His no-alcohol, no-coffee, no-sugar sentence only had four more hours to go, and oh, was he suffering. The withdrawal was real. ‘But actually… it wasn’t that bad,’ he told himself. He was on a health kick, after all. Sure, he’d been hitting the gym, but his diet had been adequate at best. This task? Not nearly as torturous as some of the others.
Originally, he planned to drive to a coffee shop and read his book, but then his brain caught up with his body. ‘Wait. Coffee shop? That’s very, very bad. Very, very tempting.’ A place designed to lure people in with the sweet siren song of caffeine and sugar? Absolutely not.
Okay, what about a bar?
‘Oh. Right. Alcohol. That would also be breaking the rules.’
Maybe a church?
‘Pfft, yeah, right.’ He wasn’t that desperate.
So he just drove. Aimlessly. Contemplating life, celibacy, and whether this was what rock bottom looked like. That’s when he noticed something odd. Two motorcycles. Tailing him.
‘What the hell?’
His Tactics & Strategy: Excellent and Piloting (Vehicles): Average skills kicked into gear, flashing red alarms in his brain. If he were still in the military, he would have noticed earlier. But no—his brain had been full of ‘how to be pure’ and ‘how to get Luck Points’, and that had clearly delayed his paranoia response.
He wouldn’t have noticed them at all if not for his random, indecisive driving. It was his own erratic movements—his constant turns as he rejected location after location—that had triggered it. He zigged. They zigged. He changed his mind and zagged. They followed.
And honestly, two guys on loud choppers weren’t exactly the definition of subtle.
Fine. Let’s see what they wanted.
He pulled over in a quiet area, a small park with a bench and a nice little tree. Most importantly, there were no coffee shops, no bars, and no sugar peddlers in sight. Just him, his celibacy book, and two very loud, very obvious bikers rolling up behind him.
***
Maluck stepped out of his car, genuinely curious about what these two bikers wanted. Was it a smart move? Probably not for most people. But he wasn’t most people. He wasn’t even worried. Well, except for one thing—the mountain of BP’s he was sitting on. With that many Bad Luck Points, this was not a great time for a fight.
Turns out, these guys were from the same gang that Ron’s buddy Sasquatch was in.
‘Or was it Bigfoot?’
He forgot what he had called him.
Didn’t really matter. These guys weren’t here to make friends.
A [System Task] popped up in front of him: HURT THESE FUCKERS
+0.01 Strength
+0.01 Dexterity
+0.02 Health
Maluck laughed out loud when he saw that. “Fuck yeah!” Finally, something that wasn’t about celibacy.
“Hey, asshole! What the fuck are you laughing at?” one of the bikers growled as he stepped off his bike. “You’ve got our money!”
Maluck raised an eyebrow. “That’s weird. I’ve never met you before, so how could I possibly have your money?”
The other biker scoffed. “Ah, real smart-ass. You know very well what money.”
“No, I really don’t,” Maluck said.
Well, okay, he did, but this was fun.
“You’ve got nine grand on you that belongs to a friend of ours,” the first biker said. “We’re here to pick it up.”
Maluck whistled. “Wow, you guys are really good friends. He trusts you to take all nine grand?”
The two bikers exchanged grins. “Well,” one of them said, “he also said there might be another nine in it for us.”
Maluck feigned a look of deep concern. “But that’s my money. How could I possibly give it to you?”
The two bikers pulled out motorcycle utensils—or, as normal people called them, weapons—a tire iron and a chain.
“Well,” the first one said, smirking, “we’re not really asking, are we?”
Maluck had to stop himself from cheering. ‘Thank fucking God. Do these guys have any idea how hard it’s been?’
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
The biker narrowed his eyes. “What are you smiling at?”
Maluck held up his book. “You know what I’m thinking about?”
“What?”
“Not celibacy.”
And with that, he whipped the hardcover book directly at the biker’s face.
If they had been wearing full-face helmets, this would have done absolutely nothing. But bikers being bikers, their chopper-riding, tough-guy aesthetic demanded that they only wear those little skullcap helmets—which did jack shit to stop the spine of a book from slamming into an unprotected nose.
CRUNCH.
The first biker hit the ground, clutching his face. “MY NOBESSS!”
Maluck looked down at his book. It was now covered in blood. Fantastic. Celibacy had finally done something useful.
