《The Castaway Game: a (Comedy) Survival LitRPG》 CHAPTER 1: Washed Up In the world of professional mascots, there¡¯s one truth you can count on: people love partying with someone in a ridiculous costume. Doesn¡¯t matter if you¡¯re a bat-swinging bear hyping up a minor league crowd or a six-foot-tall dollar bill shaking your felt ass outside a payday loan spot in a strip mall. The second you¡¯re in costume, folks will do whatever it takes to pull you out of your assigned spot and into their world, even if it¡¯s just for one night. They¡¯ll load you up with booze and drugs like it¡¯s candy on Halloween, hoping your goofy, googly-eyed presence will turn their boring, nothing-special night into a legend they¡¯ll retell for years. For that reason, mascots are kind of like gods. Dumb, fuzzy, lovable gods. But gods can fall, and when they do, it¡¯s never graceful. Usually, they wake up in strange places, surrounded by stranger regrets, wondering where it all went sideways. This is the story of one such god ¡ª a man who once stood tall among the greats, before tumbling harder than anyone else in the game. His name is Russell Murphy, professional mascot.
Russell¡¯s first thought was he¡¯d pissed himself. The warm, damp feeling spreading across his lower half told him as much, and it wasn¡¯t like this would be a first. Three, (maybe four) times before, he¡¯d woken up in a similar state after a night of heavy drinking. Enough times, anyway, to know it could happen again. So yeah, it wasn¡¯t a stretch to figure he¡¯d done it once more. The pounding in his head backed up the theory. It felt like he¡¯d done enough drinking to kill a lesser man, but that was all he had to go on because he couldn¡¯t remember a damn thing. He stayed where he was, eyes shut tight, not ready to face whatever sorry reality awaited him, piss-soaked or otherwise. Instead, he let his ears take over, tuning into the world beyond his eyelids. The sounds told a story, and Russell wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to hear it. Soft splashes, a slow, rhythmic whooshing ¡ª waves? Yeah, that had to be it. They gently crashed against him, soaking him from toes to belly. Russell listened, waiting for the sound of an angry roommate or a pissed-off client telling him he was fired. But no, nothing like that. Just the waves, peaceful and calm, doing their thing. Was this¡­ a beach? Russell let out a groggy sigh as another wave rolled up and over him, cool water soothing the aches and pains that seemed to have claimed every inch of his body. What the hell did I get into last night? The thought flickered for a moment before he snuffed it out. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for an interrogation, least of all from himself. He decided he¡¯d sleep this one off instead, ignoring everything except the breeze on his back and the sand cradling his face. But the beach wasn¡¯t about to let him off that easy. The waves grew restless, rolling higher and harder until one broke over him like a wet slap, blasting his entire body with a frothy deluge. WHOOSH! ¡°Ack!¡± Russell flopped onto his back, hacking up saltwater and sand. His eyes cracked open just enough to catch the midday sun blazing overhead, a nuclear spotlight frying his brain. Jesus Christ. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a hoarse croak. ¡°Holy¡­ god.¡± Rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand didn¡¯t help much. His nerves lit up with fresh pain as soon as he applied the slightest pressure, a sharp reminder that this wasn¡¯t just a regular hangover ¡ª it was the BIG DADDY of hangovers. He braced himself and propped up on his elbows, groaning at the effort. He felt bad, sure, but looking down, he somehow managed to look worse. The first thing Russell noticed ¡ª and to be clear, it was the first thing anybody would have noticed ¡ª was the ridiculously oversized pair of purple, shaggy-haired leggings clinging to his lower half. He pulled at the suspenders that kept the leggings secure. They¡¯d carved out two pale, vertical lines on his otherwise savagely sunburned chest. ¡°Fuckin¡¯ figures,¡± Russell said. Mascot gear, at least half of one. He couldn''t remember what the full costume actually was (or where the top half was), but thanks to his striped sunburn, he most certainly looked like a clown. Last night was clearly a disaster, but he''d made a career out of those. So why couldn¡¯t he remember this one? With all the finesse of a beached manatee, he rolled onto his side. His beer gut flopped out from under the suspenders as he pushed himself upright, sand sticking to his sweaty skin. From a distance, with the waves rolling over his half-purple body, he probably looked like some sad, washed-up mermaid auditioning for the world¡¯s worst calendar shoot. He scanned the beach, grateful to see no one around to witness the spectacle. And what a beach it was. The place was a computer screensaver, the kind of paradise people maxed out their credit cards to visit. White sand swept smooth by the tide, scattered with a few shells and sticks. The ocean shimmered like polished glass, fading from crystal blue near the shore to an ominous navy in the distance. Further yet, massive cliffs jutted from the water, sheer rock faces patched with greenery, like giant¡¯s fingers clawing their way up from the sea. Dozens of them, scattered across the horizon. Alien world? Russell thought. Nah. Maybe Asia. Then he shook his head. Didn¡¯t matter. He had bigger problems, like getting himself up and figuring out where the hell he was. He started to move but hesitated. He felt the weight of it before he actually saw it. There on his left arm, attached around his wrist, a device. ¡°The hell is this?¡± Russell asked himself. The device was a wrist-mounted display without any sort of bells and whistles. A screen without buttons, about the size of a tablet. It was a sleek-looking piece of tech, visibly unfazed by the water or the sand. Russell tapped at the black screen, waiting for it to spring to life, maybe tell him why the hell it was strapped to his arm. Nothing. His fingers slapped the thing a few more times, but still, dead. Shit, maybe the water had fried it. He frowned, not really caring what it was but already sure of one thing: he wasn¡¯t paying for it. If there was one rule Russell lived by, it was not taking responsibility for things he didn¡¯t remember doing. It¡¯d saved his ass plenty of times, even if it cost him a few friends along the way. If he¡¯d grabbed and broken this device during his blackout, as far as he was concerned, it had nothing to do with him. Best to figure out how to ditch it and call it a day. He studied the band that wrapped the device to his wrist. A perfect fit. Too perfect. Without a clasp or a buckle to be seen, Russell yanked at the thing, hoping to rip it loose and toss it into the ocean before the owner of the fancy toy came looking for it. The thick, rubbery band flexed against his prying fingers, but it was too well-made for Russell to do any real damage to it. It wasn¡¯t going anywhere. ¡°God damn fuckin¡¯ thing¡­¡± Russell muttered, defeated. He¡¯d have to lug the device around with him, for now. Russell stood, noting how much pain vibrated through his body with every exertion. This wasn¡¯t just a hangover, it felt like someone had worked him over with a baseball bat. Was he in a fight? Wouldn¡¯t be the first time, and he usually lost those. Still, if there was any good news, it was that he had to pee, which meant he hadn¡¯t pissed himself like those other three (maybe four) times.