Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  He had so few HP that Hagen refrained from so much as breathing in his direction—with his kind of strength, he could kill the poor bastard inadvertently. He kept his distance from the knife and signaled to his uncle to stay put.

  “Bro, why are you destroying your life like that?”

  “I’ll ‘bro’ you! I’ll destroy your life in a moment!”

  “Look, you’re trying to attack me with a knife. And back in prison you could knock me out cold with just a single punch. Isn’t that enough for you? Why do you carry on with this stupid feud?”

  “You insulted me!”

  “Insulted you?” Hagen’s tone was mournful and acerbic at the same time. “How? By trying to use your weightlifting machine? You see, I’m ready to admit it’s yours, although it really isn’t. You don’t have much of what’s yours in your life, right? And not much life left, come to think of it. So all that keeps you going is the lame idea that you should punish me for some perceived insult.”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” Lorenzo thrust out with his knife in what he must have believed was a menacing manner. “You bitch! I’ll kill you!”

  Hagen stepped aside calmly, then grabbed Lorenzo by the wrist and pried the blade out of his hand. Lorenzo tried to resist for a while, then covered his face with his hands and plopped down onto the sidewalk.

  Revenge: quest completed!

  You have defeated the opponent you had previously lost to.

  XP points received: 1

  Ability points received: 1

  Hagen examined the knife. “Fine, bro. I’m not gonna talk about your state. You understand what’s going on with you, anyway.”

  “I just want to die.”

  “You won’t have to wait long.”

  “You bastard.”

  “I’ve just been luckier.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “I’m no adviser but I’d recommend going back to prison. That’s where your weightlifting machines and your brothers are. So you’ll have at least some hope of cleaning up your act there.”

  “You bastard,” Lorenzo said as he stood up. “Gimme my knife back.”

  “I won’t. I kinda like it.”

  “You bastard. I want to slice someone up and go back to prison, don’t you get it?”

  “I do. But you don’t have to slice anybody up. Try doing it in a way that won’t involve grievous bodily harm.”

  Lorenzo turned around and limped away. Then he stopped and turned around.

  “Got any messages for when I get back to Blinky Palermo’s?”

  “Tell Roman I remember about my debt and will soon transfer the money to his account. And that he should spend less time online.”

  Mike did not mention Blinky “Cloudy Eye” Palermo shuffling off this mortal coil and serving as a warden for the sinners now, helping Satan to stuff them into cauldrons.

  Or, perhaps, he was busy organizing free-for-all MMA fights among demons.

  Lorenzo flipped him the bird and walked away. However, Hagen’s attention was on the knife icon next to the money window. What did it remind him of? Some interface part of a familiar game, but which one?

  Hagen put the knife into his bag, and the icon disappeared.

  * * *

  UNCLE PETER cleared his throat.

  “Mikey? I’d never have thought I’d say it, but... you no longer need my help.”

  “I totally do, Uncle. Especially now.”

  “Oh? And what kind of help would that be?”

  “You have a car, right? Could you give me a lift to April’s place?”

  His uncle got confused for a second, not quite realizing what was required of him. Then he laughed out.

  “Hah, you sure had a dig at the old man there! Sure, let’s hit the road. I should have thought of it myself. You’ve just gotten out of the slammer, after all...”

  However, Uncle Peter convinced Hagen to pay Chuck a visit en route. The old man was overjoyed, clearing a place at the bar for the two of them. He placed a bucket of sizzling hot wings in front of Peter and Mike, then pulled them a pint each.

  Wei Ming came running to greet them. Once he saw Hagen, he froze for a moment, barely believing his eyes. Then they hugged, slapping each other on the back.

  “Hell, man!” Wei Ming said as he pounded Hagen’s back with his fist. “Look at you! What have you been doing in prison? Guzzling steroids?”

  “Attaching cabinet hardware.”

