FOUR: KID

Several hours later, a sharp knock at the apartment door woke Lars from a delightful dream about his future induction into the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame and the bitching afterparty that followed. At first, he thought maybe he had ordered some food he had forgotten about, so he turned off the replay of last year’s title match against Rattlesnake Rebecca Rothschild and bolted upright. He checked his phone on the way to the door, didn’t see any notifications from the usual apps, and frowned. He hadn’t placed an order. But he did got a lot of takeout and he tipped well, so much so that a lot of the local delivery guys would stop by to drop off refused and canceled orders.

His mouth watered at the thought of a homeless KFC Family Feast, or even a smorgasbord of Kung Pao. Sort of like when those YouTubers on the floor below ordered enough to feed a family of twenty as a prank and refused to foot the bill.

Lars had been more than willing to cover the spread. Too much Kung Pao in the fridge is never a bad thing.

He caught his quickening breath, tried to settle his racing heart, then pulled his threadbare shirt down over his belly and tried to make himself look as approachable as possible for whoever was on the other side. To Lars, anyone that delivered food was one of the most important people on the planet. He licked his lips, opened the door, and frowned. The frame beyond was empty. So he checked both ways, sniffed, smelled nothing other than something fruity and very much not Kung Pao, then slammed it shut again.

Disappointment settling in like a hundred-year-old house, Lars threw his burly body back down on the couch and pressed play on the remote. A smile crept across his face as watched himself springboard off the ropes and tame the Rattlesnake with a bulldog headlock and a vicious drop to the mat. He pumped his fist in the air and counted along with the referee. “One! Two! Thr—”

There was another knock, this time with a little more force.

“Dammit!” bellowed Lars as he shot to the feet, stormed across the apartment, and ripped the door open. “I swear, there better be a vat of sweet and sour chicken out—what the hell?”

There was a throat clearing noise. “Um, down here, ugly.”

Lars looked down and jumped. Before him sat a man in a chair. Well, a child, really. No, that was wrong. He was somewhere in between a man and child—fully grown-ish, but so skinny Lars could see ribs through his gray MIT Robotics Club t-shirt. So, a kid. The ironic type.

“My uncle warned me you could be rude,” spat the kid as he pushed past Lars and continued inside the apartment until he came to a squeaking rest near the coach. “Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”

“I’m rude?!” Lars blinked. “And ask you to come in? You just barged into my apartment without an invitation, pal!”

The kid shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s rude to leave people sitting out in the hall. Don’t blame me for having to assume you were a friendly person. You really should at least pretend you want to invite people into your home.”

“You got some nerve, kid.” Lars balled his fists. “And please tell me, just who the hell might you be?”

“Finnbar.”

“Finnbar?”

“Uh, yeah.” The kid flashed a smug grin and offered his hand. “Finnbar Murphy. But you can call me Finn. Everyone does.”

“Okay, Finn.” Lars slammed the still open door and placed both massive fists on his hips. When he spoke, his tone dripped with sarcasm like frozen custard at a Florida retirement village. “Please, Mr. Finnbar Murphy, would you care to step into my swamp? May I offer you a cold drink? Choccy milk, perhaps? Would you care to take a seat?”

Finn pursed his lips, winced, and bobbed his head from side to side. “Um, no. And… no.”

Lars, now firmly shifted from the mostly friendly Lars Ochre to the no-nonsense Ogre persona that had made his career, threw his hands in the air and bellowed, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The kid reached over his shoulder and pulled a clear drink can out of a duffle bag hanging behind him, the red liquid inside sloshing back and forth as he set it down on the coffee table. He cracked the drink with a hiss, took a massive swig, and said, “No to the drink, because I obviously brought my own. And no to the seat, because I’m in a fudging wheelchair. I’m already seated, you dolt.”

Lars huffed, then let out a growl so sinister it caused the neighbor’s pit bull to whimper.

Finn raised his eyebrow. “Now, it would be great if you could show me to my room. I have to set up my rig and you’ve made me late for my raid.”

***

“No,” said Finn with a shake of his head. “This simply won’t do. Nah. This room is too small for me to set up my omni. Is yours any bigger?”

“Yeah,” Lars grumbled. “You think I would give myself the small room? It is my apartment.”

“Makes sense. And good.” Finn wheeled out of the room, arms pumping the wheels at his side like he meant business. “Looks like we’re going to have to switch rooms.”

“What?” Lars furrowed his brow. “Switch rooms? No, we’re not switching rooms! I haven’t even figured out who you are!”

“Yes, you have.” The kid twisted the wheels in opposite directions and spun around in an instant. “I just told you. I’m Finnbar Murphy. Billy Burns’ nephew? And I’m here to be that assistant you so desperately needed. Well, kind of. I’m really here to get out from under the thumb of my aunt. She’s a real leg breaker.”

Lars glanced down as he let out a nervous laugh. “Ha-huh.”

Finn wheeled closer. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that joke make you uncomfortable? Does my condition make you uncomfortable?”

“No. Uh, okay. Yeah, just a little.” Lars waved a hand next to his head. “Listen, kid. It’s been a long day and my mind ain’t working right. You should’ve just said you were Billy’s boy from the—”

“He’s not my father.”

The big pro raised a finger. “Let me finish. You should’ve said you were Billy’s nephew from the beginning. We obviously got off on the wrong foot—er, wheel—but that doesn’t mean we can’t try again.” He took a deep breath and held out his own hand. “The name is Lars. Lars Ochre. Most people call me by my stage name, Ogre. You can use whichever is easiest for you. Unless we’re on official Federation business, then you have to call me Ogre. It’s in your contract. You did... sign your contract, right?”

Finn nodded, considered the hand for a moment, then thrust his own forward. It disappeared into Lars’ far larger one like a five pronged fork sinking into bread dough. “Okay, Lars. Like I said, I’m Finnbar Murphy. That’s Finn to you. Don’t call me Finnbar. I like Finn. It makes people think my name is Finnegan, which is straight fire.”

Lars raised his hands in front of his chest in a placating gesture. “Fair enough. Now, I don’t know how much Billy told you, but I just want to clarify that you’re here to be my assistant. The job is mostly making sure I’m where I need to be and when, running my social media, going into places I can’t fit and the like. To be honest, it’s a well-paying—”

“Paying?” Finn’s jaw dropped. “Uncle Billy didn’t mention anything about this being a paying gig.”

“It was all in the contract, but... it is. It isn’t much—around seventy—seventy-five grand after Billy takes his cut. I don’t know the official numbers—the Fed foods the bill. Chump change. Anyway, the job’s a cakewalk, kid. But there are a couple of tasks—the most important tasks—that you’re really here to help me with.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

Lars clapped his hands, rubbed them together with such enthusiasm he could have started a friction fire, then grinned. “Come with me and I’ll show you. It’ll only take a second, then I’ll help you set this... omni thing of yours up. You can use the living room for tonight. I’m about to hit the hay, but we can figure out a better setup in the morning.”

“Okay, okay.” Finn nodded. “I gotta say, this whole thing is turning out a lot better than I thought it would. But I don’t need your help to set up my rig, Mr. Ochre. I may be in a wheelchair, but I’m not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say you were,” said Lars, as a panicked expression spread across his face. “And I wouldn’t want to invalidate you.”

“Direwolf’s ears!” The kid rolled his eyes. “Talk about a critical failure…”

“What?”

“Nevermind. What is this super important task, anyway?”

“Kid, let’s just say that unlike you, I’m not above asking for a little help.”