More Than A Game (Epic LitRPG adventure)

Chapter 4: Fat Willie and his joke part 3

"Ha!" Willie's considerable girth jiggled with laughter. "People live in the game, and the people on top, live pretty well. Don't forget that you can exchange gold for real money—so there's an underground market and an aboveground market. Okay, tell me this, why do you think people kill other players? I mean, sure, there are some crazies running around, and plenty of assholes. But a lot of people PK to make money. You take out a player, and you get his clothes and everything else. Sure, there isn't much there, but hey, it's like Raskolnikov: 'Ten old ladies make a ruble.' You can sell it all for gold, and then exchange the gold for real money."

"So how many players do you have to kill?"

"PKers aren't really in any hurry. They get something from you, something from the next guy. And they hunt in groups of two or three, and, say, a group of three at Level 23-25 with normal gear can easily take out a Level 40 tank. And it isn't just the money; they get stuff they can auction off, too. So yeah, but that isn't all. You have no idea how much money changes hands in the clans...damn. And the better the clan, the more money there is going around, and the more you get from the clan, obviously."

"What do you get?"

"That you'll have to figure out on your own, my friend. Some things I won't even talk about with old schoolmates, not to mention in the game. Politics, you know? Drink your beer."

While we were talking, the NPC waitress brought over our beer and meat. Willie began pounding the bitter-smelling liquid by the liter, though I just sipped mine.

"Really, if you don't want to keep respawning, you'll need to join a clan," Willie continued through a full mouth. "Just make sure it's a good, strong clan. That way, PKers will know that killing you will bring the wrath of God down on them. The whole clan will blacklist them and hunt them across the entire continent. The only problem is that you can't get into a clan like that

"Why not?"

"Why the heck would they need you? A Level 6 tank. You're a dime a dozen in Fayroll. Only a noob clan would take you."

"A noob clan?"

"Yeah. Losers nobody needs make their own clan and stick around the starting locations or the Noobland exit to farm and attract more players. They say they're going to take the game by storm, everything's going to be great, they have a solid reputation and steel balls... Though really, they're just stroking their ego. 'Look at me, I'm a clan leader.' There's this one guy, Amendak, who runs a clan called the Great Fayroll Army. He's a clown. Gets a group together to build some kind of army. People last a day or two until they start wondering why they're paying to spend time with him, and then he goes back to Noobland to start over. Clown..."

"Can I join your clan? What's it called, by the way?"

"Messengers of the Wind, but you can't join. I'm getting up there in the clan, but we only take Level 45s and higher. Sometimes, we make exceptions, but only after a group vote or if the clan leader okays it personally. Oh, and only if you have something we need. That's even easy-going, though—the Gray Witch in Hounds of Death, for example, only accepts Level 60 and higher, and even then they're picky about who they let in. Drink!"

."

I downed a glass and saw the world around me grow a little fuzzier at the edges.

"So what should I do?"

"Keep leveling-up. Work on your abilities. Then, see what you can do. Oh, by the way, I have an offer for you. You're writing an article, right?"

"Yep."

"Mention my clan, say something about how friendly we are, how great it is."

"Why do you care?"

"First of all, a little PR never hurt anyone. Second, I'll give you 100 gold for your trouble. And third, once you get to Level 45, you'll have an ace up your sleeve that we won't forget. So what do you say?"

"Sounds good. And I have a request for you, too."

"Go for it."

"Don't tell anyone that I'm a journalist." I'm not sure why I asked that. Some kind of instinct deep inside me, and I trust my gut.

"Nobody here knows you anyway, but sure."

Fat Willie sent me 100 gold and raised his glass, "Let's drink to working together, and I'll teach you one last lesson!"

I drained my glass in one gulp and realized that I'd lost control of myself. I was a wooden doll, limited to the shortest of thoughts and seeing out of button eyes.

"And there's your last lesson," said Willie as he stepped toward my carcass on the floor. "Stay in control of yourself no matter what. This isn't the real world, where you can just go throw up and feel better. Now you won't be able to move for half an hour."

As if in confirmation of his words, a message appeared:

You're drunk as a sailor. Movement and articulate speech are limited for 10 to 30 minutes.

He rolled me up in a rug lying on the floor and stuck me under a bench near the window.

"Ah," he smiled cheerily as he walked out. "A fine joke! If you need anything, send me a message."

Hilarious, I thought, wrapped up and left in the corner. He was trying to get me drunk the whole time. I guess he's spent time boosting his alcohol tolerance!

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