The night I kicked the bucket was the night everything went to hell... literally. Though, let’s be real, my life was already a dumpster fire long before that. I mean, I was shacking up in a flophouse in Brentwood, Washington, that was so cramped, even the cockroaches were claustrophobic. The rats had a timeshare agreement with the mold, the faucet leaked like a mob informant, and I’m pretty sure the green sludge oozing from the walls was plotting world domination. But hey, it kept the rain off my head. Mostly.

Not that I spent much time in that dilapidated den of despair. Nah, I was too busy holding up the bar at every seedy watering hole in town. The kind of joints where the booze was cheaper than the toilet paper, the glasses had more fingerprints than a crime scene, and misery hung in the air like cheap perfume. I’d perch my ass on a stool that had seen better decades, knock back rotgut whiskey until my liver cried uncle, and hope the bartender would forget to cut me off before I drowned in my own sorrows.

My home away from hovel was a classy establishment called the Broken Jockstrap. Or was it the Losers’ Lounge? The Bad Call Bar? Eh, who cares. It was a sports bar in the same way a porta-potty is a luxury spa. The TV was always tuned to some podunk college game nobody watched, the air smelled like stale beer and broken dreams, and the regulars looked like they’d been ridden hard and put away wet. But hey, it beat drinking alone. Usually.

“Another round, Kadey-boy?” Hank, the bartender, asked as he wiped the counter with a rag that probably doubled as a petri dish. Hank was so old, he made dust look youthful, with a face like a catcher’s mitt and the cheery disposition of a man who’d long since given up.

I glanced at my empty glass, the ice cubes melting faster than my prospects. “Hit me, Hank. I’m still too sober to find my reflection charming.”

Hank poured a shot of whiskey that could strip paint and slid it my way. He eyed my mangled knuckles, courtesy of my latest cage match down at the docks. Picture Fight Club meets Hobo Thunderdome. It paid the bills. And the bar tabs.

“Christ, Kade. You look like ten miles of rough road,” Hank said, shaking his head. “Maybe find a hobby that don’t involve getting your brain scrambled?”

I shrugged. “Why mess with a winning formula? Besides, chicks dig scars. I’m building a collection.”

Hank snorted. “Gonna be a closed casket if you keep this up, kid.”

I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to making an attractive corpse, then.”

I tossed back the whiskey, savoring the burn. Fuck it, I thought, downing the rest of my drink. Time to blow this joint.

“See ya, Hank,” I waved as I staggered away from the bar, stumbling toward the door.

“You want me to call you a cab, Kade?” Hank asked. “Probably not safe for you to be walking home this time of night.”

I waved him off. “Ah, I’m alright, Hank. Air will do me good.”

“Your funeral, buddy.”

I stumbled out of the bar, the frigid night air bitch-slapping me sober. Or at least, as close to sober as I got these days. Zipping up my trusty leather jacket—the only thing in my life that hadn’t let me down yet—I lurched toward my apartment. A whopping two blocks away. Might as well have been a marathon with the way my body was screaming.

My ribs felt like they were playing xylophone with my lungs, and my legs were staging a mutiny. Courtesy of tonight’s cage match. The other guy was a behemoth, a regular Bigfoot in boxing shorts. Fucker had legs like tree trunks and kicks that could put a mule to shame. But I showed him. Took the bastard down and rearranged his face like a Picasso painting. By the time they peeled me off him, he looked like ground chuck. Crowd ate it up. Bunch of bloodthirsty savages. Some even had the nerve to boo me for not straight-up murdering the dude.

Jesus Christ, I thought as I weaved down the sidewalk. When did my life become this three-ring shitshow? Twenty-seven years young and I’m already a washed-up prizefighter with a liver pickled in cheap booze.

Dear ol’ dad would be proud. If he wasn’t already six feet under from drowning in a bottle himself. Apple didn’t fall far from that rotting tree.

Hard to believe I once had prospects. Went to college and everything. Then I quit. Could’ve been a hotshot lawyer like my sister. But life happened. Scratch that, death happened. Mom kicked it, then Dad. Amelia weathered the shitstorm. I drowned in it.

Now here I was, just another cautionary tale. The punch-drunk could’ve been. A walking, talking PSA on how not to fuck up your life.