  Hagen couldn’t get used to the bar. Why was everybody smoking? And drinking? The music was too loud. And there were sharp knives on every table. Who could have smuggled them here? What if the guards came? And that TV... Why were whites watching that asinine show about America having talent without so much as a twitch, and none of the blacks had switched it to a hip hop channel yet? Why were they getting away with it?

  When a group of truckers in dark blue baseball caps resembling those worn by the prison guards stepped inside, Hagen almost jumped up and started to get ready for a surprise inspection. Why else would guards come in droves?

  Hagen had to flex his willpower to explain all those oddities to himself. He was no longer in prison. He took a deep breath, reaching for the bucket of wings, only to discover it had already been emptied.

  Chuck Morrison, Uncle Peter, and Wei Ming all looked at Hagen with something resembling pity.

  “W-what is it? What happened?”

  “Oh, man...” Wei Ming didn’t manage to utter anything else.

  “What this life does to one...” Chuck sighed and gestured to the waiter for another bucket.

  Hagen felt his face flush. His old prison habits made him polish off the entire bucket in just a few minutes.

  “Sorry.”

  “Happens to all of us,” Peter nodded to his nephew. “I used to be suspicious of every pickup truck that went fast, thinking there might be suicide bombers inside. I still do that, even though I realize it’s stupid.”

  “Will it pass?” Hagen asked.

  “My quirks? Not likely. Yours will. You haven’t been behind bars that long.”

  Hagen tried to eat more slowly as he told them about his plan of going to Vegas. He offered Wei Ming to take part in the screening tournament together.

  His friend pondered this. “Hm, interesting. I like the idea.”

  “Hey, whoa,” Chuck Morrison protested. “Who’s gonna work here?”

  “Guerrero will manage splendidly,” Wei Ming replied. “He’s been training hard, and he’s a pretty experienced fighter now. Just don’t tell him about the screening.”

  “Oh, all right,” Chuck sighed. “Although I would prefer you to be in charge of security. You’re reliable while Guerrero doesn’t take his responsibilities seriously. Also, he can’t keep his hands off the strippers.”

  “Won’t your girlfriend object to you going?” Hagen asked.

  “We split up,” Wei Ming replied sadly.

  “Sorry to hear.”

  “That’s all for the better. By the end of our relationship we became completely estranged. It’s not whether or not to go that’s bothering me. Of course I want to go. But I’d need a car and some money.”

  “I have everything we’ll need for the initial period. We can get an old pickup truck and set off without too much hurry—if we hit it tomorrow, that is.”

  Wei Ming nodded vigorously. “Agreed, then. I’ll finish my shift today, kick some drunk patrons’ asses for the last time, and start packing.”

  After the bar they went to see Ochoa. Hagen had insisted on it himself.

  With some trepidation he entered the hall where so many things had happened for the first time in his life. Nothing had changed here. Only, perhaps, it looked a little older, like Ochoa himself.

  His first coach didn’t show much emotion greeting Hagen, although there was a short glimmer of pride in his eyes. The old man still considered Hagen to be one of his pupils.

  “Would you like to resume training?” he asked laconically.

  �
��No. I’m going to Vegas to take part in an amateur MMA championship screening tournament.”

  “That’s a worthy goal. Well done. Although the City of Lost Wages is hardly the best place for a career. I’d been thinking you would pursue pure boxing, but mixed martial arts is a good choice, too.”

  Hagen produced the money and peeled off a couple of bills. “This is to cover my debt for the training.”

  Ochoa took the money without batting an eyelid, then counted out a few bills and handed them back. “In that case, these are the janitor’s wages I owe you.”

  He sure was a proud old man.

  “Thanks for everything,” Hagen said.

  “Be grateful to yourself. It’s your doing—I was only providing the facilities.”

  Ochoa turned away and started to clap his hands to cheer up some heavy-bottomed boxer hanging onto his punch bag.

  “Hey, that isn’t your girlfriend. You’re supposed to punch it, not hug it!”

