Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  The last old neighbor she’d known went under the moniker of Easy Sammy C. He was a white rapper who’d never quite managed to make it. He would play his music loud all the time, mumble something into the mic, and drive a beat-up old Cadillac with an industrial-grade subwoofer. The rapper’s career hasn’t gone anywhere over the five years that Lexie had been living there. He was already over thirty and past his time; his garments had become even more preposterous and his rapping, less and less comprehensible.

  However, Easy Sammy never let that bring him down. He kept sending demos to all his neighbors and tormenting Lexie with links to his videos (featuring him driving his Cadillac past the waste lot where Rex would normally do his number twos).

  Her income, and the fact that she was single, would suffice for renting something better. Yet she’d been living here ever since she’d left her parents’ home. A young DigiMart employee could easily afford half a townhouse. She’d been working hard, too. Mr. Howell, her uncle, had made it perfectly clear to her that his professional attitude wouldn’t be affected by zodiacal compatibility or their kinship. There would be no privilege.

  On the other hand, he would regularly ask her to do something that wasn’t part of her job description. Whenever Lexie would try to bring it up, her uncle would raise his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and ask her, looking bewildered, “Will you really turn your uncle down? We are no strangers, are we?”

  Lexie would sigh and tell herself she’d take Howell’s place someday. Then it would be open season on everyone. She knew she could really shine managing his business and make the company expand on an unprecedented case. She’d told his uncle about the meager profits of DigiMart many times, and how it would make sense to demolish the hell out the old building and replace it with a multi-story mall.

  The response would always be a dismissive gesture meaning something along the lines of “Do what I told you, and enough fantasies already.”

  * * *

  WHEN HAGEN was just a kid, his mother would drag him to the hospital whenever a new disease would be mentioned in her newspaper or on TV. Years later, it became his turn to take his mom to all kinds of hospitals. He had developed a strong aversion for all those people in their impeccable whites, projecting a sense of wisdom in a condescending way.

  So it was no surprise to him that this new medic—a Dr. Rothson—didn’t put much credit in Hagen’s involvement in actual martial arts. He just pinned the X-ray of Mike’s leg to a board, and said in a bland voice,

  “There is no crack. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Hagen sat on the couch, looking at the incomprehensible array of black and white fragments. The doctor pursed his lips, looking doubtful.

  “So, how did you say you had got these bruises? In a boxing ring?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about the bruise on your face?”

  “The same place.”

  “So, you’re a boxer, then?” Dr. Rothson eyeballed Hagen in a conspicuous manner. “When did you last pay a visit to your psychiatrist? According to your medical history, you’ve had MRI performed on you. Any complaints?”

  “None anymore, doc.”

  The doctor went back to his table and started to type something on his tablet. Hagen waited patiently—there was nowhere to go, after all. He threw another glance at the doctor’s room, appreciating the combination of coziness and minimalism. There hadn’t been much there, but he saw plenty of objects making the reception room look slightly less cold and sterile than the ones he’d seen before. And he’d had enough experience with those—from school sick rooms to community hospitals.

  “Any insurance plan?” Rothson asked.

  “None.”

  “Then you’re free to go. You are no longer injured, and that’s official,” the doctor said, grinning.

  Hagen paid his bill and exited the clinic. He may have had a slight limp, but he felt just perfect. When Mike had woken up in the morning, he checked his health stats first, and then the system messages—quite a few had piled up, and he could study them carefully now.

  Mike “Crybaby” Hagen

  Age: 29

  Level 4

  HP: 9000

  Battles/victories: 4/4

  Weight: 135 lbs

  Height: 5’ 3”

  Characteristic points available: 1

  Skill points available: 1

  There was a 24-hour-long debuff message at the periphery of his vision due to the injury to his left leg. It took a point off his Agility. Mike believed he could handle it. He was more agile than a month ago after all, debuff or no debuff.

  His undistributed characteristic points were a delight, too. Nearly as much as thoughts about Lexie. Even the damage information didn’t bother him. But he’d wanted to achieve full recuperation first.

  In the meantime, Hagen enjoyed contemplating how to use his extra point. Should it be Strength or Agility?

  His experience in just four fights was an indication that he should beef up his capacity for evasion and accuracy. He’d missed two chances of knocking out Gonzalo in his last battle, after all. On the other hand, dealing more damage was tempting, too. He really craved to become big and bad enough for no one to seem an invincible monster, be it a huge security guard or a UFC producer in his fifties.

  Having reached the parking lot, Hagen got into the driver’s seat of his car and texted Lexie, the second time that morning.

  I’m fine, there’s no fracture. Thanks for a lovely weekend.

  He spent five minutes waiting for the icon of someone typing a reply to appear on his screen, his heart skipping a beat every now and then. However, the someone in question didn’t enter any text.

  Well, anyway, Alexa Hepworth was a busy girl with three shops to take care of.

  Mike made a stop at Walmart on his way home and bought a variety of detergents, furniture polish, a new mop and two pails, as well as a pack of large and durable garbage bags.

  He had a firm intent to remove the dust and the dirt of his former life forever.