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Russell shuffled toward the treeline, grateful for the cool shade as the jungle crept onto the beach. He made for the nearest tree, a skinny palm standing at the line where the sand met the grass. It wasn¡¯t much, just a spindly thing with a trunk about as thick as his arm, sagging under the weight of its fronds. But it¡¯d do. He grabbed hold of the trunk, his hand wrapping almost all the way around it, and leaned his weight against the tree. With a grunt, he reached down, yanked his junk free from the ridiculous mascot bottoms, and started pissing into the brush. No underwear, of course. He wasn¡¯t even surprised. Commando in a mascot suit, he thought. The company probably had rules against that. Hell, maybe it didn¡¯t even need to be in writing ¡ª just common sense. Whatever. He shut his eyes and let himself focus on the only relief he¡¯d felt all day. As the stream hit the thirsty vegetation, Russell glanced at his hand gripping the tree. The device on his wrist caught his eye, its blank screen flashing a warped reflection of his sorry face. He squinted, studying the man staring back at him, a man who looked like he¡¯d gone a few rounds with a brick wall and lost. Cuts and bruises mapped out a journey of bad luck, most of it on the right side of his face. A black eye stared back at him, and above it, a swollen lump on his temple. Holy hell, he thought. Did I actually get hit with a baseball bat? He turned his head for a better look. Damn. Half of a ping-pong ball was swelling out of his face ¡ª yeah, he¡¯d definitely slammed into something hard. Or something slammed hard into him. Curiosity got the best of him. He had to poke it, you know, for science. Still mid-piss, Russell reached up, slowly, finger inching closer to the lump. Closer¡­ and closer. Just a fingernail away when¡ª THUD! Russell glanced down at the thing that had just crashed into the sand a few feet from his steady stream. A rock, sitting in a fresh crater. Small enough to throw, big enough to do some serious damage if it had hit him. He frowned. Where the hell did that come from? Still holding onto the palm for balance, Russell leaned out and peered into the jungle. All he saw at first was a thick wall of green ¡ª no paths, no clearings, just tangled vines and trees packed so tight they looked like they were fighting for territory. The jungle didn¡¯t grow so much as it loomed, dark and forbidding, like the setting for some B-movie horror flick. Russell squinted, trying to push past the pounding in his skull. There, barely visible through the foliage, he saw something ¡ª a shape. Small, tan, and completely buck naked. A man. Or maybe just a shadow, until it moved. The guy reared back with something in his hand, and then another rock came sailing out of the jungle, right for Russell¡¯s face. ¡°Oh shit!¡± Russell yelped, ducking behind the skinny palm. It was pathetic cover, but it saved him from a direct hit. THUNK! The rock slammed into the tree, the impact rattling the trunk like a bell. Russell collapsed at its base, bracing for the next attack. But nothing came. A beat passed, then another. Carefully, he edged his head around the trunk, like some green recruit peeking over a trench. The jungle stared back at him, all shadows and silence. No movement, no sign of the naked rock-thrower. ¡°Take it easy!¡± Russell called out, his voice a gravel pit. ¡°If this is private property, I¡¯m sorry ¡ª I¡¯ll leave.¡± He stayed crouched, scanning the wall of tangled green for any trace of the attacker. Nothing. Just the eerie, buzzing quiet of the jungle. Where the hell had they gone? Or had there even been anyone at all? Russell swore he¡¯d seen a man, a small one, but now he wasn¡¯t so sure. Maybe it wasn¡¯t a man. Maybe it was a monkey. Or worse, maybe he wasn¡¯t even on Earth. What if this was an alien world, and these rock-throwing bastards were the locals? The booze and heat were cooking his brain, stirring up wild thoughts. ¡°Look, I lost my phone¡­ and pretty much everything else,¡± he tried again, his words half a plea, half a grumble. ¡°Maybe you could call me a cab or just point me to¡ª¡± WHAP! Another projectile whizzed through the air and cracked him right on the bony top of his foot. Russell¡¯s howl rang out over the beach, equal parts pain and disbelief. ¡°AHH! Son of a bitch!¡± He cradled his throbbing foot, rocking back and forth, while the jungle, as always, said nothing. ¡°STOP THROWING SHIT! I¡¯M LEAVING!¡± Russell screamed. After a moment, he received his response: another assault of rocks, thundering down around him. THUNK! THUNK-THUNK! THUNK! This wasn¡¯t just one guy throwing rocks anymore ¡ª the hits were coming too fast. But was it even an attack? The projectiles weren¡¯t flying out of the jungle now; he¡¯d been staring right into the green when the last one nailed his foot. Which meant they were coming from¡­ Russell squinted up at the trembling palm fronds above him. That rock-throwing bastard must¡¯ve rattled the tree hard enough to set off a coconut rainstorm. If he wasn¡¯t so goddamn hungover, maybe he¡¯d have rolled out of the way, out of the overhead assault. But Russell¡¯s head was fogged and already pretty battered. All he managed to do was throw his arms over himself as coconuts thudded around him. Lying there in the warm, damp sand, coconuts bouncing off him, all he could think was how much he wished he''d finished peeing before this whole mess started. Because now, thanks to the rock-throwing asshole, he had officially pissed himself. Fourth (maybe fifth) time, finally in the books. Russell¡¯s anger hit a boiling point as the coconut barrage finally let up. He swung around the tree and jabbed an accusatory finger towards the jungle, slinging his verbal venom. ¡°You made your damn point! I hope you had a nice laugh screwing with me, but now you better get me a goddamn phone so I can get the hell outta here. And water, too! Otherwise, you¡¯re gonna have to call the cops because I¡¯m claiming squatter¡¯s rights over your pretty little beach, bitch! This is MY beach now!