  Now he was ready. As they were driving to April’s (Hagen had found the address easily on his map), Uncle Peter asked him,

  “Wouldn’t it be better to call her first?”

  Hagen shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know if it’s a good metaphor, but when the prison administration decides to conduct a surprise inspection, they never warn you. If I call April, she’ll be happy to hear me, and will offer to meet at some shitty café for a cup of joe and some profound conversation.”

  “I get it.”

  “And what I want isn’t coffee. It’s...”

  “I read you loud and clear, Mike. Reporting: we have arrived at our destination. Commencing landing operation.”

  Hagen looked at the neat little house. April and her father lived here, but Connell Senior had been away for a while—another joint military exercise in Israel or some such.

  Hagen took his bag and opened the car door. “Thanks, uncle. Especially for getting me out of prison early.”

  “You’re welcome. It was a regular military operation to free a captive member of the troops. No civilian casualties, excepting a single two-faced lawyer. But really, it’s time for us to say our goodbyes. I need to go back to Seattle. My sons have turned up. Your cousins.”

  Hagen grunted. “I sure remember them bully me mercilessly when I was a kid.”

  “Anyway, I’ll be missing you. But I promise we’ll come to Sin City once you find your footing there, and we’ll root for you at the championship.

  Hagen nodded and got out. His uncle watched him approach the front door and ring the bell. Someone opened it, and Uncle Peter heard a surprised female voice.

  Mike turned around and waved his hand. Peter waved back and drove off. He smiled as he imagined how the roof of April’s house would shake that night.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING reminded Hagen of the morning of his arrest. This time, though, April was looking at him rather than sleeping.

  “You’re really something, Mikey boy. I didn’t even know it could happen so many times in a row.”

  Hagen sat up. “I didn’t know that, either.”

  April stretched lazily and yawned. They didn’t manage to get any sleep at all. They kept talking and “training.”

  Hagen told her stories from his time in prison. April was particularly delighted by the fact that her lessons in countering knife attacks had turned out useful. Hagen also told her about his plan to move to Vegas. April expressed her support for the idea, but didn’t go any further.

  “So, what happens next?” she yawned again.

  “I’ll get a used car and go pick up Wei Ming. We should drive off today.” Hagen paused for a moment, and asked her, “Would you... Would you like to come along?”

  “Sorry, Mikey boy. I knew you’d want me to. But I can’t join you. We’re not splitting up, but I have a life of my own. There’s the gym, the courses, and my dad will be coming home soon... I can’t just leave everything and go. Also...”

  “Yeah, I remember. You hate large groups of drunks.”

  “Exactly. And Las Vegas is the World Wino Capital.”

  Hagen didn’t regret April’s decision. And her refusal didn’t spoil his mood. It wasn’t forever, after all.

  He took a shower, got dressed, and returned to the bedroom.

  April was still under her blanket, scrolling through something on her phone screen. “Sorry, I have no strength left to make us any breakfast.”

  Hagen sat down upon the bed. “Will you then find me the nearest place that sells used cars?”

  April ran a search and started to read off names. Once she got to Greg Goretsky’s Shiny Automobiles, Hagen stopped her.

  “Say what? Could you repeat that? What’s the address?”

  April gave him the address. Then they said their goodbyes.

  “Once I settle down in Sin City, I’ll let you know. I’d love you to visit someday,” he said. “It wouldn’t be unbearably hard for you to tolerate all those drunks for a few days, would it?”

  “Agreed, Mikey boy. And now, please let me get some sleep. I have people to train today.”

  Once the door of April’s house shut behind him, Hagen browsed through the latest system messages. He remembered there being some new quest after Life or Death, but he had decided to look into it later. What he read now was:

  Old Nemesis.

  Face Greg Goretsky to settle things between the two of you once and for all.

  Hagen felt a little baffled by it. What was he supposed to do? Beat up Goretsky again? Wouldn’t that be stupid? Still, he decided to accept the quest.