  * * *

  AS SHE TOOK her dog to the nearest waste lot, Lexie managed to talk to the design company DigiMart had had a contract with, confirm a couple of ad leaflets, edit the copy in a few social network posts, and write several letters to the suppliers to confirm the return of faulty goods.

  “You know, Rexie, it’s been a weird night. I sure could do with an ordinary day.”

  Alexa ran another dozen errands, but something kept nagging at her all alone. She would open her messenger app every now and then to text Mike, but striking the right tone remained a problem. She’d been cautious about giving anyone false hopes since the Goretsky incident. What if Mike interpreted her question about his health as a sign of romantic interest?

  She recollected her job interview with him three years ago. He kept giving her weird stares even then. Mike had appeared miserable, and his incongruous-looking ears looked as though he could use them for wings like Dumbo, twitching in an embarrassing way.

  Then there was the matter of his height. Lexie had always felt taller than Hagen, even when they sat at a table together. The new employee could barely look her in the eye and mumble so much she’d had to make him repeat it. He would give a start and try to repeat what he’d just said more coherently. However, having started a phase in an intelligible intonation, he would still end up mumbling further on.

  In a way, Lexie could understand why he’d irritated Goretsky so much. She would sometimes get the urge to shake Hagen by his collar, shouting, “Will you damn well speak clearly already?”

  That’s when she realized that complete schlemiels like Mike would usually have a superpower of some sort to compensate for it. Hagen really shone as an electronics repairman. On the very first day of his probationary period he’d managed to fix everything that the previous repairman—an idler and a slob who had quit and gone to India to grow a beard and get in touch with his soul—had left behind. Hagen didn’t mind fixing anything, be
it a fire alarm sensor, a washing machine, or a state-of-the-art Apple laptop supposedly impossible to repair.

  But the list of his virtues had ended right there. Until recently.

  Lexie stared into the distance while Rex found his usual place and started to relieve himself, looking around to identify any potential menace.

  I was thinking about giving guys false hopes, wasn’t I? the girl thought.

  She scrolled through her contact list for Gonzalo the Killa to type a brief text. “Hey, dude are you OK? I’ve been thinking about...” Then she switched to the emoji tab looking for one with a cup of coffee. She didn’t manage to send it, though. The phone started to vibrate, and the person on the avatar was her uncle.

  “Good morning, Mr. Howell.”

  “Why aren’t you at the office yet?”

  “Sorry, I got waylaid for a while. You see...” Lexie started to rummage through her mind hastily to find a fitting excuse. Having spent a night at an MMA club with a fellow DigiMart employee fighting in the ring would not have sounded right, after all.

  “Stop thinking of excuses! We’re in hot water here! Get your ass to the main store right away! This problem is your doing, for the most part!”

  “But what exactly is it?” asked a surprised Lexie, only to hear her uncle hang up on her.

  He always behaved as one of those movie tough guys, and would be rather seen dead than describing the exact nature of a given problem over the phone. When a pipe burst at the second shop’s warehouse, he called her saying nothing but, “Haul your ass over here, you gotta see this!” When they were opening the third one, and he’d finally managed to rent fitting premises, he dialed her and said, “Get over here, I have something for you!” in a mysterious voice.

  She occasionally thought that her uncle had always lacked actual mystery in his life, and was thus trying to make everything seem mysterious. Everybody else would have to switch between frames instantly, as if in the movies, obeying his beckoning.

  All Lexie could do was to drag Rex back home at once. The dog resisted—the walkies would normally last longer, after all. A Cadillac passed by, and she saw Easy Sammy’s head emerge from one of the windows.

  “Hey, did you check out my new track?”

  “The beat and the flow totally rock,” Lexie said, making haste to disappear behind the door. “Oh, and the lyrics are way wise, too.”

  She’d known from experience that approval was the only reaction a creative person expected to get. Her attempt at listening to the rapper’s new track had been abortive—she’d had to turn it off halfway through. His articulation was so lame one could never really decipher the lyrics. Sammy would always go for speed, so whatever lyrics he’d written would become an incomprehensible mumble.

  * * *

  HAGEN WAS PERCHED upon a chair right before his mother’s closet, emptying it of her clothes—dresses, jackets, and old-fashioned jumpers she’d treasured since her youth. It felt heart-wrenching.

  He slicked back the tears, addressing his mother in her mind. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve never wanted to hurt you, disappoint you, or make you cry. But I have to empty this closet today. I am uncluttering my life.”

  He filled two huge bags with mom’s clothes. Could he have inherited his hoarding habits from her?

  However, he found something useful among her clothes—a sturdy military jacket that Uncle Peter had left behind when he’d last come to visit his sick sister.

  Hagen had always considered Uncle Peter a formidable military type. He would never shun engaging in fisticuffs to drive his point home having run out of verbal arguments. His vocabulary though wasn’t that extensive unless one counted swearwords, so he would resort to pugilism often enough. Therefore, his neighbors would normally refrain from arguing politics or the next potential Superbowl champion with him.

