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:
- His own phone was busted. Thanks, Bad Luck Points.
- 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 narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
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.
***