But hey, at least I can take a punch. And a kick. And a chair to the face. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Right?

My phone rang inside my jacket pocket. Pulling it out, I sighed when I saw who it was. “Speak of the devil,” I mumbled before answering. “Hey, sis. Bit late for phoning, don’t you think?”

“Kade?” Amelia sounded concerned, as always. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Nowhere. Heading home.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Drunk? I wouldn’t really say—”

“You’re drunk. What did I tell you about getting a cab? You can’t be walking home alone in that shithole neighborhood, Kade. It’s dangerous.”

“Some people would say I’m dangerous, sis.”

“Only to yourself, Kade.”

“Touché, sis. Touché.”

“Why don’t I sent a car to pick you up? You can stay at my place tonight. At least my heating works.”

I chuckled. “What, and deprive the rats and roaches of my company? They’d be heartbroken. Besides, someone’s gotta keep the mold from getting lonely. I think it’s starting to spell out ‘REDRUM’ on the bathroom wall.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“You’re not funny, Kade. Tell me where you are and I’ll send an Uber.” She paused, then asked: “Where you fighting tonight?”

“If you can call getting pummeled by a man mountain ‘fighting,’ then yeah, I was. I still won, though.”

“Jesus, Kade. Are you hurt?”

My body screamed yes, fucking A right I’m hurt, but my mouth said something different. “A little. The usual. I’ll be fine in a day or so, once I stop pissing blood.”

“Fuck, Kade. You’re pissing blood?”

“A little. The whiskey dilutes it, though, so it’s not so bad. It just looks like someone dumped a bunch of strawberry Kool-Aid in the toilet bowl. Or like I’m peeing out the aftermath of a really wild party at Dracula’s castle.”

A long suffering sigh sounded down the phone. “What the hell am I going to do with you, Kade?”

Her tone got to me, the one that conveyed her disappointment in her fuck up of a younger brother, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out: “Not a damn thing, Amelia, because you’re not my mom, for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay, you know what? Fuck you, Kade. Piss your life away, see if I care.”

“Amelia—”

“Goodbye, Kade.”

The line went dead and I stood there shaking my head, suddenly feeling like the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth. “Nice going, Kade. Nice fucking going.”

As I shoved my phone back in my pocket, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the night like a banshee with a megaphone. Sounded like a damsel in distress, and it was coming from the alley up ahead.

Being the gallant knight in shining armor that I was—or maybe just the idiot with a savior complex—I hustled toward the sound, ready to play hero. I squinted into the sketchy alleyway, trying to make out what fresh hell was unfolding.

At first, all I could hear was the telltale soundtrack of a struggle—grunts, scuffling, and the dull thud of bodies slamming against hard surfaces. Then, the damsel in distress piped up again.

“Please, no! Stop! Someone help me!”

Well, shit. Sounded like some poor woman was in a bad way. Probably getting mugged. Or worse. Time for me to step up and be the hero nobody asked for.

I charged into the alley like a white knight with a drinking problem, fists clenched and ready to rumble. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I spotted the culprit—a hulking brute of a man pinning a terrified woman against the wall, his meaty paw clamped over her mouth.

“Hey, asshole!” I barked, my voice bouncing off the brick walls. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

The meathead wheeled around, startled by my sudden cameo. The woman, sensing her chance, went full Hannibal Lecter and chomped down on his hand like it was a Happy Meal. He yelped, snatching his hand back.

“Help me!” the woman shrieked, her voice raw with terror. “Please, help me!”

I didn’t need any more motivation. I barreled toward the scumbag, high on adrenaline and that hero complex I mentioned earlier. Sure, I was a washed-up drunk with more issues than National Geographic, but I’d be damned if I was gonna stand by and watch this creep get his jollies.

The assailant turned to face me, sizing me up like I was a Happy Meal myself. He was built like a brick shithouse, with biceps that probably had their own zip code.

But hey, I’d tangled with my fair share of meatheads in the cage. I wasn’t about to puss out now, not with a woman’s safety on the line.

I unleashed my patented right hook, connecting with his glass jaw in a satisfying crunch. He stumbled back, clearly not expecting a knuckle sandwich from yours truly. I followed up with a few more love taps to his ugly mug, proving chivalry wasn’t dead, just drunk and disorderly.

