Level Up: Knockout, book 2
Update
by Max Lagno and Dan Sugralinov
Pre-order - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07YB42SKX
Release - December 9, 2019
Chapter
1
UFC
Solving
big problems is easier than solving little problems.
Sergey
Brin
Mike
Björnstad Hagen was standing before a mirror in one
of the sports complex’s gyms. The crowd was roaring outside. The ring announcer
was shouting something, and the music blared, interfered by advertising
jingles.
Mike
touched his face with a hand covered in elastic bandages.
“What
could have happened?” he thought. “Was it me or was it not?”
There
were other fighters in the locker room, too—some of them applying bags of ice to
injured knees; others taking selfies. There was even a video blogger scurrying
around, followed by a cameraman. He would approach the athletes out of the blue—anyone who was free—and ask silly questions in a clownish
manner. The nosy guy refrained from approaching Hagen, though—Luke Lucas, the producer, had warned
him that if he’d bother anyone preparing for battle, he would lose his
backstage pass for good.
And
yet Hagen needed no bloggers to ask himself silly questions.
Why
did he feel like he’d been swapped for another person since the very morning?
Or, perhaps, it felt as if he had lost something. But what could it possibly
be? Confidence? Wasn’t he the one who had fought in every battle and made it to
the top? He couldn’t have made it without confidence.
Could
this mood be the result of his recurring dreams of fighting monsters on some
other planet? Hagen even went to see an analyst about it, who had only
reassured him by saying, “Everything’s perfectly simple, Mr. Hagen. Your unconscious
shows you scenarios in a metaphoric language in your sleep. However, in your
case, we don’t even need any metaphors—you fight monsters asleep and awake.”
“Why
did I even go to see him in the first place?” Hagen thought. “Mom would also
take me to all sorts of analysts who would always come up with the same kind of
incomprehensible gobbledygook.”
And
yet, now, as he was about to enter his decisive battle, Mike wished to hear the
calm and confident voice of the psychologist. Those people could really calm
one down, after all.
“Hey,
bro, how our you doing?” Gonzalo asked him.
Mike’s
friend of old, Gonzalo Herrera, was the very person who had once seen Mike’s
potential and brought him into the world of sparring for cold hard cash. He was
living in Las Vegas at that point, too, and was in the business of recruiting
fighters who showed promise.
“OK,
I guess.”
“Hey,
won’t you take a look at this!”
The
screens hanging on the walls of the locker room showed a transmission from the
ring. The camera paused on the famous Khabib who was about to enter the VIP
section.
“He’s
really interested in your fight! Do you have any idea what it means, bro?”
“I
sure do. I’m his most likely opponent in the nearest future.”
“Yup.
Either you or Molimo. Whoever of you becomes the next rising star is decided
today. If you’re interested in the betting odds . . .”
Hagen
looked behind Gonzalo’s shoulder as if to see something unusual there. Ever
since the morning he’d been noticing that he had kept looking at some point above
his interlocutors’ heads. The hotel administrator’s bald patch, the turban on
the Uber driver’s head, Gonzalo’s cap… Why would that be? The shrink would
definitely know, and if he didn’t, he’d still explain it to him and calm him
down.
“All right,
I’ll go see my other fighters,” Gonzalo said, having noticed that Hagen wasn’t
listening.
The video
blogger and his operator deliberately stood in such a way they could get Hagen
in the camera. Mike turned around and headed toward the exit.
It was time to
win.
***
Hagen saw lots
of locker rooms over the last couple of years. He had walked the way between
the doors and the ring many times. He shook the hands reaching for him a
thousand times, and seen his face on enormous screens and billboards a thousand
times more. He would even sign his pictures, decorating his autographs with a
bear’s paw symbol. It was Gonzalo’s idea, who had told him, “Bro, you’ve got to
be original even when you sign your photographs.”
Occasionally,
Mike would fail to believe his own near-stardom. He was saddled with several
fans who had created a dedicated social network profile. Strangers started to
get really intrusive in what concerned his personal life. They would somehow
get hold of his phone number and would either message him to congratulate him
on his victory or asked him to “fight like him.” Former convicts would write
him about their experiences inside, while young gang members asked him for
advice on how to behave if they get locked up.
Hagen would
change his number, but the fans kept pestering him incessantly—either
them, or outright psychos. This level of public exposure obviously affected
Mike’s behavior in the ring greatly. His attentive fans followed Mike’s every
move and interpret everything in their own way.