  MIKE FOUND GORETSKY’S garage easily. It was just past Reknitting Express—the place where he’d once taken Uncle Peter’s priceless jacket for repairs. It was such a pity it had gotten lost in prison. An extra point of Charisma would never go amiss.

  Goretsky’s business facilities consisted of a huge shed and a yard fenced off with wire mesh. There was a huge billboard over the shed with a face painted on it, accompanied by the legend:

  Greg Goretsky’s Shiny Automobiles

  The yard was full of old cars, none of which looked remotely shiny. Except for the owner’s, that is—a huge pickup truck decorated with pictures of flames and naked women.

  Goretsky sat crouching in front of an old SUV with its wheels removed and fiddled with something. He was wearing an oil-stained jumpsuit, and a worn baseball cap on his head.

  Hagen crossed the yard confidently and stopped nearby, his arms crossed. Goretsky felt someone’s presence, turned around, and stood up.

  “Sir? Was there anything you wanted?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to take a look at you.”

  “Sir?

  “There’s a problem I want to solve once and for all.”

  Greg took off his baseball cap, peering into Mike’s face. It took him a while to recognize his old nemesis in this shaved, muscled, and tattooed man.

  Goretsky smiled faintly. He must have wanted to say something along the lines of “So it’s you, shithead?” However, after a hoarse wheeze, he uttered something completely different.

  “Mr. Hagen? I’m sorry, sir, I have long recognized my mistake. We have settled everything with your attorney and your uncle. I have dropped all the charges.”

  Hagen didn’t deign to respond. He just advanced toward Greg “Moose” Goretsky slowly, his stare fixed on the man who had caused him so much grief but who’d also been instrumental in the transformation of Mike “Crybaby” Hagen into Björn, a confident fighter, someone who would doubtlessly rip right through the screening to become the amateur league champion. The pro league would come next.

  Goretsky started to shuffle back, looking at Mike’s unusually menacing face with horror. He must have thought that Mike had come to kill him. He didn’t know that such facial expressions were typical for all prison survivors, or that they didn’t mean anything. The only person to roam the prison yard with a different facial expression was Trevor, a lackadaisical and miserable fool.

  Hagen kept ad
vancing while Goretsky retreated, knocking aside a pail of water and a can of oil, and tripping over his tools.

  “Mr. Hagen, I don’t know what you need... I have already apologized to you in every way I could. You are leaving me no choice but to contact the police again...”

  Hagen’s response was a grimace of such utter disapproval that Goretsky switched to a mumble, swallowing the ends of phrases and sounding a lot like Hagen back in his weakling days. Even though Goretsky was the taller of the two, it still seemed as if he was the one looking at Hagen from the bottom up.

  Goretsky bowed his head, still retreating, until his back was against a row of shelves stacked with bottles of motor oil. He lost his balance and landed on his back, knocking down the shelves.

  Hagen bent over him and raised his hand. Goretsky hunched, becoming half his size, and covered his face with his arms, waiting for a punch that never came. Instead, Hagen grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him to his feet and placed Greg in front of himself. He removed imaginary specks of dust off Goretsky’s jumpsuit and said,

  “Thanks for everything.”

  Then he turned around and went toward the cars. Goretsky watched Hagen through one half-open eye, feeling confused.

  Mike stopped next to the heavily decorated pick-up truck. “Your wheels?”

  “Uh, mine, sir.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Oh, come on. The billboard says Shiny Automobiles, and this is the only one here that shines. And you wouldn’t say no to an old acquaintance, would you?” Hagen stretched in a markedly casual manner, popping his joints.

  “Twenty thousand,” Goretsky blurted out.

  “Here’s fifteen.” Hagen produced the cash from his bag. “Deal?”

  “T... take it. The key’s in the ignition.”

  Hagen nodded his thanks, opened the door and jumped into the pickup. He waved his hand at Goretsky from the open window as he drove off.

  End of Book One

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