¡± He turned back around, still sitting in his own piss, staring out at the ocean, his body was alive with adrenaline. He could literally feel it, pulsing through his skin, crawling across his body. He wasn¡¯t done screaming into the green void ¡ª not yet. So he swung around for a second round. ¡°And another thing. If you¡¯re actually a monkey or some shit, I¡¯m telling you right now ¡ª I ain¡¯t the one! Since I was twelve years old, I¡¯ve thought through the many different scenarios in which I¡¯d have to defeat a monkey in hand-to-hand combat. I am PREPARED. You made me piss myself motherfucker, I WILL WRECK YOU.¡± It felt good, at least in his head, to release all that pent-up rage. But the prickling under his skin, what he believed to be adrenaline, didn¡¯t fade. In fact it had grown even stronger. What the hell was happening to him? Russell glanced down, and his eyes went wide and his throat turned sandpaper. You couldn¡¯t really blame Russell for thinking what fell from the tree were coconuts. Anyone would¡¯ve thought the same. But today wasn¡¯t Russell¡¯s day ¡ª it hadn¡¯t been his year if he was being honest, but right now? This wasn¡¯t even close to being his day. A dozen fist-sized crabs were crawling all over him, poking and prodding with their sharp little claws. They scuttled across his belly, his arms, his chest, and when they found a nice juicy bit of meat, they dug in, looking to tear themselves off a piece. One by one, the crabs pinched down with hellish force, turning Russell into a human pincushion. Like most moments of violent chaos, the seconds that followed were a blur, but it happened quick and there was lots of screaming. Russell was up, fumble-footing down the beach and flinging crabs from his flesh like a strip club regular tossing dollar bills at the stage. Each crab he managed to pry loose, another would grab hold of him somewhere else on his upper body. He must¡¯ve cleared twenty yards, running as best he could in his ridiculous costume, until he collapsed into a gasping, whimpering heap. One final crab clung to one of his suspenders, and with a final yank, Russell tossed it aside. It was over. He glanced down at the sand, at the crabs ¡ª some orange, some red, all assholes. They¡¯d stopped coming at him, just milling around like tiny drunkards shaking off a bar fight. For a second, maybe two, it looked like he¡¯d won. Then he felt it, claws prodding in a place no man wants to be pinched. He let out a little sound, half gasp, half whimper, as the realization hit him. The fight wasn¡¯t over. Not by a long shot. ¡°No!¡± His voice cracked with panic. ¡°No, please!¡± He sounded like a kid who got caught stealing a porno magazine, but he didn¡¯t care. In this moment, everything was on the line. Deep within the mascot bottoms, the crab that remained was making itself at home in the warmth of his crotch, poking around Russell¡¯s most tender bits. ¡°Nononononono!¡± To hesitate would¡¯ve been worse than death. Maybe not death exactly, but to a guy like Russell ¡ª hell, to any guy ¡ª a life with a pinched-off prick wasn¡¯t worth living. Could the crab even manage that? Probably not. But the thought alone was enough to kick him into action. In one swift, desperate move, Russell reached down, grabbed the intruder from between his precious pieces, and yanked it into the sunlight. This crab wasn¡¯t like the others ¡ª its shell was a shiny gold that caught the sun and gleamed like treasure. A trophy. He held it high in his device-strapped hand, victorious, like some barbarian showing off a severed head. ¡°Fuck you, crab,¡± he said, shoving a middle finger in its face for emphasis. ¡°You¡¯re not dining on my dick tonight.¡± For a glorious moment, relief washed over him ¡ª the kind of relief only a man who¡¯s narrowly avoided ancestral calamity can know. Then the pain hit, hard, like a sledgehammer to the nerves. Russell dropped to his knees, groaning. The thing in his hand wasn¡¯t finished yet. It twisted, and then with both of its golden pincers clamped down on Russell¡¯s middle finger. ¡°Jesus fuck!¡± Russell yelled, shaking his hand as the crab hung on tight, its pincers digging in deeper to his middle finger, as if to say, No sir, FUCK YOU. ¡°AHHHHH OWOWOWOWOW FUCK OW!¡± Russell howled, shaking his hand like a man possessed, desperate to fling the golden bastard loose. But the crab had chosen violence, and it would have it. The harder Russell shook, the tighter the pincers bit down, until the pain in his finger wiped everything else clean. No hangover, no sunburn, no bruises ¡ª just a hot, blinding ache that shot up his arm and poured over the rest of him. With no better ideas, Russell stretched his arm out and spun on his heels like a third-string shot-putter. One spin, two spins ¡ª he built speed with every turn until he felt the dizzying pull of momentum. On the fourth spin, he snapped his arm forward and let it fly. ¡°BEGONE, CROTCH GOBLIN!¡± he bellowed, flinging the crab into the ocean shallows. Russell stood there, breathless, watching as the little golden demon skipped across the water¡¯s surface, once, twice, three times, before it was swallowed whole by an incoming wave. Gone. Done. To the depths with ye. Good fucking riddance. He looked down at his hand, hoping for some kind of cosmic reward, but instead he found the crab¡¯s parting gift. There, still latched onto his middle finger, was the severed claw, clinging to his cracked nail like it had a personal vendetta. Russell growled, grabbed the thing with his other hand, and yanked it free, flicking it into the sand. ¡°Serves you right,¡± he said, his voice bitter and raspy, but then he laughed, just a little. His finger throbbed, and the rest of him wasn¡¯t doing much better, but he couldn¡¯t help it ¡ª he¡¯d won. He straightened up, looking out at the ocean, at the jagged cliff-islands in the distance, and felt the smallest flicker of confidence. One win down. Maybe there¡¯d be more. Then, slicing through the sound of the waves, a voice rang out, clear and sharp.
"Congrats! You''re not dead!"
Russell froze, head snapping around to look for the source. The voice didn¡¯t come from the jungle or further down the beach. It was close. Real close. His pulse quickened, and that¡¯s when it hit him ¡ª the source wasn¡¯t out there. It was on him. Russell raised the device on his arm. Hot damn. The screen was alive with activity. CHAPTER 2: Youve got SPUNK!
¡°Congrats, you¡¯re not dead!¡±
The voice coming from the device was annoyingly chipper. Frustrated and aching, Russell responded. ¡°Hello? Yeah, look, I need some help. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going¡ª¡° The voice kept rolling.