For instance,
Hagen developed a new habit—after each victory, he would hastily whisper a few
words, pressing his fingers to his lips. Some thought he was praying, whether
others insisted he was reading spells of the sort that would help him win. And
yet, Hagen was only saying, “Look at what I’ve become, mom! Thank you!”
He was already
past the period when he had been accusing his mother of his every misfortune.
She was just doing anything she could to protect him, and it was never her
intent to cause him such harm by caring excessively.
However,
something was different now. Hagen no longer felt the protection of the
invisible power that had gotten him through training, street fights, sparring
in the ring, the conviction, the jail, more sparring . . . How could he have
managed to get through it all?
As he was
approaching the octagonal UFC ring, he felt the long-forgotten fear—not the
usual caution that any fighter would feel preparing to face the opponent. This
was all-consuming fear, just like back in the day when Goretsky would shout at
him and wave his fists around, or when other children had bullied him in his
childhood.
He suddenly
felt indignation, thinking, “What the hell is going on with me?”
“Let’s fight!”
Hagen shouted, throwing punches at the air and running through the last couple
of feet to the ring.
This antic
helped him get out of his strange state of stupor. It would all be OK.
His opponent
entered the ring at the same time.
***
Molimo “Hip”
Foster, a Native American from South Dakota, was a favorite of the qualifying
fights, just like Hagen. They shared more than weight—many facts of their
respective biographies corresponded as well.
Likewise Hagen,
Molimo had never been much of an athlete—all he would do was sit in his
father’s shop and sell “authentic Native American souvenirs” (actually
manufactured in China) to gullible tourists. But then he suddenly got
interested in martial arts, and made a stellar career over a very short time—from small local amateur contests to
statewide championships. This is how he had gotten into the qualifying matches
after having been seen by one of the recruiters.
But that wasn’t
the only thing they had in common. The word “molimo” stood for “a bear who
creeps in the shadows” in the Miwok language. One of the sports commentators
even quipped about there never having been any nickname in the entire history
of sport that would be so at odds with the athlete’s appearance.
For instance,
the only thing that resembled a bear in Mike “Björn” Hagen was his
tattoo, whereas Molimo looked more like a mongoose, agile, fast, and precise.
Both fighters
were lean and nimble; both had a good technique. They both preferred hitting
the opponent to grappling or foot sweeps.
Eventually,
journalists started calling Mike and Molimo “The M&Ms.” They were two
fighters who had appeared out of nowhere and became the most fascinating
fighting duo at the UFC qualification fights.
“Are you OK?”
The referee’s
question caught Hagen unawares. Was it so obvious that something weird was
going on that even others could see it? Mike took a look at the audience.
There was Uncle
Peter, beaming proudly at his nephew. He had a t-shirt with Björn’s portrait
on. Hagen was not yet a celebrity enough for his face to be printed on
garments, but Gonzalo went out of his way to make a copy for everybody.
Another person
shifting from foot to foot was Wei Ming, another friend from Mike’s earlier
years—they used to work together at the repair shop back in the day;
then he moved to Chuck’s bar to work as a bouncer. Wei Ming’s impenetrable face
did not betray any anxiety, but he was also proud of Mike. They faced each
other in the ring last week. It was a tough fight, but Mike still managed to
win.
And yet . . .
Why were the details of the battle so hazy? How exactly did he win? What moves
did he use? What were those strange combos? Hagen shook his head—no matter how
hard he’d try, he could not figure out how he had managed that series of
brilliant punches and kicks that had knocked out his friend.
“So? Are you
OK?” The referee became tensed. “Why aren’t you answering?”
Hagen looked at
the referee and nodded.
“Yes, sir . . .
Let’s fight.”
“OK, then”
Hagen decided
against requesting for the match to be postponed due to health issues. He felt
OK. Too much depended on this battle for it to be postponed indefinitely.
***
The judge
showed the fighters to their corners. The door of the cage closed, and the
audience went even wilder.
Hagen took a
last look at Olga, a judo fighter from Ukraine. He met her after his fight with
Wei Ming. She was sitting next to his uncle, and wore the t-shirt with Hagen’s
face in the most fetching manner.
It felt weird.
“Why can I
remember every second I spent with Olga and everything we did in that hotel
room, but cannot for the life of me recollect any of the details of my fight
with Wei Ming?”
The referee
clapped his hands, which brought Hagen out of his reverie. The world
disappeared as it always did in such cases, with nothing left but Hagen and his
opponent. It became a habit with him to become absolutely focused, only leaving
the state once the round was over.
