He was done with the clutter. Now was the time for the real makeover. He’d have to fix the walls and repaint them, replace the floor, and, most importantly, get new furniture. All those crooked sofas and armchairs should long have been buried in some landfill. He’d have to get new ones.
Mike stopped near a corner, thinking, “This is where I could place a standing punch bag.”
All of the above required money, and the salary of a repairman didn’t exactly allow one to splurge. Hagen also remembered that his goal was to save as much money as possible and move to Las Vegas. The UFC training center was where the production center of Luke Lucas held its screening matches.
To hell with the furniture, then. Money was more important. Hagen figured he’d have to spare for over six months for just two months of life in Las Vegas. His repairman’s salary wouldn’t cover it, so he’d have to fight in the ring as often as he could in order to earn as much as possible.
Everything seemed perfect, the only fly in the ointment being Lexie’s utter reluctance to return his calls. She would just stonewall him. Whenever Hagen would forget his promise not to be too pushy and flood her with texts, she’d just send a short reply. “Heal.” “Rest.” “There are no rush repair jobs right now.” “I’ll tell you when to come back to work.”
He’d even thought of paying Lexie a visit, but he didn’t want her to get angry. Although Hagen had already stopped limping and the debuff was long gone, that wasn’t something he could have explained to her. He was even somewhat touched by her care about his health. Given the times, a few days off were a real luxury.
He also tried to text Gonzalo, but to no avail—his friend simply told him he was tied up with some urgent business at the club.
Nevertheless, Hagen was happy with himself the first time in ages. Apart from having cleaned up his house, he now had someone to text and to talk to. Imagine that.
Mike became even happier after having invested the characteristic points he’d been saving up. He opted for Stamina, thinking his ability to spend more time in the ring without getting exhausted would boost his chances of knocking out his opponent.
He wasn’t as sure about where he should invest his skill point. Mike didn’t have many options. Still, he kept staring at available skills:
Punch (17)
Kick (0)
Shouldn’t he learn low kicks just like Gonzalo? Or ask Wei Ming to teach him the flying kick technique? All of it looked very tempting indeed.
What if he didn’t choose either, but rather unlock Uppercut or Dodging? He sighed. A gym had a trainer, at least. The interface only had a virtual assistant, as articulate as a reference manual. And he really wanted to discuss his choice with a living human being.
Mike decided to refrain from using up the skill point right now, thinking that the way events would unfold might give him a hint.
* * *
WITH OTHER WAYS of killing time available, Hagen decided to head for Chuck’s Bar. It was still daytime, and there were few patrons. Chuck himself—a bewhiskered elderly guy who owned the place—stood behind the bar, his arms resting on the polished wood, seeming to be dozing off over a cup of coffee.
There was a company of truckers sitting at one of the tables inside. They chewed loudly and sometimes guffawed as they watched Los Angeles Rams going at it tooth and nail against the Dallas Cowboys.
“A beer, please.”
Chuck gave a start and yawned, stroking his mustache. He went to the tap and started to fill a beer glass, looking at Hagen sideways.
“Hey, boy, I remember you. You’ve been here a few times with Pete, haven’t you? That old vet that’s fought in most of our wars.”
“Uncle Peter?”
“Yeah. A great guy. He used to come here every evening. We used to have strippers perform here then. Did you know that? Oh, I see you didn’t.” Chuck chortled. “Your uncle would give the ladies around three hundred bucks on some evenings, imagine that.”
The truckers’ table burst out with laughter.
Chuck looked at the group disapprovingly. “The likes of those were the main reason why we’d had to cancel the strippers.”
“Why is that?”
“They don’t get the difference between a strip bar and a brothel. Once the truckers had started to frequent this place, the girls refused to perform. The likes of them need hookers, not dancers. And I’m no pimp.”
Chuck placed a mug of beer and a bowl of peanuts on the bar in front of Hagen. “By the way, why doesn’t your uncle come here anymore? He’d always order a double serving of these peanuts.”
