Hero

by Dan Sugralinov

“What are you celebrating?” Kesha asked. “The office opening? You should have told me! I have an opened bottle of brandy stashed away.”

  “Great!” Alik rubbed his hands. “We have some cookies!”

  “Sorry guys, not today. I've got training to do and Alik has still got a lot of work on. You remember, Alik, don’t you?” I had to add some commandeering notes to my voice. “Your job’s the most important! Let’s celebrate Friday night, okay?”

  “What kind of training are you into?” Veronica asked, curious.

  “Boxing.”

  Your Reputation with Veronica Pavlova has improved!

  Current Reputation: Amicality 10/60

  “Phil, are you sure?” Alik asked, sounding utterly pissed. “That’s a shitload of pasting! That’ll kill me if I have to do it on my own. And even with my lads... How about we hire a team in? You know, those billboard pasters?”

  “Have you got to stick all these up?” Veronica asked. “I know some people who’ll do it cheaply. For, say, two rubles apiece.”

  Alik visibly cheered up. Still, Kesha didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. It looked like he wanted to say something.

  “Kesha?” I said. “Spill the beans.”

  “I know them. They’re useless. My clients already complained to me about them. They paste a few and dump the rest. I heard about a few cases...”

  Veronica’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to say something in defense of her friends but I didn’t let her. “Thanks, Veronica, but we’ll manage. You two take off, we’ll celebrate some other time. Alik and I have a few things to discuss. Oh yes, the money. Kesha, there you go.”

  I paid the printer who gave me the receipt and left, asking me to keep him in mind when we decided to celebrate, no matter what.

  Veronica gave us the champagne. “Don’t get bored, boys!”

  She left, followed by Alik’s admiring gaze.

  I shut the door after her. I had very little time. I was almost late for the gym. Still, it was important to sort this out now, otherwise we wouldn’t get anywhere.

  “Alik, listen,” I paused, waiting for him to switch his attention to me. “No one’s gonna do this work for us. At the moment, there’re only two of us. This whole business thing can be tricky. You might think that it’s done in two shakes of a monkey’s tail. It ain’t like that, I’m afraid. If you wanna make it, you need to work your ass off. So if you think it’s not really your thing, we’d better talk it over now and part ways. If you decide you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand. I’ll go and paste those wretched leaflets myself. Even if you stay, I’ll still paste them. But...”

  “It’s all right, dude! I got it! You get off, you shouldn’t be late! I heard about your coach. He’s a real motherfucker, they say. Don’t worry. I’ll get my boys and we’ll do it.”

  “I’m happy to hear it, bro. See you tomorrow, then,” I gave him a high five, slapping his calloused hand.

  I dropped a pack of leaflets and a tube of glue into my backpack and walked out of the office.

  “And you know... I still think a microwave would be a good thing,” Alik said to my back.

  Chapter Eight. The Clients Aren’t Biting

  Your most unhappy customers are your greatest source of learning.

  Bill Gates

  “MAY I COME IN?” a shabby-looking dude in a short-sleeved shirt and light summer slacks with a black leather belt walked into our office. He was holding a stack of either booklets or thin paperbacks. I could see straight away he wasn’t a potential customer; he was just trying to sell us some crap or other.

  “Yes, do come in, take a seat, please!” Alik said, still not realizing what the wind had blown in. He rushed toward the man and took him helpfully under his arm, leading him toward my desk.

  I did a mental facepalm. My friend and partner had done it again. He still hadn’t lost hope. In almost a week of sitting on our backsides in the office, we hadn’t had a single client. Only small-business reps seemed to grace our doorstep with the intention of either selling us something or simply wanting money.

  We'd already received a whole wealth of commercial propositions, all of them offering long-term cooperation and including incredible “today only” discounts. We’d been offered to have our company added to the city’s Yellow Pages, sign up for hot lunch deliveries, have our website built for us, place our advertisement on the radio and in the local free rag, sponsor a street art exhibition, hire a pop star, and buy some real estate on Mars.