¡°Feels awesome, right? A second chance at life. The opportunity to become the best YOU you can be.¡±
¡°Listen, things are pretty fuzzy right now. And I was just in a precarious situation, penis-wise, so I¡¯d like some¡ª"
¡°On the island, the game of life is made real. It¡¯s the perfect stage for you to leave the Ls of your past behind and start stacking up the Ws.¡±
Russell rubbed at his eyebrows. The device was testing his already limited patience. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re not hearing me: My head is bleeding. A crab tried to pinch my dick. HELP ME.¡±
¡°But to become the best you you can be, you¡¯ll need to lose the you of yesterday. You¡¯ll need to take on a new role, play a new part in your own story. And you¡¯ll need to learn to survive.¡±
¡°This is a recording, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m talking to a goddamn reco¡ª¡±
"Listen to the words I am saying. New role¡­ play a new part¡­ the game of life made real. Welcome to the greatest role-playing game ever made! And with every good RPG, you¡¯ll need stats.¡±
Russell knew it was a recording, but he really didn¡¯t care. ¡°Dude, what are you talking about?¡± At the top of the screen, the word ¡°SPUNK¡± appeared on a tab, along with other menu options that were greyed out. The word SPUNK blinked at him, practically begging to be pressed. So Russell did just that. When the tab opened, he was greeted by an image that made him physically cringe. It took up the right half of the screen ¡ª a picture of himself, and definitely not the kind of photo your mother would frame to put on the wall. There he was, slouched against his beat-up car in the parking lot of some dingy convention center, still wearing half of a mascot costume from a job that had gone terribly. It was a catfish costume, the big fish-head was pushed up above Russell¡¯s own head so he could smoke a cigarette, felt fins awkwardly dangling over his exposed arms. He looked every bit as miserable as he remembered feeling that day. ¡°How the hell did you get that picture?¡± Russell asked, knowing full well there¡¯d be no answer. To the left of the image, text started to fill the screen. Russell leaned in with growing curiosity.
¡°For several months we¡¯ve been assessing your skills and quirks to define your base attributes, what we call SPUNK. Your SPUNK is as follows:
SWAGGER: 6 POWER: 3 UTILITY: 5 NERVE: 7 KNOW-HOW: 3
Your SPUNK score is fundamental to your success and more immediately, your survival. Play to your strengths. From these humble beginnings, learn to not only survive the island, but thrive.
Your current Level is 1. A perfect runway of opportunity. Levels are gained through acts of BADASSERY. Gain your first level and we¡¯ll speak again.
Remember: Your arrival is my gift, but success is up to you. However, I have many more gifts to offer ¡ª for those who can _HACK IT.¡±
Just as abruptly as it had started to play, the message ended. Along the top menu, a new ¡°LOG¡± tab appeared with a little plus-sign next to it, but Russell was too focused on all this SPUNK nonsense to look away. ¡®For several months, we¡¯ve been assessing your skill¡­¡¯ The thought of it frustrated Russell to no end. They¡¯ve been watching me? Yeah fuckin¡¯ right. Russell tried to take in all the info on the screen ¡ª stats about him, laid out like he was some kind of pro athlete with percentages, or a criminal with a record of attempted murders. No, it wasn¡¯t even that straightforward. These stats were vague as hell, as far as he could tell. Russell wasn¡¯t much of a gamer, but his roommate Wayne? The guy never did anything else. On the days when Russell had nothing going on (which was embarrassingly often for a 32-year-old), he¡¯d plop down on the couch next to Wayne and watch him dive into the digital realms of his favorite fantasy game, Big-tittied Warrior Woman Saves the Day. Alright, that wasn¡¯t what the game was called ¡ª Russell could never remember it. All he knew was Wayne had a serious thing for games where the main character was a big-tittied badass. One night, after a few beers, Russell finally asked the question that had been nagging at him. ¡°Why are all your characters always these half-naked chicks with giant swords?¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Wayne, with the casual indifference of a guy who¡¯s answered this question before, explained that these games ¡ª what he called ¡°role-playing games¡± ¡ª let you create any character that you wanted. You could be some old wizard, frying the end of his long, white beard with fireballs, or a sneaky little rat-man, lifting people¡¯s coin-purses right off their belts. The looks didn¡¯t matter, you could be whoever you wanted to be ¡ª Wayne just liked his characters big, beautiful, and barely dressed. What really mattered was the stats. Wayne spent the rest of the night indulging Russell¡¯s curiosity. He cranked out half a dozen characters, all with the same basic look: hot women in barely-there outfits. But Inside those scantily-clad frames, the classes were what defined them. Warrior women, tough enough to take a war-hammer to the gut. Spear-maidens who fought like dancers, slicing through enemies with moves that came with a side of poorly-written innuendo. Then there were the spell-slinging, blonde-haired bombshells, using fire and ice to turn their foes into toast or popsicles, depending on their mood. Yes, Wayne most definitely had a type. Russell wasn¡¯t even mad about it. If anything, he was hooked, more fascinated by the mechanics beneath the beauty. He had no idea video games could run this deep, could feel this immersive. But then, feeling more bonded to his roommate than ever before, Wayne began to tell Russell about some modifications he downloaded from the internet that took the game¡¯s ¡°immersion¡± to the next level ¡ª essentially turning the fantasy world into his own goddamn harem. It was around that time that Russell excused himself and went to the bar. Looking down at the stats on the screen, Russell felt a flicker of that same curiosity he''d felt watching Wayne build his buxom characters. But this time, instead of clear-cut attributes like strength or intelligence, he was staring at something more open to interpretation. And these stats, while abstract, felt like a strange version of what made Russell, well, Russell. SWAGGER: 6 POWER: 3 UTILITY: 5 NERVE: 7 KNOW-HOW: 3 But if he was reading the stats correctly, he was neither a powerful warrior nor a wise wizard. In fact, it would appear he was kind of an idiot. A weak idiot at that. Both his POWER and KNOW-HOW, what he figured represented strength and intelligence, were his lowest attributes. As if his ego hadn¡¯t taken enough of a beating already, now he had hard numbers to back it up. His UTILITY was smack in the middle, which he figured wasn¡¯t bad ¡ª assuming the scale was zero to ten (if it was out of 100, well, then he was screwed). Utility seemed like the vaguest stat of the bunch, but he guessed it had to do with resourcefulness, problem-solving, maybe how well he could handle the world around him. If it had anything to do with the number of times he¡¯d locked himself out of his own car and had to crawl through the trunk just to get back in, a five felt about right. After all, he was the idiot who locked himself out in the first place. Russell clicked his tongue, furrowing his brow as he tried to dig for a silver lining. His SWAGGER was high, at least. that had to count for something, right? On instinct, he figured Swagger meant charisma. Whether that was based around his ability to connect with people or con them, who knew. He felt his number should be higher, on both counts ¡ª not that so-called ¡°Swagger¡± seemed like it was going to do him a lick of good around here. Russell stared out at the ocean, past the alien-looking cliff-islands to an endless horizon that stretched into nothing. He might as well be on the moon. ¡°Lotta good my gift of gab does me on a desert-fucking-island. Otherwise I¡¯m just a smooth-talking, dumb-fuck weakling.¡± His highest stat was NERVE, and Russell felt that deep down. He¡¯d made his living inside big, ridiculous costumes, sweating bullets and breathing in his own recycled air. Out of shape? No doubt. But stamina? His tank rarely ran out of gas. And for the last fifteen years, he¡¯d dragged himself out of bed every day, chasing down gigs, sure-things, and dreams that led to nothing but dead-ends and "better luck next times." Sure, half of those failures were his own damn fault, but he still showed up, kept pushing forward. Russell glanced at the many red pinch-marks across his sunburned skin, then at the mysterious device strapped to his wrist, and let out a dry chuckle. Yeah, if Nerve measured how much bullshit a guy could take and still keep chuggin¡¯, it made sense that it was his strongest trait. There on the beach, Russell had a rare moment of introspection. A pause to actually look inward at the bizarre series of events that led him here ¡ª or at least, the parts he could remember. He thought back on the decades of bad decisions, the unfulfilled promises that had dragged him from one mascot suit to the next, each more stained and unrecognizable than the last, along with his own prominence in the industry. He thought about the people who¡¯d tried to help him along the way, the ones he¡¯d probably let down, and wondered how many of them, if he¡¯d just chosen the right path, might have saved him from ending up wherever here was. All of it swirled in his mind, the weight of his past sinking in. And if that line of thought had kept going, maybe, just maybe, Russell could have seen the error of his ways. But that moment of introspection was cut short by that goddamn chipper voice blaring from the device on his wrist, snapping him back to the absurd reality he was stuck in.