“Run!” I yelled to the woman, keeping my eyes locked on the human dumpster fire in front of me. “Get the hell outta here!”

She didn’t need a written invitation. She sprinted like Usain Bolt in heels, her footsteps fading into the night.

I turned back to the wannabe tough guy, who was dabbing at his bloody lip like a Southern belle with the vapors. He shot me a look that could curdle milk.

“Big mistake, shithead,” I growled, channeling my inner Dirty Harry. “I’m about to teach you a lesson in manners you won’t soon forget.”

To my surprise, the assclown actually laughed. A nasty, mirthless sound that set my teeth on edge. “Looks like we got ourselves a regular Captain Save-a-Ho,” he sneered. “Too bad you picked the wrong damsel to rescue, hero.”

Before I could fire off a witty retort, he whipped out a pistol from the back of his pants. The business end was pointed right at my chest, ready to punch my ticket to the great beyond.

“Shoulda minded your own damn business,” he snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Two deafening bangs later, I was doing my best impression of Swiss cheese, collapsing to the grimy pavement like a sack of shit. White-hot pain blossomed in my chest as I lay there, wheezing like a punctured tire.

“Enjoy the afterlife, asshole,” the gunman grunted as he stepped over me, his heavy footsteps echoing into the night. “I hear it’s a blast.”

As the blood pooled beneath me and my vision started to fade, a strange sense of peace washed over me. So this was how I was gonna punch out. Not in a blaze of glory, but in some piss-soaked back alley after playing the gallant hero. Fucking typical.

I wanted to laugh at the cosmic joke that was my life, but breathing was getting harder by the second. Instead, my thoughts drifted to Amelia.

Sorry, sis. I should’ve taken that ride you offered…

As the darkness closed in around me, I felt a strange sensation of weightlessness, as if my body was being lifted off the ground. The pain in my chest faded away, replaced by a numbness that spread through my entire being.

Then, out of nowhere, a holographic human face materialized before me, glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light.

What the fuck is this shit? Some post death hallucination? An angel maybe?

A voice spoke.

“Greetings, human known as ‘Kade Dalton.’ I am Aeon, a duly appointed representative of the Nyxarion Afterlife Management Bureau. Your mortal existence has been terminated, and your soul has been acquired for processing.”

The voice was crisp, professional, and utterly devoid of emotion. It sounded like a cosmic call center agent, following a script that had been honed over countless millennia.

“As per standard operating procedure, your soul has been scanned and evaluated against the Bureau’s established criteria for post-mortal placement. Based on your data profile, you have been assigned to the Infernum Reclamation Program, colloquially known as the ‘Trials of the Damned.’”

“Wait, what?” I stammered, my mind reeling from the onslaught of information. “What do you mean, ‘Trials of the Damned?’ I don’t understand any of this!”

“Your confusion is understandable and, indeed, quite common among newly acquired souls,” Aeon replied, its tone never wavering from its professional cadence. “The Trials of the Damned are a comprehensive evaluation and rehabilitation program designed by the Zyrathi—better known as the Overseers—to assess and potentially reclaim souls that have failed to meet the standard criteria for ascension to higher realms.”

“What? I don’t understand—”

“As a participant in the Trials, you will be transported to the planet Infernum, where you will face a series of challenges and tribulations designed to test your mettle, your resolve, and your potential for redemption. Should you successfully complete the Trials, your soul may be considered for reevaluation and possible reassignment.”

“And if I fail?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Failure to complete the Trials will result in the permanent consignment of your soul to Infernum, where it will be repurposed to serve the Overseers’ greater cosmic agenda. The details of this repurposing are classified and, in any case, not relevant to your immediate situation.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to demand more answers, but Aeon continued on, unperturbed.

“Now, as per Bureau guidelines, I am required to inform you that your participation in the Trials is mandatory and non-negotiable. You will be provided with a standard issue Damned Soul Interface, which will allow you to track your progress, manage your acquired skills and abilities, and receive directives from the System AI as necessary.”

A small, glowing orb materialized in front of me, pulsing with an ominous red light.

“Please prepare for immediate transport to Infernum. Upon arrival, you will be given further instructions by your designated handler. The Overseers wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, human known as ‘Kade Dalton.’ Remember, your eternal fate rests in your own hands.”