  One artful Gypsy guy had even brought us a big bag of freshly minted coins. “Bitcoins,” he’d said. “Very cheap. A hundred bucks apiece.”

  Now this dude perched himself on the edge of the chair without making himself too comfortable in case I kicked him out, and offered me a stack of brochures. According to my interface, he was pretty scared.

  “How can I help you?” I asked him, browsing through the brochures. They turned out to be collections of poems by some Valdemar Obscurus: thin amateurishly formatted paperbacks with a gaudy cover sporting some photo collage from hell and a 3D title complete with a drop shadow.

  “My real name’s Vladimir Obsky,” he said even though I already knew that this was indeed his name: Vladimir Obsky, age: 54.

  “But what about this?” I pointed at the book cover. “Valdemar Obscurus? Is this your pen name?”

  “Exactly. This is my nom de plume.”

  I began reading a random excerpt:

  “Rain in November

  sometimes happens in October

  and then everyone gets confused

  and imbued with meaning...”

  I looked up at the man. “What is this, Mr. Obsky?”

  “These are my poems. This is my art.”

  “That I understood. What’s the purpose of your visit? Do you need work?”

  “Oh no! Nothing on the kind! I am a poet! I create!”

  My Perception-enhanced hearing allowed me to catch the disappointed notes in Alik’s mumbling at the other end of the office, “He’s a friggin’ poet and he doesn’t know it!”

  According to the program, by his fifty-four years of age, Mr. Obsky’s social status was a whopping level 3. His best-developed skill was Speed Typing, all 8 points of it. I could only imagine how he ticked away — at that rate, he could polish off a novel in a week. This just had to be a compulsive writer. He must have already “authored” a dozen collections like this one.

  “Very well,” I said, seeing that my usual approach probably wouldn’t work here and resorting to a more clear-cut dialogue. “Are you a poet?”

  “That’s exactly what I am.”

  “You’ve come to our agency.”

  “As you see.”

  “You’ve brought us your poems.”

  “My poetry!” he protested.

  “Yes, sorry. You’ve brought us your poetry.”

  “I have.”

  “Aaand?” I drawled, expecting him to finish my sentence.

  “And what?”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted you to buy it,” the poet replied, sounding irritated like a professor having to explain things to a dumbass student.

  That solved the puzzle. As a salesman he was useless. He must have expected anyone who’d leaf through his books and read a couple of his masterpieces to love them enough to buy the entire body of his works.

  “I see. Don’t you need work?”

  “I have no time to work. Poetry won’t write itself, you know. My readers are waiting!”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, where do your readers find you?”

  “What do you mean, where? On a poetry site. D’you wanna buy it or not?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “We’re not buying them, period. Thank you very much,” I said, returning the books to him.

  “You didn’t even ask how much they cost!”

  “You see, Mr. Obsky, I’m afraid I’m not a big fan of poetry. Especially
not of this kind.”

  “What do you mean, this kind?” he squinted suspiciously at me.

  “Modern poetry.”

  I heard a knock on the door. The business center manager Gorelik walked in.

  “Ah, Mr. Obscurus, you’re there too!” he greeted the poet cheerfully like a long lost friend. “Hi, Phil.”

  “Hi, Mr. Gorelik.”

  “I’m sorry, Phil,” the manager continued. “I haven’t come to see you. I was told you were here, Mr. Obscurus, so I decided to pop by and see you. Can you spare me a moment of your time? I've got a great bottle of brandy in my office.”

  “I’m finished here,” the poet rose and gave me a contemptuous look. “Today’s youngsters don’t understand jack about art!”

  “But my wife loves your poems a lot!” Gorelik enthused. “By the way, this is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s her birthday soon. She’ll be turning forty-five. And as we all know, forty-five is the time-...”