“He lives in Seattle. He would probably come here whenever he’d visit my mom—his sister, that is. She’s passed away.”
“Oh?” Chuck frowned. “Sorry to hear that.”
One of the truckers approached the bar—a tall guy in a denim vest and a baseball cap. He pushed Hagen aside, although there was plenty of space, and yelled as if Chuck was somewhere in a different room,
“Hey, old man, did you go deaf with age, or what? We’re hungry like wolves, and we want more buffalo wings. What kind of a bar is this?”
“You did get a full bucket,” Chuck replied calmly. “Would you please wait? The next one’s being fried right now.”
The trucker made a face. “What, again? You should have given your bar a different name. Please Wait would fit. Or, maybe, It’s a Long Way from the Kitchen!”
The guy laughed at his own joke and sat down at the bar. He removed his sweat-soaked baseball cap, ruffled his hair, and looked at Hagen. Mike moved away prudently, taking his beer and his peanuts with him.
“Yo, what’s going on, Steve?” one of the truckers shouted to the man at the bar.
“They’re fryin’ them! Keep your voice down!” Steve yelled back.
Even though they were in a bar, the men hollered as if they were still driving trucks and talking to each other through open windows over the sound of the wind and the roar of the engines.
Chuck leaned across the bar toward Hagen. “The truckers have changed their route to use our town’s main bypass. It might be some new legislation or something, but it’s more profitable now for them to come this way. So the bar is packed every evening. I shouldn’t grumble—I’m raking in double the money, after all. But the risks have doubled, too. You know how unpredictable these folks can be. They’re usually OK, but some of them...”
“I know. Some of them are total assholes,” said Hagen, recollecting how Jessica, his ex, had run away with a fellow representative of their profession.
The peanut bowl suddenly slipped away from Hagen as Steve’s calloused fingers trimmed with a crescent of black under each fingernail pulled it away from him. Steve grabbed a generous helping of peanuts and stuffed his mouth full, without taking his eyes off Hagen.
“Peanuts, huh? You won’t mind sharing, will you? They’re still frying those damn wings.”
Hagen held a pause without breaking eye contact. “Sure thing, bro. Help yourself. I’ll order some more.”
Steve turned toward his friends. “Hah! This one’s just called me ‘bro’.” Did you hear it, Doug?”
“Screw you, Steve, we’re watching the game. And what’s with the wings?”
Steve turned around to face Chuck again. “What’s with the wings? The boys wanna know.”
“Ready in five minutes.”
“Five minutes, Doug!” Steve yelled back at his pals.
Chuck moved away from Hagen, went to the cupboard, produced another bowl, and opened up another pack. Another bowl of peanuts was placed on the bar in front of Hagen shortly. But as soon as he tried to reach for them, Steve pulled that one toward him, too.
“Sorry, uh, ‘bro’,” he said with a chuckle. “I kinda think these peanuts are better.”
Hagen had no idea of what to do next. The scene reminded him of how he’d constantly get humiliated at school, so his first impulse was to leave, pretending nothing extraordinary had happened. However, something kept him gl
ued to his bar stool.
Hagen hadn’t even been aware of why he chose a different option this time. Instead of fleeing, he gestured to Chuck for a third serving of peanuts.
“Are you sure, son?”
“Oh, I just love peanuts with my beer.”
Once again, Hagen had no idea of why he’d have to say it. He wasn’t all that fond of either beer or peanuts. However, Uncle Peter who’d always tried to take part in Hagen’s upbringing, kept dragging him to the bar to drink a pint of that bitter liquid. He must have assumed it was part of what a “real man” should do. Eventually, Hagen grew to like the beverage and the feeling of borrowed courage and nonchalance. However, he’d never gotten to like bar snacks, be it peanuts or whatever. He would just get sloshed on beer.
Chuck leaned over toward Hagen and whispered, “He heard you call truckers assholes and got all fired up.”