¡°Have you had the time to take it all in? Let¡¯s see the brand new YOU. Pose for your new character avatar.¡±
The screen displayed a 5-second countdown, counting down as Russell¡¯s anger grew with each second that passed.
5...
Who the hell is doing this? Was this a prank? A game show?
4...
Who the hell thinks they can game my life ¡ª like they have any clue about anything!
3...
This whole thing is a joke ¡ª and it¡¯s probably fucking illegal.
2...
I¡¯m gonna get out of here, and when I do, oh man. Oh-ho-ho man! They¡¯re screwed.
1...
Whoever¡¯s running this, they¡¯ve got no clue who they¡¯re fucking with. I¡¯m Russell fucking Murphy. CLICK! The screen blinked like a camera shutter, and a new image expanded across it. There was Russell, sunburned, battered, bruised, biting down on his bottom lip, mid-syllable of his favorite expletive, and flipping off the camera with his crab-cracked middle finger. They say a picture tells a thousand words, but this one only had two. Fuck. You. The new picture of Russell replaced the old stalker shot in the corner of his stats, literally giving the bird to the whole SPUNK system. Russell huffed, shaking his head. He stared down at the sand and pondered next steps. His dad always said he should¡¯ve been a lawyer, but that ship had sailed a long time ago. Still, Russell knew enough to recognize when something was legally borked, thanks in part to an incident at a minor-league baseball game. Back then, he was still working as the team¡¯s mascot, Dinger the Bear. A pack of frat boys grabbed him, bagged him, and whisked him away to be a celebrity contestant in their fraternity¡¯s ¡°Drunk Olympics.¡± And while Russell eventually got into the spirit of the games, the cops later explained the finer points of what legally counted as kidnapping. And this island nonsense? This was definitely it ¡ª except now, instead of being tied to a pledge too plastered to run a three-legged race, he was stranded on some bum-fuck beach in the middle of nowhere, forced to play suvival-man for some unseen asshole who was probably watching him right now, laughing their ass off. Every game had a game master. Someone behind it all, pulling the strings. Someone with a name and a face and an ass to sue ¡ª courtroom style. Russell was about to get all litigious up in this bitch. But first, he¡¯d have to get the hell out of here. That meant figuring out if civilization was hiding in the jungle behind him, or out ahead of him, across the big blue. As a true champion of NERVE, Russell wasn¡¯t swayed by the challenge. He¡¯d build himself a boat if he had to. Like Tom Hanks in that one mov¡ª Russell¡¯s head jerked up in a moment of realization, eyes dead-set on the horizon. Something flickered in his banged-up brain, a spark of memory trying to build itself back together. His jaw tightened as the pieces took shape. ¡°Wait,¡± he said. He didn¡¯t need to build a boat, because he¡¯d been on one the night before. And he hadn¡¯t been alone. CHAPTER 3: Lost in the Sauce SIX MONTHS EARLIER In the heart of a mid-city convention center, surrounded by stalls and booths alive with early morning preparation, there stood a man dressed like a catfish. His felt fins rested awkwardly on his hips as he stared down at four open boxes on a table covered in cheap cloth. Inside the boxes, rows of slim, glass bottles filled with a bright yellow liquid that looked not unlike toxic waste. Russell picked up one of the bottles, inspected the label, and sighed. Then, with a grunt, he pushed the massive catfish head up over his own sweaty face. ¡°We need to talk about my payment.¡± Luanne and Sheila LeBlanc, standing across from him, exchanged glances. Luanne crossed her arms, and Sheila looked around at the other business owners setting up their stalls, worried someone might overhear. ¡°We already talked about your payment,¡± Luanne said, her voice low, leaning close. Sheila, ever the sweet one, chimed in, her tone like honey but barely above a whisper. ¡°Don¡¯t you remember, sweetheart?¡± ¡°Right, I remember,¡± Russell said. ¡°But now we need to re-talk about it. I¡¯m gonna need some money up front.¡± Luanne frowned, her arms tightening across her chest. ¡°Russell, what¡¯s going on? We worked this out, remember? We¡¯re a young business. Every dollar we¡¯ve got is tied up in that sauce.¡± She gestured to the bottle in his hand. ¡°Which you said was fantastic, by the way. You love the sauce.¡± Sheila took her wife¡¯s arm, trying to keep the peace. ¡°And why you agreed to forgo a paycheck and take the equity instead.¡± Russell let out a single breath of disbelieving laughter, the kind that said you¡¯ve got to be kidding me. He reached into the box and grabbed another bottle, holding them both up like evidence in a trial. ¡°That was before I found out you changed the name to Catfish Piss. I mean, come on! Are you two out of your goddamn minds?¡± ¡°What¡¯s the problem?¡± Luanne said. ¡°It¡¯s catchy as hell!¡± Russell blinked at her. ¡°Catchy? It sounds like cat piss, Luanne. Cat piss! And look at this stuff ¡ª it¡¯s like, violently yellow! You think people are gonna douse their food with a hot sauce that reminds them of cat piss?¡± Sheila waved off the concern with a dismissive smile, always the optimist. ¡°Oh, stop. It¡¯s a good name. Rolls right off the tongue!¡± Russell leaned in close, delivering a reality check the size of a nuclear payload. ¡°It¡¯s not going anywhere near a tongue, Sheila! What happened to Sheila¡¯s Smack-Yo-Mouth Sauce? I could sell that! Tell me the truth, is this Luanne¡¯s doing? She¡¯s been listening to those dumb entrepreneur podcasts again, hasn¡¯t she?¡± Luanne¡¯s nostrils flared. ¡°Don¡¯t talk shit about Dr. Make-Money¡¯s Road to Success!¡± Quelling the storm, Sheila calmly plucked one of the bottles from Russell¡¯s fin. She cradled it against her chest like it was a family heirloom. ¡°It¡¯s not Luanne, sweetheart,¡± Sheila said with a serene smile. ¡°The name change was my idea.¡± Russell froze, stared at her, then slowly dragged a fin across his face. ¡°Oh, god dammit.¡± Sheila lit up. ¡°No, really, the name has history! Just listen ¡ª last week I¡¯m digging through old photo albums for the website, and I find these pictures of my grandpappy. There he is, happy as can be on his fan-boat, looking like he owns the bayou. And I remembered this cute little thing he used to say. He¡¯d go¡­¡± Sheila puffed out her bottom lip and rocked her arms up and down like a hillbilly animatronic. ¡°¡®Woo-wee, today¡¯s hotter than catfish piss!