  “...when a lady’s in her prime?” the poet beamed in anticipation of making a quick buck.

  “Exactly! I’d like to commission you to write a...” he flung his arm around the poet’s shoulder and steered him away, whispering suggestively in his ear.

  They left the office, accompanied by the poet’s giggling and the manager’s raucous guffawing.

  You couldn't make it up. Obscurus and Gorelik, two messengers of the Apocalypse.

  “What the hell was that?” Alik asked, uncomprehending.

  “That, Alik, was a poet. Like there’re lots in Russia. What are you eating?”

  “Just some instant noodles. Want some?”

  “Go on, then,” I said, resigning myself to the prospect of more system alerts.

  I was in a foul mood. Back home, Vicky had been gradually switching from “supporter and comrade in arms” mode to a sarcastic “I-told-you-so” replica of Yanna.

  Our done-on-a-shoestring advertisement campaign had gloriously failed. Alik and his hoods had performed a small miracle by having plastered half the town with our leaflets, with zero effect. That’s when I regretted the tens of thousands of rubles I’d thoughtlessly paid Matov for my boxing lessons. We could certainly have used them now.

  Alik who’d been sent out to conduct a makeshift survey among the local alcoholics, had returned with bad news. As it had turned out, no one was taking us seriously. Everybody seemed to sincerely believe that our company was yet another get-rich-quick scam in the business of ripping off gullible clients. The few phone calls we’d received seemed to come from slightly unbalanced people. What else could you call someone who’s only interested in big managerial positions with huge salaries but without having to do very much for it?

  “There you go, bro. Enjoy!” Alik offered me a carton of steaming noodles which gave off a delectable smell. You could say what you want but all the spices and taste enhancers seemed to be doing their job.

  “Thanks, man.”

  I hadn’t even noticed how quickly I’d polished it off, stock and all.

  You’ve consumed 489 calories, including: 0.43 oz. protein, 0.76 oz. saturated fat and 2.21 oz. carbohydrates.

  Warning! The food you’ve eaten contains potentially life-threatening ingredients!

  Warning! +0,00012% to your risk of developing cancer!

  Warning! +0.00086% to your risk of developing gastrointestinal diseases!

  Warning! +0.00704% to your risk of developing high blood pressure!

  -0,038402% to Vitality

  -3% to Metabolism. Duration: 6 hrs.

  In the weeks I’d spent with my interface, I’d learned to ignore such petty stats. If the truth were known, there were hardly any foods left that didn’t contain such “potentially life-threatening ingredients”. I was even surprised I didn’t receive alert messages every time I took a lungful of our supposedly clean air.

  To while away the time, I decided to check the system logs. I’d only discovered them very recently: those ham-fisted code writers had stashed them away in the farthest possible corner of my Settings. Even though I didn’t check them very often, they’d proved to be highly useful: a time management freak’s wet dream.

  The logs registered everything: system messages, XP progress, a minute by minute heart rate, hormonal fluxes, pedometric readings, duration of sleep in regards to its phases, and even all instances of me engaging in visual and oral contact with other people. I could look up anything I’d done, say, last Wednesday to the last second even though the descriptions were rather generalized: “Reading”, “Food consumption”, “Sleep” or “Movement”. If I focused on a particular activity, I could receive the statistics for that particular period of time to the last calorie and number of orgasms received.

  Because of my being constantly stuck in the office, my personal development had stagnated just as my business had. Nevertheless, my boosted leveling showed even in the most mundane of things. Due to my daily practice of shooting the breeze with all sorts of people — visitors, neighbors, and the HR departments of countless companies whom I’d called offering our services — my Communication Skills were already at 8. Thanks to my Vending skills, they were admittedly quite eager to cooperate by submitting their available vacancies — the problem was, I had no one to offer any of them. Not a single customer the whole week!