Hagen responded with a nod. Chuck stroked his mustache and tried to reason with Steve.
“Are you sure you don’t want to get back to your friends? The wings will be ready real soon.”
“I’m just fine where I am, pops! My ‘bro’ is here with me, right?” Steve gave Hagen a pat on the shoulder—so hard that Mike bumped into his mug of beer, spilling some of it on his jacket.
Chuck made a rustling sound with his bag and placed another bowl in front of Hagen.
Hagen turned toward Steve, as if driven by some external force, and said,
“You touch me again, you’ll regret it.”
He couldn’t even believe those words could have left his mouth. Where did that come from? He should have taken a good look at this trucker Steve and study his stats. What if his opponent was an eightieth-level boss with mad skills?
Still, he didn’t want to turn around so that this inexplicable feeling of confidence would stay with him.
The bowl stayed put. Hagen took a peanut, washing it down with beer.
Something small hit his cheek. Then again. And once more.
Steve was throwing peanuts at him, chuckling to himself. This chuckling recalled some traumatic memories of humiliation—something that would make him want to hide in his room and never leave it.
That’s when Mike’s head and his body started to function independently from each other. While his brain was desperately trying to think of how to resolve the conflict without losing his face, his hand grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl and threw them into Steve’s face, as if driven by some unknown power.
The next moment, the bar stool under Mike suddenly disappeared. He only caught a glimpse of Chuck’s worried face and Steve’s smug mug before he found himself on the floor, hitting it with the back of his head. The bar stool that Steve had kicked from underneath him rolled across the floor, bouncing and clanging.
Damage received: 233 (a blow to the head)
“Guys, please, let’s get this over with, or I’ll have to call the police.”
“Zip it, pops. Before the cops arrive, we’ll smash your bar to pieces.”
Chuck stroked his mustache, grabbing his cellphone from underneath the bar. Still, he didn’t dial any number—the truckers’ threat could imply more than just damage to property.
Also, Peter’s nephew started to behave rather strangely.
Hagen jumped up and shifted into a boxing stance. He finally read the data in his opponent’s profile as he bobbed his head.
Steve “Jobs” Mauchley
Age: 36
Level 6
HP: 7250
Battles/victories: 55/15
Weight: 205 lbs
Height: 6’ 2”
Judging by the battle/victory ratio, Steve, nicknamed Jobs, didn’t care about people being right or wrong. He would just pick fights and try to smash a few faces. Just whose faces didn’t matter one bit. The HP count testified that Steve’s lifestyle choices weren’t that compatible with the concept of living to a ripe old age. All those fried chicken wings would make things a lot easier for Mike.
Meanwhile, Steve stood here, his mouth full of peanuts, laughing, chewing, and watching Hagen.
“Kid, are you drunk already? Three sips of beer, and that’s the limit for someone like you.”
He turned to his pals. “Did you hear that, Doug? There’s a baby here that wants to swing its itsy bitsy fists at someone.”
“Fuck you, Steve,” said Doug dismissively.
None of the truckers seemed to notice the altercation. They must have gotten used to the fact that Steve would try to bully anyone he didn’t like for whatever reason. So they just sat there watching TV with their backs to the bar.
Hagen was somewhat surprised by the fact that he didn’t get any effects such as Righteous Anger or Rage Flash. However, he didn’t need the system to tell him that he hadn’t felt any animosity to Steve. Hagen just wanted the guy to stop all that aggressive tomfoolery. So he said in a conciliatory tone,
“I stepped out of line by insulting all truckers, and I’m sorry.”
Steve started munching on another handful of peanuts. “Nope, kid. First I’m gonna smash your face. Then you can be sorry all you like.”
Once Steve was done with chewing, he spat out the husks in Hagen’s direction. And at the same time he threw his bowl at Mike, who’d managed to break it in flight with his fist. Steve must have thought that the maneuver would distract the opponent, and tried to punch Hagen in the stomach rather clumsily.