  Right now, though, Uncle Peter’s jacket seemed to be some sort of magic armor to Hagen. He even tried to examine it, expecting to see something along the lines of “The Jacket of Soldierly Valor. +1 to Strength,” but the system stayed silent.

  Nevertheless, Hagen rose and put the jacket on, looking at himself in the mirror on the closet door. It was just his uncle’s size; Hagen wore it like a coat.

  Nonetheless, he found the transformation pleasing. He could pump some iron—the jacket would be oversize anyway, but wearable at least. He’d found a pack of Camels, a cheap lighter, and a few old Powerball tickets in one of the pockets. Both his uncle and his mother had been crazy about the lottery, always waiting for the jackpot. His mother was gone now, and the jackpot had remained untouched by any member of the family, but the tickets were right there.

  The phone beeped, taking Hagen out of his reverie in front of the mirror. His uncle’s jacket made him real clumsy as he produced his mobile phone, hoping to get a reply from Lexie.

  However, it wasn’t her. It was Gonzalo.

  The text read,

  Hey, bro, how are things with you? I sure hope I managed to give you as good as I’d gotten before getting knocked out!

  Several smiley faces testified to an allegedly jocular tone.

  Hagen dreaded the thought of talking to Gonzalo. He’d imagined they would turn into enemies for a lifetime, and was therefore surprised by the levity of the other guy’s tone.

  Limping a bit, but OK in general, Hagen wrote. Then he thought for a while, and added, That’s some low kick you have!

  He took the bags out, waiting for a reply, and then emptied out the second closet which had turned out to be full of old magazines—primarily about fashion and celebrities. His mother used to watch talk shows featuring Hollywood superstars and then read about them in the magazines. Later on, she came to terms with the Internet and would comment on all their social network posts.

  OK, cuz, I catch your drift... I’ll teach you once I’m out of the hospital. Tee hee.

  Hagen started to get worried. You’re in hospital? Is it that bad? What’s the address?

  Don’t worry too much. I’ll live. It’s just a mild concussion. Actually, I’d be happy if you visited me.

  Gonzalo sent him the directions. Hagen promised him that he would definitely visit, then doubled his efforts.

  He filled another bag with garbage, and yet another with pieces of electronics that had become obsolete years ago. There were old PlayStations, broken Xboxes and remnants of old phones (why would he have hoarded them for so long, anyway?) He managed to salvage an ancient Gameboy from the depths of electronic debris. He could have sold it on eBay, but the device didn’t work.

  Finally, he found a PSP. Hagen just couldn’t bear to discard it. He almost placed it in the bag. However, he couldn’t bear to unclench his fingers and drop it with the rest of the garbage. What he did instead was look for a charger.

  He turned it on. Lo and behold, it was perfectly functional.

  Mike became overwhelmed by recollections about how he’d turned fifteen and got himself a summer job at some repair shop. He’d already been quite au fait with electronics, compensating his social skill deficiency by his ability to repair soulless electronics. Then he’d spent his earnings on this technological marvel known as PlayStation Portable. DigiMart had just opened right about that time, and he’d had to stand in a long queue when the sales began...

  Come to think of it, DigiMart must have been the reason the owner of the repair shop had gone out of business. But all of that happened later. When Hagen had gotten his PSP, he got into gaming seriously. Not that he had been averse to that pastime before, but it would be on arcade machines or a console so old it could have been his senior. It felt like he’d held the whole world in his pocket. He spent days playing Tekken.

  Hagen opened the console’s menu. He even had his saved games still intact.

  “K. O. You win!” was the phrase that resonated through his mind.

  At fifteen, Hagen could never have imagined hearing something similar after a victory in a real boxing ring.

  He decided to keep the console. He lef
t the PSP charging and started to rummage for the box of ROMs in the bag with electronic devices.

  He didn’t quit until he’d found Tekken, as well as Mortal Kombat: Unchained, and then he discovered he’d still had WWE SmackDown! That was the first game he’d encountered when one had to fight in the ring, and had got him seriously interested in MMA.

  However, his interest had never gone beyond gaming and TV. Mike had always been too afraid of physical pain.

  Whoah! If I carry on like this, I’ll start hoarding junk again, Hagen thought. He girded up his loins and dumped all the ROMs into the garbage, keeping nothing but Tekken. That was the ROM he inserted into the PSP. He had no idea why he’d needed that old game in the first place, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling it had been of some importance to him personally. A memento of his salad days that he just couldn’t bear to part with.

  He carried the bags to his car, stuffing the trunk and the backseat chock full of bags with old clothes and electronics. As he’d moved back and forth, he realized he was limping less.

  He checked the system data—it would be a bit over twelve hours until his leg would be in order.

  Could he have regenerated quicker than an average person should? In this case, it counted as excellent news.

  On his way to the hospital, Mike stopped at a supermarket, right next to the donation boxes. He didn’t linger long as he dumped all his bags. Then he drove away without looking back.

  * * *

  LEXIE’S UNCLE was waiting for his niece at the entrance. That was something unexpected, and frightening.

  The Uncle didn’t bother with any sort of a greeting but got straight down to business. “This jerk has been waiting for me since early morning!”