  Although the completion of Koutzel’s biography hadn’t improved my Creative Writing skill, it had brought my Speed Typing up to 5. But I’d got more gratification from the phone call I’d received from Dina, his granddaughter. I hadn’t heard such warm and sincere words of gratitude ever since the morning after I’d been interrogated by Major Igorevsky when the missing girl’s mother had phoned me.

  Although initially I’d treated this assignment as a side show to make a quick buck, it was in fact my first completed book which was bound to have at least a dozen readers amongst the MC’s family and friends.

  I still remembered the night when I’d written the last line. It had given me the indescribable satisfaction of a job well done. It had nothing to do with the interface which would only have closed the task after I’d edited it. But the joy I’d experienced at that particular moment had been all mine. It had been real.

  Then out of the blue I’d received a new level 6 in my Internet Search skill. The constant polite dealings with door-to-door salesmen and the daily encouragement of the dejected Alik had brought my Deception up to 4. And then, after yet another run, I’d received a new level in Athletics (3).

  So basically, those were all my achievements. My characteristics had marked time; even Strength had refused to grow although admittedly, my weight training progress had also slowed down because I’d been stuck lifting the same weights. I still had no idea what the reason for it was but I’d already looked up some information about the plateau effect and how to overcome it. I might have to pause my training for a couple of weeks in order to allow my muscles to relax and get some rest from the usual workout.

  “Phil! Alik! Don’t you wanna congratulate me?” Veronica twittered, sailing into the office.

  “Congratulations!” Alik replied for both of us. “Why, what are we celebrating?”

  “I’ve just seen Gorelik. I’ve paid off the rent in full! Can you imagine? Phil, I’m so grateful! The dude whose party it was is so over the moon he promised to recommend me to all his friends!”

  Congratulations! You’ve received a new skill level!

  Skill name: Luck

  Current level: 11

  You’ve received 1000 pt. XP for successfully leveling up a main characteristic!

  Current level: 14. XP points gained: 12800/15000

  This message made no sense. I hadn’t expected anything like it. I’d love to have known what exactly I’d done lately that the program had esteemed worthy of this? Could my tip on the whereabouts of that terrorist Haqqani had finally brought results? Or had the missing guy from Rostov whom I’d located had done something beneficial for the human race?

  Or was my ass
istance to Veronica affecting my future in some way? I’d do well to look into it at some other time lest they might misunderstand my glazed-over stare.

  “Wow, that’s awesome!” Alik cheered, then added with a darkened face, “Phil? You know... Don’t we need to pay the rent soon too? We don’t have any clients.”

  “First of all, our first month is free. And secondly, I already paid a deposit, so no one’s gonna boot us out until September.”

  “What, no clients at all? Not even today?” Veronica asked, seemingly upset.

  “Not a soul,” Alik complained. “Just now some crazy poet called in. And I was already holding my breath! I thought it was a customer.”

  Veronica was such an avid supporter of our cause that she was quite prepared to become our client herself just to help us out. “I’ve already told everyone about you! I’ve plastered the whole neighborhood with your leaflets. What the hell’s going on? Have you tried to offer your services online? I know someone who’s a real expert...”

  “Phil, watch out!” Alik signaled.

  A timid-looking woman appeared in the doorway behind Veronica’s back. A boy of about ten years old stood next to her, holding a violin case.

  Veronica swung round, adopting the role of our secretary. “Hello there! How can I help you?”

  “Is this the recruitment agency?”

  Alik was desperately winking his left eye at me, giving the impression that he had a nervous tick.

  “Yes, this is the right place,” I said. “My name’s Phil. Please come in. Veronica, thanks a lot. Come on back later.”

  She gave me a wink and left. What was wrong with those two?

  Alik pulled up another chair for the boy. The woman slumped down wearily and sat her son (according to the interface, he was indeed her son) next to her.

  “Are you looking for work?” I asked, instinctively crossing my fingers.

  “Yes. I saw your poster in my hallway. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid any attention but someone had pasted it upside down. I wondered who the joker was.”