However, his
concentration was marred by irrelevant reflecting yet again.
“So . . . I
should at least remember what I had planned to defeat him. I did have a plan,
after all . . . I’d been intending to use some move—and a cunning one, at
that.”
The agile
Molimo was already approaching him, preparing for attack. He was taller and had
wider shoulders, and his kicks defied the statistics of efficiency, knocking
out many opponents.
“A quick attack
at the legs and taking the whole battle to the ground level? Was that how I
planned to surprise Molimo? No . . . It was something else. What was that move
called, anyway? Strategic delay? Not really . . . Tactical pause? It must have
been that . . . But what kind of a pause? And what am I doing trying to
recollect its name, anyway?”
Molimo moved in
a relaxed manner, holding his hands low. A real mongoose ready to pounce. And
yet . . . His behavior looked weird, too. He also seemed uncertain of his
actions.
Hagen’s body
jerked automatically, reacting to his opponent’s feint. He felt himself lucky
to have escaped it.
The audience
booed disappointedly. They have all noted the strange behavior of the
fighters—it was as if it were their first time in the ring.
“Who the hell
fights like that?” a face from the front row shouted. “Even my grandma could
dodge a punch like that.”
Hagen saw the
coach who had been hired by Luke Lucas stare at him in bewilderment. Gonzalo
stood right next to him and looked at the ring with equal amazement. Khabib
must have been watching the debacle from the VIP section above.
It was time to
counterattack. Hagen threw his signature punch. He could clearly hear the loud
sound of the audience going “Aww.” This would normally happen when he would
make a particularly strong and precise attack. However, instead of the euphoria
of victory, he felt something else—an endless sound of the gong in his head.
Hagen’s back
slammed into the walls of the cage. The floor with the enormous U on it
suddenly became a lot closer, and he fell into it as if it was a bottomless
pit.
“It’s a
knockout!” was the last thing he heard.
“I think . . . this should be my second knockout,” he thought
before falling into the void of the gigantic letter U.
Chapter
2
FUC
In the
end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our
friends.
Martin
Luther King, Jr.
Hagen
already knew he was lying on a hospital bed a minute before coming to his
senses. However, his consciousness was reluctant to return to reality from the
world of his dreams.
His
head was aching, and he could see the spinning UFC logo in his mind’s eye—the very one he saw just before hitting the floor.
The letters weren’t standing in one place; they kept spinning and changing
places. When they turned into FUC, Hagen open his eyes and sighed loudly.
“Oh,
fuck . . .”
“Yeah,
you can say that again, bro.”
Gonzalo
was sitting on a chair near the wall, fidgeting with his mobile phone.
Hagen
rose in his bed.
“Did
they hit me so hard I ended up at the hospital?”
“You
got hit hard enough.” Gonzalo paused for a moment and added, “I wouldn’t say
you got hit all that hard. Molimo could have struck you way harder.”
Gonzalo
halted for a moment, which made Hagen realize that he had stopped himself short
of saying that Hagen himself could have fought better, too.
“That’s
not why you’re in hospital, bro.”
“What’s
the matter with me?”
Gonzalo
rose from his chair, approached Hagen, and asked quietly,
“Bro,
just don’t you lie to me . . . Do you use?”
“Drugs?”
Hagen asked in indignation. “Never! You know well enough I don’t even like
painkillers.”
Gonzalo
turned on his phone and showed Mike the YouTube video of their fight.
Molimo
might have seemed a formidable opponent to Hagen in the ring, but when he took
a good look at him, he could clearly see that the Native American walked like a
chicken, throwing his fists about as if they were chicken wings. Not that Hagen
was any better. He ducked to dodge an attack, frightened, and then got a random
hit in the jaw with his opponent’s knee.
As
Hagen fell face-first onto the letter U, Molimo grabbed his legs and walked
back towards the ropes, limping.
The
video blogger from the locker room provided the commentary.
“Well
. . . There’s nothing one can really say. Who are these sacks of shit? Could
this be the unsinkable and incredibly fast Mike Hagen? Could this be the nimble
Molimo? They look like parodies of themselves. These are no bears—these are teddies at best, still crashing after
their last party. My opinion, ladies and gentlemen, is that we have witnessed a
swindle of some sort. Characteristically enough, no producer would provide a
reply to any of my questions. These two dark horses have turned into two dirty
corrupt secrets.”