He turned to the second biker, who was just staring at him in absolute shock. Guys who dressed like Maluck—khakis, polo shirts, holding what looked like a children’s book—did not usually fight back.
The biker snapped out of it. Didn’t matter how this guy was different —he had a fucking tire iron.
He swung.
Maluck dodged.
His Hand-to-Hand Combat: Good and Fitness Level: Above Average skills kicked in immediately. Stronger than he looked, quick enough to react, and most importantly—
Improvisation Skill Unlocked: Garbage Combat
Oh, this was about to be fun.
Maluck yelled, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to have nothing but pure thoughts when you have a hot goth girlfriend and a giant bed in your room?!”
The biker barely had time to register what was happening. Confusion flickered across his face, but that didn’t matter—because right after dodging the tire iron, Maluck grabbed him and launched him into the park bench.
CRUNK!
The wood and metal structure crunched as it met the biker’s knee.
Maluck, fully embracing his Improvised Garbage Combat skill, treated the bench like a solid, immovable piece of street trash—a perfect weapon. Which was ironic, considering he had just thrown a pile of human trash into another pile of actual trash.
“Ow!” groaned the first biker, trying to push himself off the bench.
Maluck wasn’t done.
“And do you know how hard it is to walk around dressing like this without getting made fun of?!” he bellowed, gesturing at his khakis and blue polo, as if they were a symbol of tremendous suffering.
Before the guy could respond, Maluck jumped up and brought his foot down on the biker’s knee.
CRACK!
Yeah. That knee was done.
The guy let out an agonized scream. “AARRGHH!”
Maluck wasn’t finished.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“And finally—do you have any idea how much I want a coffee or a beer right now? Maybe both!?”
The biker, now absolutely terrified, shook his head. “I-I don’t know—”
Maluck grabbed him by his greasy hair and slammed his face into the bench.
BANG!!!
“A LOT,” Maluck growled.
BANG
“A FUCKING lot.”
BANG
“So THANK YOU for showing up right now, you two were a great help!”
The guy didn’t even have the decency to say, “you’re welcome” due to him passing out cold.
Rude.
His friend, the one still dealing with a very broken nose, was now scuttling backward on his ass like a crab, eyes wide with horror. Maluck had just wrecked his buddy—what the fuck was he supposed to do against that?
Unfortunately for him, Maluck had already made up his mind.
He approached, and without a word, delivered a straight kick to the guy’s face.
WHAM!
The biker’s head snapped back, his body going limp as he joined his unconscious friend in dreamland. Maluck had made sure not to kick hard enough to break his neck, but definitely hard enough to keep him down for a long time.
And just like that, it was over.
After tonight’s fight, these two would never—ever—mess with a guy in a blue polo and khakis again.
Because now they understood just how much unrestrained rage and frustration could be hiding underneath such a painfully suburban outfit.
But that’s a story for another time.
***
[System Task Complete]
HURT THESE FUCKERS
+0.01 Strength
+0.01 Dexterity
+0.02 Health
(BONUS : They really regret their choice of stopping you)
+.01 Endurance for an absolutely awesome asskicking
***
CHAPTER 50
Maluck came down off his adrenaline high, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh. ‘Damn, that was a fun fight.’
Now, for the best part—looting.
Like any good RPG player, he knew the golden rule: Once you defeat the spawns, you gotta loot ‘em.
He rifled through their bags and pockets, pulling out a solid haul.
?Cash: $805 in bills. Nice.
?Weapons: The tire iron and chain went straight into the backseat of his car. Never knew when those would come in handy.
?Drugs: He poured those out onto the ground. Not interested. He figured these guys probably wouldn’t need them either… for a long while.
?The real treasure? A two-six of really good rum.
Maluck held the bottle up, inspecting it. Damn. These bikers roll in style.
He glanced at his timer. Three hours left.
He gave the bottle a long, meaningful look. The kind of look that said, I’ve got a date with you soon, baby. Then, with all the care in the world, he placed it gently in the passenger seat of his car.
Because hey, you always treat your dates right.
With the looting done, he picked up his now bloodstained copy of ‘Waiting is Cool!” He still had to read 50 pages for his task.
Then he sat down on the same park bench he had just used as a weapon and started reading.
…He actually read 56 pages.
Because, honestly? He wanted to see what happened to that little Ice Cube mascot.
Turns out, the little guy had a pretty good life after all. And you know what? Waiting really is cool.
Maluck smiled.
Book: Done.