¡¯ Or, ¡®Shit-dang, that lady¡¯s more sour than catfish piss!¡¯ He just loved saying it. Mostly when he was talking down to women, simply for expressing themselves! Oh, he was just the cutest thing¡­¡± Russell stared at her, mouth open, as his head began to shake in furious confusion. ¡°Was he saying catfish piss is hot or sour? It¡¯s cloudy messaging!" Luanne threw up her hands, already tired of the back-and-forth. ¡°Russell, the man lost a chunk of his brain wrestling an alligator. He couldn¡¯t even read! So don¡¯t read too much into it yourself. Now, we got about five minutes until they open up those doors and the people with the checkbooks come bouncing in. So, we good?¡± Russell looked up at the banner stretched high across the rafters of the convention hall: WELCOME TO THE SMALL-BIZ BONANZA ¡ª CONNECTING GREAT IDEAS WITH DEEP POCKETS! Part of him wanted to ditch the booth. Leave the LeBlanc''s in the dust and head for the lobby bar. Vendors got one free drink. He¡¯d already used his token, but it wouldn¡¯t be hard to snag another. Catfish Piss. Today was supposed to be a good day. Sheila must¡¯ve sensed his growing urge to bail. She placed a hand on his felt fin and smiled, warm and gentle, like the kind of woman who should¡¯ve been selling cookies, not hot sauce.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°I want to tell you something, sweetheart,¡± Sheila said, leaning in like she was about to share a secret. ¡°Lu and me, we gave up everything to make this dream happen. And we didn¡¯t have to ¡ª we had the most successful pet taxidermy business in the state. Life was good! But, you know, besides stuffing every breed of dog, my only dream has been getting my family¡¯s hot sauce on every shelf in America.¡± Russell sighed, once more burying his face in his fins to smother his frustration. ¡°Sheila, you¡¯re a sweet lady, but please, for the love of God, don¡¯t put that story on the bottle. Just say your family liked hot sauce.¡± Luanne stepped in, politely moving Sheila aside, her tone all business now. ¡°Russell, the sauce is good. Now, yeah, it may take a bit more time, but truth is, we could do this without you. Honestly, I don¡¯t know if we would¡¯ve even hired you if you didn¡¯t have your own catfish suit. Which was weird thing to have, man. That¡¯s weird.¡± She took a step closer, lowering her voice. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen you work your game. You can set the vibe, you can make people feel welcome, and you can get them on the hook.¡± She swatted one of Russell¡¯s big fish-whiskers. ¡°No pun intended. So lemme ask you: Do you wanna make good money down the line or keep making nothin¡¯ forever?¡± Russell stared down at the bottle of Catfish Piss in his fin, turning it over like he might find the answer written somewhere in tiny print. He didn¡¯t know Luanne all that well ¡ª outside of work stuff, the only time they¡¯d really talked was about basketball, and even then, she got all defensive about the views of her favorite sports podcaster. But maybe that was enough. Enough to let his guard down just a bit, enough for a crack of vulnerability to sneak through. ¡°You¡¯re telling me,¡± he said slowly, his voice tinged with disbelief, ¡°you want me to go out there, dressed like a goddamn catfish, and sell my own piss?¡± Luanne placed a hand on his scaled shoulder. She leaned in close, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what you¡¯re gonna fuckin¡¯ do. Sweetheart.¡±
Russell sat a curb outside the convention hall, a cardboard box sat next to him. After three hours inside the catfish head, he¡¯d finally freed himself to revel in the fresh air. Or rather, to smoke a cigarette. He stared straight ahead at nothing, eyes glazed over, concentrating only on the inconsistent rhythm of inhaling and exhaling smoke. His brain was switched off. ¡°You got some kind of nerve, fella. Been a while since I¡¯ve seen hustle like that.¡± It took a second for Russell¡¯s brain to reboot, the husky voice registering as more than just background noise. He blinked, glanced up, and frowned when the man standing over him came into focus. Oh shit, he thought with great surprise. That¡¯s Buzz Holiday. "I know you,¡± Russell said, smoke curling out of his mouth. Buzz grinned wide, extending a hand. ¡°Well, you still gonna make it official?¡± Russell wedged the cigarette between his lips and took the offered hand. ¡°I¡¯m Russell,¡± he said, voice flat. Buzz¡¯s grip was like iron, one of those handshakes that left an impression. Even pushing his mid-50s, Buzz was a massive, commanding man, a presence that hit like a freight train. Seeing him here, in this nowhere parking lot, was almost surreal. Twenty years ago, Russell had watched this same guy dominate late-night infomercials like he was selling dreams instead of cleaning tools. ¡°Russell,¡± Buzz said, easing himself back to full height, ¡°I gotta ask you something important.¡± He jabbed a finger at the box by Russell¡¯s side, where a couple of bottles of Catfish Piss rattled inside. ¡°The sauce, is it hot or sour?¡± Russell didn¡¯t answer, just smirked. Buzz, master bullshitter that he was, could already guess the kind of gauntlet Russell had run inside to sell even one of those bottles. The handful left in the box told the story better than words. ¡°They¡¯ll figure it out,¡± Buzz said with a shrug. ¡°At least the sauce is good.¡± Then, with a groan of a sinking battleship, Buzz dropped down onto the curb next to Russell. He was broad as a bear, his sheer presence sucking up half the sidewalk. ¡°I¡¯d ask for a cigarette, but the doctors say my heart¡¯s ready to pop like a pi?ata full of hookers. Blood pressure, or something or other.¡± The thought of Buzz¡¯s heart exploding next to him was enough for Russell to ash his cigarette on the concrete. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said, stubbing it out entirely, ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to quit, but, you know. It¡¯s been a day.¡± ¡°One shitty day,¡± Buzz said. ¡°All it takes.