Afterwards,
the video cut to a scene with Khabib’s reaction to the short and pathetic
fight. The Russian fighter laughed and said he hadn’t had as much fun in a long
time. Then he grew serious and said that drugs had destroyed many talented
athletes, finally wishing Hagen and Molimo to get over their problems and get
back into the ring.
“So
that’s how it goes, bro,” Gonzalo said as he put his phone away. “All right,
let me call the doctor—he has a lot to explain to you.”
Gonzalo
exited the ward. Uncle Peter’s worried face appeared from behind the open door,
but the doctor, who was just coming in, asked him not to come in.
So,
now even Hagen’s uncle would consider his nephew an addict.
***
The
doctor showed Hagen his clipboard with X-rays and tables of some sort.
“I
should tell you some good news right away—you’re an amazingly clean athlete. No
traces of any narcotics have been found in your blood. You haven’t even been
taking any of the legal ones.
“Why
do you think I took any drugs in the first place? We were checked before
entering the ring, after all.”
“Nobody
knows what may have happened, or why both fighters could have changed so much.
There were versions implying sabotage—it has been allege that someone might
have poisoned you or added tranquilizers to your drinking water . . . None of
the versions cut the mustard.”
“So,
did you find one that did?”
The
doctor opened a table on his clipboard.
“What
happened was an unprecedented degradation of your physical condition. I don’t
know how to explain it, but take a look at your statistics for today and for
two days ago. Your muscle mass has been reduced almost by half. In fact, it is
incredible, but you have even grown shorter. There is no existing medical
explanation. I wouldn’t have believed it, but I took those measurements
myself.”
Once
Hagen tried to read the statistics in the table, he got a headache. He put away
the clipboard.
“Doc,
could you give me a painkiller, please?”
“Mike,
you are the only fighter I know that has strictly forbidden me from giving you
painkillers. And I’ve seen you often enough after fights with horrendous
bruises and even broken ribs. But you could take it, and everything would heal
incredibly fast every time. As for now . . .”
“Doc,
my head is killing me!” Mike howled out.
While
the medic was rummaging around in a drawer, Hagen once again looked towards
some spot above the doctor’s Isaac Hayes-like head, with just a fringe of grey
hair around it. Did he expect to see a hint of some sort there?
The
doctor gave him an injection, and the pain went away. Hagen fell down onto his
pillow. Once the agony abated, he asked,
“What’s
happening to me, doctor?”
“I
have no idea!” the doctor said in an unexpectedly mirthful voice. “It’s
absolutely out of the ordinary, Mike! I have seen your medical chart, and if we
don’t consider your physical condition’s sudden degradation, you’re absolutely
healthy. Well, as healthy as a year ago, that is. A little concussion after the
knockout has got nothing to do with it.”
“Does
that mean I can get back to fighting, then?” Mike was overcome by a rush of
inexplicable optimism once his head hurt no more.
“Uh
. . . You might have, had they let you.”
“But
. . .”
“Just
get healthy first, and then you’ll decide if you want back. Do you remember how
the fight ended? If I were you, I’d have a rest—go to a beach, or a casino,
maybe. Forget about fighting for a while, at least.
The
doctor let Hagen know they would say no more about that, but didn’t leave the
ward.
“There’s
another thing, Mike. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Luke Lucas refused to pay
your hospital bills, so you’re the one who’ll pay them.”
“Come
again? Why?”
“Sorry,
but I have nothing to do with that. I just wanted to inform you of it.”
The
doctor gave Hagen a cheerful smile as he departed.
***
Physical
anguish became replaced by the anguish of the soul. It would be about money,
wouldn’t it? Damn, he had staked nearly everything he had on his victory! And
Gonzalo has made his bets, too, likewise Wei Ming and Uncle Peter. Fuck. Uncle
Peter even convinced his vet friends to take part in the affair—Mike remembered
vaguely that even Chuck Morrison was convinced to place a bet.
Nevertheless,
the invincible Mike “Björn” lost in the most mysterious and preposterous manner,
but lose he did. All his career became rendered to a short video that went
viral on YouTube. When Gonzalo showed him his phone, he saw that the number of
views had six digits in it.
His
plan had been to become a great fighter. He became an object of great ridicule
instead.
The
fact that Molimo didn’t fight well, either, was hardly any consolation—at
least, the Mative American had managed to win. On the other hand, it was odd
why Molimo himself fought like a newbie.
The
painkiller’s effects set in, and Hagen got lost in a convoluted trail of
thought resembling a daydream. He felt as though he were on an unknown planet
himself.
