… message received. No more thunder-snuggles. I guess I’ll have to find myself a new storm shelter.”
(He pulls out his phone, mock-typing.)
“‘Seeking warm, non-judgmental thighs for temporary weather-related emergencies. Must love rain. No jealous husbands.’ Think that’ll work..”
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