Looting: Done.
Two tasks down.
Now all he had to do was wait another two and a half hours.
If only he hadsome way of passing the time.
That’s when he heard a phone ring.
***
The phone ringing caught Maluck off guard.
Mainly because:
1.His own phone was busted. Thanks, Bad Luck Points.
2.The ringtone was… “Mediocre to the Bone.”
Classic.
He figured, ‘Hey, I’ve got time to kill,’ and followed the sound.
Ah. There it was, in the vest pocket of Biker #1—aka Flatnose.
Maluck fished the phone out, used Flatnose’s very unconscious thumb to unlock it, and answered.
“Hello? Is this Checkers Pizza? I’ve been waiting over an hour.”
There was a pause, then a very angry voice on the other end.
“Who the fuck is this?”
Maluck frowned. “Who am I? You called me.”
“Where’s John?” the voice demanded.
Maluck glanced down at the two human-shaped piles of regret in front of him. “Is that the guy with the smashed nose, or the guy with the broken knee? ‘Cause either way, neither one of them are getting any pizza.”
“What pizza?” the guy on the phone barked.
Maluck sighed. “Wait, you’re not Checkers Pizza? Then why are you even calling me? It’s been almost 30 minutes—my pizza should be free, right?”
The guy on the phone growled, “I don’t know who you are, but I will find you.”
Maluck snorted. “Oh, that’s an easy task. The phone’s still on. Go ahead and hit ‘ping.’ You’ll find me real quick.”
“You hold on right there, asshole,” the voice spat. “I’ll do just that.”
Maluck grinned. “Great. While I’m on hold, are you at least gonna put on some music? Maybe some smooth jazz?”
Silence.
‘Rude.’
***
The guy came back on the line, his voice dripping with smugness. “I’ve got you now, fucker.”
Maluck sighed. “Seriously? You make it sound like that was hard. I’m literally sitting here with the phone open, waiting for you to show up.”
The guy hesitated. “Yeah, well… we’re coming.”
“Great,” Maluck said. “But don’t forget one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Bring the pizza.”
A dial tone would’ve been appropriate here. Instead, there was just awkward, empty silence.
Whatever. He estimated he had about thirty minutes to kill before company arrived.
And he was right. Right on schedule, thirty five minutes later, the loud sound of a lot of bikes filled the air. At least eight.
Maluck grinned. ‘Awesome. My kind of party.’
And at the front of the gang?
Yeah. Ron’s buddy. Sasquatch.
‘Or… Bigfoot? Still not sure.’
The massive man stomped forward, his scowl set to maximum intimidation. “Hey. Where’s my guys?”
Maluck looked at him like he’d just asked where the sky was. “Are you blind as well as stupid and ugly?”
Bigfoot—or whatever his name was—didn’t respond. His brain clearly wasn’t built for verbal combat. Instead, his beady eyes scanned the park.
Yeah, there they were. Two very broken, very unconscious bikers crumpled on the ground.
Bigfoot’s jaw clenched. He had already lost this battle of wits, so instead of humiliating himself further, he went for the default dumbass solution.
He pointed straight at Maluck and barked, “Fuck him up!”
***
Maluck wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t spent the last thirty minutes just twiddling his thumbs and thinking about chastity and purity like some kind of monk.
No. He’d been preparing.
As soon as the gang rolled up, he pulled out the chain from earlier and started whipping it around, testing its weight. It made a satisfying whoosh with every spin.
Still… 8-on-1.
It’d be great if he was some unstoppable kung fu master, but reality was a thing, and reality said:
Hand-to-Hand Combat: Good.
Not excellent. Not legendary. Just good.
So, no. He wasn’t about to take down eight bikers with nothing but a chain and moxie.
What he could do?
Run.
Because here’s the thing about bikers: They bike.
They didn’t ride those massive, chrome-covered choppers because they liked running.
And while Maluck didn’t like running either… at least he did it every day.
To train for situations just like this.
***
He didn’t run far.
Because those beautiful chrome-covered choppers were just calling to him.
Oh, he wasn’t about to jump on one for some epic 80s-style motorcycle chase. No, no, no. That would require actual motorcycle skills, and his Piloting (Vehicles): Average rating meant that would end with him eating asphalt.
What he was going to do?
Something better.
He zeroed in on the nearest bike, took a breath, and—
BAM!
—full-body tackled it like a goddamn linebacker.