However,
this time there was no fighting and no monsters—just an empty field and the
ruins of some futuristic construction lik by an enormous crimson ball of an
alien sun about to disappear behind the horizon.
Hagen
instantly recalled the analyst’s words. Could it be that he no longer had to
fight when there were no monsters anymore? Could sunset be the symbol of Hagen
losing to his own unrecognized monsters?
The
thoughts of the analyst eventually brought Hagen to thoughts about money. They
weren’t happy thoughts—he had none. He
did indeed receive some money from Mr. Riggs, an old cop working as a security
officer at the same shop as Mike and Wei Ming. That time, Riggs managed to get
Mike compensated for thirty grand representing his interests for emotional
distress. However, Mike had bet all the remaining funds on his own victory.
The
motel and the gym were paid for by Luke Lucas, who had considered him a fighter
with a future who would eventually return the investment. Well, he didn’t.
His
painkiller-addled mind went through the sequence of all the months spent in Las
Vegas training, fighting, and training again. He kept on winning. He would
sometimes lose, but he would win more often. And it was Hagen’s big head that
caused him to convince his friends to bet as much as they could on him.
Gonzalo
didn’t have to be asked twice—he was always ready to take a chance. Wei Ming
objected, though. He kept telling Mike he didn’t believe in gambling.
Mike’s
arrogant reply the last time was, “Do you believe in me?”
Wei
Ming didn’t deny it. “I kinda do,” he said.
“Then
pay it no attention and wager it all! I’m sure of my victory!” Mike exclaimed,
patting his friend on the shoulder.
Given
that Mike would most often win, Wei Ming eventually allowed Mike to convince
him and agreed reluctantly.
So
what could have happened?
***
Hagen
woke up. Uncle Peter stood in front of his bed, with Wei Ming behind him, and
Gonzalo not far behind. The morning light filled the hospital ward.
“Mikey,
could you please explain what happened?” his uncle asked again. “The doctor
said you were dying.”
Since
Hagen was yawning at the time, he froze just like that, with his jaw dropped.
“Uncle,
I’m nowhere near dead. I’ve just had my physical parameters decline.”
“Is
that any better?”
Hagen
wanted to reply. He looked at all of his friends. The first time in a long time
he was close to tears. Imagine letting everybody down like that.
His
friends must have read his feelings loud and clear, since everybody started to
reassure him and say money was their least concern.
“I’ll
earn a lot more. You can make money out of thin air in Las Vegas. I have found
two new fighters, and I am about to expand my business,” Gonzalo claimed.
“I
can find a part-time job at a Chinese restaurant,” Wei Ming said curtly. “Also,
Gonzalo offered me to join his team.”
Hagen’s
uncle just waved his hand and patted him on the head the way he did when his
nephew was little. And this was considering that he must have lost the most,
having re-mortgaged a house he had paid full mortgage for.
Hagen
had plenty of words of kindness and gratitude to say to everyone, but he could
only manage a few simple words of politeness.
“Thank
you . . . Is there any chance of spending some time on my own?”
Wei
Ming simply nodded and exited.
“Hey,
bro, were you thinking we’d spend the rest of the day babysitting you?” Gonzalo
said with contrived joviality. “We’re all busy men here.”
He
dropped a mobile phone and a set of keys on Hagen’s bed.
“I
have brought your phone and driven your car over.”
“Thanks.”
Before
exiting, Gonzalo told Mike,
“Olga
was saying hi.”
“Where
is she?”
“She
has gone back to Russia or wherever; her competition is over.”
“Ukraine,
not Russia.”
“Same
difference.”
Gonzalo
went out, while Hagen’s uncle moved to a chair, saying,
“As
for me, I’m not going anywhere.”
Hagen
sat down upon the bed.
“Uncle.
Do you remember the time you returned from Iraq?”
“When
would that be? I served their twice, and came back both times, har har. The
first time was in nineteen ninety . . .”
“When
I was little,” Mike interrupted impatiently.
“You’ve
always been little. To me, you’re still a young lad.”
“That’s
not what I’m talking about. Will you please listen? Do you remember the family
dinner in celebration of your return? The time you stood up and walked out?”
Hagen’s
uncle frowned.
“But
how does this relate to . . .”
“Look,
I want to stay on my own now, too. Can you understand it? Just the way you did
that time.”
Uncle
Peter stood up, looking offended, walked out, and shut the door behind him
without saying a single word.