¡± They sat in the quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that only comes from two guys who¡¯d seen too many of those days. Finally, Russell clapped his felt fins together, breaking the mood. ¡°So, you here for the convention? Looking for something to sell?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the idea,¡± Buzz muttered, followed by an exhale that said it hadn¡¯t gone well. ¡°Hoping to find that next Gunk Buddy.¡± Russell couldn¡¯t help but smile, his mind wandering back to the basement of his childhood home. Back when he was a teenager, staying up late to watch the kind of skin flicks his parents would¡¯ve killed him for. During commercial breaks, there¡¯d be Buzz, hawking Gunk Buddies like they were the crack cocaine of cleaning products. Even a horny kid could see the magic in the pitch, the magic in the man. Simpler times, for both of them. ¡°Coming all the way out here,¡± Russell said, gesturing at the cheap banners and budget setups around them. ¡°Feels like scraping the bottom of the barrel, don¡¯t you think?¡± Buzz chuckled, low and knowing, like a guy who¡¯d heard the punchline before. They didn¡¯t need to say it out loud ¡ª why he was out here in the boonies, rubbing elbows with weekend hobbyists and the barons of custom bumper stickers. Real entrepreneurs didn¡¯t let Buzz Holiday anywhere near their products anymore. Not after what he¡¯d done. The man sitting next to Russell, the good ¡®ol boy dressed down in a corduroy jacket and cowboy boots, used to be king of the infomercial jungle. The guy could sell anything. He could turn the dumbest doohickey into a national obsession. Hell, ten years ago, every home in America had a Gunk Buddy ¡ª Buzz¡¯s goofy, do-it-all grease-buster with enough attachments to clean your kitchen, your car, and probably your conscience if you used it right. But Buzz had taken all that fame, soaked it in gasoline, and burned it to the ground. Then he snorted the ashes for good measure. DUIs became a hobby. Public bathrooms, a place for impromptu parties involving substances and naked strangers. He spent the better part of a decade living like a bat out of hell, so it was only a matter of time until the Devil came for his due. It all came to a glorious end when Buzz barricaded himself in a Tijuana brothel, demanding the workers rub him down with the full rotation of Gunk Buddy attachments. And it¡¯s not even that they wouldn¡¯t ¡ª they just didn¡¯t have one. That little stunt earned him a standoff with the Mexican police, a short stint in prison, and extradition back to the States. Rehab followed, then obscurity. Now, freshly paroled and supposedly sober, Buzz was an old dog in a world that didn¡¯t need his tricks anymore. Infomercials were dead, relics of a time when people still flipped channels. But a guy like Buzz? He could always sniff out a product to pitch, a market to conquer. The problem was, to the real-deal entrepreneurs, his Midas Touch was forever tainted. That¡¯s how he¡¯d ended up here, at the Small-Biz Bonanza, where dreams were humble and hope was cheap. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll pick up Catfish Piss, take it to the home shopping networks,¡± Buzz joked, giving Russell a playful punch on the shoulder. ¡°Leave you in the swamp where you belong.¡± Russell smirked, letting the punch slide off his costume. The guy still had it ¡ª that charm that made you want to buy whatever he was selling, even if it was bullshit. ¡°Sorry to break it to you, Buzz, but home shopping¡¯s not the big deal it used to be. It¡¯s all about the internet now. You ever hear of it?¡± Buzz rolled his eyes. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Well, maybe I¡¯ll just pick you up instead.¡± Russell blinked. Pick me up? The conversation had taken a hard left into uncharted territory. Did Buzz have some sort of fish fetish? ¡°Ah. Sorry man, that¡¯s not my thing.¡± Buzz shook his head, standing with a groan. ¡°Not like that, jackass.¡± He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared business card, handing it to Russell. ¡°Look, I¡¯ve got some¡­ rebuilding to do, but my time¡¯s coming again. I could use a guy in a silly suit ¡ª especially one that knows how to hustle. You¡¯re like me. A grinder. Let¡¯s stay in touch. Maybe I¡¯ll have something for you down the line. Get you on TV, or this ¡®internet¡¯ you¡¯re so fond of.¡± Russell took the card without saying a word. Like Buzz, it had clearly seen better days. The phone number printed on it had been crossed out, and a new one scrawled in pen. He gave the card a once-over, front and back, then did the same to Buzz. After a beat, Russell nodded, tucking the card away. ¡°Thanks, Buzz.¡± Buzz gave him a subdued version of his old trademark move ¡ª both thumbs up, the same pose he¡¯d used to close every infomercial. Then he turned and walked off, his big frame silhouetted against the orange glow of the setting sun. Russell lit another cigarette, inhaling deep. Finally, he let himself lean into the exhaustion that had been dragging him down all day. Later, box of Catfish Piss awkwardly tucked under one fin, Russell was halfway to his car when he pulled out his phone and shot his contact info to the number Buzz had scribbled. If the guy wanted to build an army for his comeback, why not sign up? Not that Russell thought it would work. If he were a betting man ¡ª and he definitely was, to his own detriment ¡ª he¡¯d lay odds the next time he¡¯d see Buzz Holiday, it¡¯d be on the 6 o¡¯clock news, fresh off the wagon and onto the back of a zebra he¡¯d liberated from the local zoo. But like so many other bets Russell had made, that was one he would¡¯ve lost. CHAPTER 4: The Gift of Crabs Russell¡¯s surge of recollection was fading as fast as it had come. Yeah, he¡¯d been on a boat, and he wasn¡¯t alone. Buzz Holiday was there, no mistaking that. But what happened after? Flashes of a storm, falling overboard, then ¡ª nothing. He probed the massive welt on the side of his head, surely the culprit for last night being a total blackout. Well, that and the booze. Still, the boat must¡¯ve brought him here. Wherever ¡°here¡± was. If he could find it, he¡¯d get the hell off this beach and back to civilization. Back to an army of lawyers who¡¯d line up by the hundreds to take on whatever shoddy production ¡°Change-Your-Life Island¡± turned