Once again Mike became aware of the advantage his looks and his height gave him, especially in casual fights. No one would take him seriously—they would call him “shithead,” “kid,” “short stuff,” and so on. And then...
Hagen dodged the sloppy punch easily, moved to the right, and punched Steve in the jaw with his left.
Damage dealt: 3400 points (Punch)
Mike had pulled that particular punch deliberately, but it was enough throw Steve back to the bar and make him unable to keep track of the unfolding events for a short while.
“Well, I’ll be damned, son,” Chuck said, watching Steve’s attempts to remain upright as he grabbed at the bar. Then he threw a worried glance at the others. “I hope this doesn’t get out of hand.”
Hagen relaxed and tried to reason with his opponent. “Look, let’s just call it quits, okay?”
Steve didn’t reply. He grabbed the bar stool and attacked. It must have been the trucker’s favorite weapon as he managed to swing it and hit Hagen.
Damage received: 933 (a blow to the left shoulder)
Mike dodged the next attack as Steve swung the bar stool at him again. He no longer felt the need for any restraint, so he rushed Steve “Jobs” Mauchley and gave him a short but powerful jab right in the nose, then stepped back.
Two streaks of blood came out of Steve’s nostrils. He was still holding on to the bar stool as he dropped like a felled tree, crashing into the other bar stools loudly.
Damage dealt: 9400 points (Punch)
Congratulations! You’ve defeated an opponent in a fair fight!
XP points received: 2 (twice the experience for your first victory over an opponent of a higher level)
XP points received on the current level (4): 3/4
While Chuck was trying to scrape his jaw off the floor and come to terms with what had just happened, Hagen grinned uncontrollably at how the situation played out.
An easy victory. Thanks for the level-up, Steve.
* * *
THE SKIRMISH now attracted the attention of Steve’s friends. They all jumped up at once, heading for the bar. There were two of them... then four... then five. A bunch of system messages popped up above the crowd, and Hagen could no longer keep track of who was whom.
Their leader looked like an enormous pile of muscles. Hagen had thought him to be Doug, but the interface told him different.
Timothy “Mount Whitney” Versetti
Age: 44
Level 30
HP: 18 200
Battles/victories: 440/435
Weight: 267 lbs
Just like that, Augmented Reality! Platform nicknamed Timothy after the highest mountain in California. Or did the guy adopt the moniker himself? Oh, and this one’s HP count was unaffected by his chicken wing diet.
“Son, your best bet is to run,” Chuck advised. “I’ll deal with these guys and calm them down somehow.”
Hagen lowered his arms but stayed put. He’d had enough of running back in school. He promised himself he would only jog now—to prepare himself for the next workout.
Timothy stopped, crossed his arms, and stared at Hagen. Someone picked up Steve, still out cold, and placed him on a sofa.
A twitchy guy, rather short, jumped out from behind Timothy’s back. He started to strut menacingly before Hagen, yelling,
“It was this one who’d hit Steve with a chair, I saw him!”
“But it was the other way round.”
“I saw it! Steve was just sitting there, eating peanuts, and you came from behind and hit him with that bar stool!”
The guy reminded Hagen of Donald Duck. He started to roll up the sleeves of his checkered shirt as if spoiling for a fight. Thus, Mike wasn’t surprised when he read his opponent’s stats.
Doug “Donald” Wilson
Age: 28
Level 4
HP: 9800
Battles/victories: 30/5
Weight: 135 lbs
Height: 5’ 4”
Stats-wise, the guy was Hagen’s equal. This guy must have had his share of defeats, just like the old Mike. And yet Doug was a year younger and an inch taller. He also had more HP. Hagen only had about nine thousand left.
Doug didn’t get very close as he kept hopping around—he knew perfectly well it wasn’t a chair that had knocked out Steve. He must have wanted to provoke their leader, this enormous Timothy guy, to pick a fight with Hagen to avenge the honor of their fallen colleague.
Level Up- The Knockout Page 13