***
Once Mike unblocked his phone, he
found a bunch of unread messages and letters. Some of them needed to be
answered immediately. He opened his messenger and found the message from his
promoter, which he mulled over a few times.
Lucky
Luke:
I
don’t know what underhanded game you might be playing, son, but you have gone
too far. They used to kill people for less back in my day. I advise you to stay
out of my sight. I don’t need your bullshit excuses; everything’s clear. Just
remember one thing: you won’t ever fight again for as long as I’m alive, and
I’ll stay alive for a long, long time—much longer than a bastard like you.
Another
thing: any business relationship that we may have had is over. My attorney will
take care of reclaiming everything I’ve spent on your ungrateful ass. Have a
bad day.
This
was followed by the app’s notification saying this user had blocked Hagen and
that no reply would be possible.
Mike
nearly let the phone slip out of his hands. What the hell was that? What had he
done? He had only lost a single battle. It was bad, sure, but considering how
many times he had won before, it would fall into the category of statistical
error. Could that be the reason for so much animosity?
He
spent a few hours trying to reach Lucas via third parties, sending a dozen of
messages to whoever he could reach. However, the only thing he managed to learn
was that he’d managed to piss off nearly the entire clique of promoters and not
just Lucas.
Hagen
opened his fighter’s profile at some unofficial site, feeling desperate.
Mike Björnstad Hagen
Nickname: Björnstad
Style: boxing, kickboxing, punching,
resilience
Victories/Defeats/Draws: 12/1/0.
Age: 30
Height: 5.5 ft.
Weight: 152 lbs.
Arm span: 6 ft.
Leg span: 3.3 ft.
Obviously,
the statistics only involved Hagen’s fights in the preliminary contest.
He
shuddered as he recalled the fights in the wooden ring back in the prison.
Compared to those, mixed martial arts had a very strict code. How could he have
survived it all? He’d been very lucky that Blinky Palermo who had run that
prison and intended to destroy Mike in the wooden ring fell prey to a heart
attack—otherwise, he would never have left the prison. Fortune was on his side
sometimes, after all. Yet he had no wish to revisit the experience.
Hagen
checked the data from the doctor and came to the conclusion that, odd at is
might seem, his body had reverted to roughly the same shape it had before he
had started on martial arts.
He
rose from the bed, assumed the standard boxing stance in front of the mirror,
and looked at his reflection in the mirror skeptically, hospital attire and
all—it seemed that the positions of his arms and legs were OK. Mike suddenly
remembered how Ochoa, his old coach, used to teach him to “breathe” with his
hands. Nothing has changed since.
Hagen
threw a few punches, but he instantly became sweaty, his limbs leaden. Could he
have gotten tired so quickly? His heart throbbed so hard it felt it could leave
his chest any second, but he wouldn’t need any opponents now, anyway.
He
heard the door open. The doctor entered the ward. He gave a throat cough as he
saw his patient in a battle stance.
“Impatient,
eh? Never mind, you’ll be out in a few hours. But I strongly advise against
sports. You can jog a little, or do some yoga. But forget about anything along
the lines of boxing or karate.”
Hagen
sat down on his bed.
“Have
you found out about what could have happened to me?”
The
doctor moved his chair closer to the bed and sat down opposite his patient.
“Mr.
Hagen . . . Uh, Mike . . . I have to confess that nothing like this has ever happened
in my practice before.”
“Anybody
else’s practice, then?”
“Perhaps,
and perhaps not. That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
The
doctor proceeded to offer Hagen to participate in a special clinical program
offering free checkups and treatment for patience with cases unknown to
science.
“I
don’t get it,” Hagen looked surprised. “How are you going to treat me if you
don’t have a diagnosis?”
“We
shall experiment, collect data, and look for approaches . . .” the doctor went
on monotonously.
“Does
that mean I’ll become your guinea pig?” Mike interrupted him.
“You
don’t have to put it in that way . . .” The doctor looked embarrassed for a
moment. “Although you could put it that way. However, you receive compensation
for your participation in the program.”
Mike
didn’t think long. The experimental program wouldn’t cover all his medical
expenses, but he would at least owe less. Hagen signed the contract without
thinking too long.
Once
the doctor was out, Hagen grabbed his phone and took another look at his
boxer’s stats at the site. Weight, skills, victories and the like resembled the
stats of a video game. But there was something else. What else could it be?
He
couldn’t remember.
Pre-order - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07YB42SKX
Release - December 9, 2019
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