Now, the thing about bikers? They had a habit of parking their bikes way too close together, like some medieval cavalry preparing for battle.
Which meant…
CLUNK!
CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK!
The bikes toppled like dominoes.
A symphony of shiny metal hitting pavement.
Seeing that, the pursuing bikers screamed in pure agony.
“MY BIKE!”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Maluck?
He just grinned.
***
The rage fueled them. Their leather-clad, vest-wearing bodies surged forward, chasing him with the single-minded fury of men who had just watched their precious vehicular babies hit the pavement.
Maluck, at this point, actually turned around—which was probably the last thing they expected.
And the frontrunners? The two guys leading the charge?
Yeah, they both caught a nice, fat chain to the face.
CRACK! CRACK!
For some reason, they had never actually thought about what would happen if they caught him.
They were like dogs chasing trucks—so focused on the chase that they never once considered what came after.
And just like that, they met the exact same fate as every dog that finally catches the truck.
THUMP! THUMP!
Straight on their asses.
***
The other six, including Bigfoot, decided to slow down, regrouping instead of blindly charging in like their downed buddies. Smart.
They were trying to circle him.
“Good thought!” Maluck yelled. “You gotta make sure you catch me in a circle, otherwise I’m gonna get through. It’s like playing a game of duck-duck-goose!”
He kept moving, weaving, watching.
There was one big advantage to being one guy against six.
He only had to look for weak links—who was actually coordinating, and who was just here to throw punches and look tough.
Most of these guys fought in bars, where close combat worked in their favor. Where tight numbers meant you could swarm someone and end a fight fast.
Out here? In the open, where footwork and actual coordination mattered?
Not so much.
Maluck whipped around the edge of the circle, swinging his chain menacingly at one of the bikers.
The guy flinched back—he didn’t get hit, but that wasn’t the point.
Because in that split second of hesitation?
Maluck booked it.
Right out of their attempted encirclement.
His Hand-to-Hand Combat was, again, good. Not excellent. Not legendary. Just good.
But you know what was excellent?
Tactics & Strategy.
And here’s the thing about tactics—it wasn’t just about moving armies or commanding squads. Even in street fights, tactics mattered.
Maluck kept moving, forcing them to chase. Now? It was a game of endurance. Who would tire out first?
Maluck, who trained every day, or these bikers, who spent their time drinking beer, revving engines, and riding instead of running?
Endurance (End): 1.08 might not have seemed like much, but out here? It wasn’t a joke.
He couldn’t see their stat sheets, but he could see the huffing and puffing. These guys were already starting to slow down, their breaths coming in heavy gasps. It was like watching a bunch of little engines that couldn’t.
Maluck glanced over his shoulder, spotting one of them already wiping sweat from his brow, the others trailing just behind.
As they slowed down, Maluck matched their pace.
He didn’t want them giving up and running back to their bikes. That would be very bad for him.
But his running wasn’t random or aimless.
He’d been steering them toward a construction site—or, more accurately, a half-built, probably abandoned building. It was a chaotic mess of concrete, pits, and bad city planning.
Exactly the kind of terrain advantage he needed.
When he got close, he yelled back at them.
“Hey, fuckers! Seriously, I’m about to escape. Aren’t you gonna run a little faster?”
Anger flared in their eyes.
And like idiots, they sped up again, temporarily forgetting their pack tactics in favor of pure rage.
Which was great—because the second they charged into the construction site…
CRACK! CRACK!
Two of them stepped directly into potholes.
SNAP.
“AHH! MY ANKLE!”
They hit the ground hard.
Now, only four were left standing.
The remaining bikers glanced down at their fallen comrades and, instead of realizing the obvious trap, just assumed they were idiots.
What they hadn’t realized was that Maluck had long planned for this. He had 30 whole minutes while waiting for them to show up.
One minute? Pulling out the chain.
The other 29? Setting up mini pit traps using his Improvised Weapons skill.
Maluck ducked under a low beam, and as soon as the four bikers ran in after him—BANG! He spun around and smashed the beam with his chain.
What looked like a solid, secured beam was actually precariously balanced. A mass of rebar and steel came crashing down, right in the bikers’ path.
CRUNK!
Two of them managed to dive out of the way.
The other two?
Pinned.
“FUCK, I’M STUCK!” one of them yelled.
Maluck dusted off his hands, grinning. Two down, two to go.
And with that, Maluck turned around, grinning.