out to be. That¡¯s what this had to be, right? Some reality show gone way, way off the rails. And that was fine by Russell. Streaming platforms had money ¡ª stupid money ¡ª and he planned to carve himself a big slice with a fat-ass lawsuit. He just needed to find that boat. Russell looked down one end of the beach, then the other. White sand stretched on forever, curving around bends and vanishing into jungle shadows to destinations unseen. He didn¡¯t have a clue which way to go. The jungle? Best forget it. Too dark, too thick. And, as his UTILITY score clearly showed, he wasn¡¯t great with keeping his bearings. Not to mention the rock-throwing man ¡ª or monkey, or whatever ¡ª waiting to make his life worse. The beach felt safer. Keep the water on one side, the trees on the other, start walking. Hard to get turned around that way. Hopefully. The sun scorched his skin redder by the minute, but that was Future Russell¡¯s problem. Right now, what he needed was a direction. He scratched his aching jaw, wincing as the movement reminded him just how damn dry his throat was. His skin was tight and prickling, hot to the touch. And the hangover? Oh, it was still there, riding him hard. Normally, a day like this would¡¯ve had Russell glued to the couch, cradled around a gallon jug of water. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but salt. Damn, I need water. He looked up, squinting at the sun. Russell didn¡¯t know shit about survival, but his grandpa always said the sun set in the west. That burning ball of yellow hung high, cooking him alive, but if he had to guess, it seemed to lean ever so slightly toward the beach ahead of him. Or maybe out to sea, but definitely in that direction. Close enough. West¡­ish. Indecision wasn¡¯t Russell¡¯s style. He liked to think of himself as a man of action, even if those actions were dumb as hell most of the time. People called him impulsive, a ¡°wildcard.¡± Usually, it was the last thing they said before firing him. But to Russell, doing something ¡ª anything ¡ª was always better than standing still. West-ish it was. He hiked up his leggings and put one foot in front of the other, trudging through the sand like a man with an unshakable plan. He was sure his chosen direction would eventually lead to a boat. And that boat? It would take his ass far, far away from this beautiful hellhole. But then he saw them. A legion of tiny legs, claws clicking together in near-harmonious rhythm ¡ª the same crabs he¡¯d gone to war with not long ago. Russell froze, watching them scuttle together in unison, a gang of red and orange moving as one across the sand. The closer they came, the more he wondered: was this round two? Some kind of crab vendetta? ¡°Easy, fellas,¡± Russell muttered, his hands curling into fists. He hadn¡¯t exactly mastered a defensive maneuver against these fiends, but punching always got results. Sometimes jail, but always results. The crustacean convoy marched past without so much as a sideways glance, a few even skittering between Russell¡¯s fuzzy purple legs without pausing for a pinch. They had, as it seemed, somewhere to be. Bigger fish to fry. No grudges, no bad blood ¡ª for now, anyway. As they pushed towards the water¡¯s edge, Russell wondered if they were headed for a reef to lick their wounds, or maybe¡ª ¡°Get outta town,¡± Russell said, surprised, as the leader appeared. Rising up from the surf like some tiny, golden messiah ¡ª the Crotch Goblin. The crab may have lost a claw, but it had not lost its step. Valiantly, the crotch-coveting fuck stepped forth, not to join the gang, but to lead it. He assumed the vanguard position, his single gilded claw held high like a battle standard, and steered his pack away from the incoming waves, heading further down the beach. Not the way Russell had chosen, mind you ¡ª the crabs were marching East-ish. ¡°Crotch Goblin¡¯s gotta plan,¡± Russell said to himself. He wasn¡¯t sure why, but he truly believed it. That golden devil was on to something. A destination. A place Russell didn¡¯t know but figured he ought to. Perhaps word spread through the crab collective of a washed-ashore boat, full of tasty morsels of all sorts. Yeah, just maybe. Russell yanked up his leggings even higher, turned on his heel, and started after them. East-ish it was. Not but a few steps into his grand journey, Russell spotted something in the sand. He scooped it up without a second thought. The Crotch Goblin¡¯s old claw. Why he grabbed it, he couldn¡¯t say. Maybe he thought it¡¯d be a gift of peace, a way to mend old wounds between man and crab. Further justifying his abysmal KNOW-HOW score, maybe he thought crabs could simply re-attach their claws, no problem. Or maybe ¡ª and this seemed more likely ¡ª his brain was starting to melt from dehydration, with logic dripping out of him like the sweat he didn¡¯t have left. But now he had the claw, golden as the sun above. ¡°Alright then,¡± Russell said, stuffing the claw into his mascot leggings for safekeeping. ¡°Here we go.¡±
Even as the sun dragged itself west, the heat didn¡¯t let up. In the hour or so Russell had been trailing the brigade of crabs, he¡¯d become a walking piece of jerky. His lips were cracking, his mouth was as dry as cotton balls, and the headache pounding in his skull had reached mythical levels.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. The device on his arm, for all of its bullshit, had done him one favor: made him feel like he had the NERVE to power through any bullshit thrown his way. But even that little spark of twisted confidence was flickering now. He needed water. Bad. And yet, believing there was a pot of gold at the end of the crab-colored rainbow, he kept trudging along behind the crabs and their leader. And they showed no signs of slowing down. Along the way, more crabs had joined the caravan. There had to be at least thirty of them now, all scuttling along about ten yards ahead, claws clicking as they marched. One solid organism, shifting across the sand. Russell didn¡¯t know much about nature, but he had to admit, witnessing this shit was pretty rad. And yet, he was still very angry. Never losing pace, Russell turned his head towards the jungle. ¡°You seeing this?¡± he shouted, motioning towards the crab caravan. ¡°You¡¯ve got a god damn natural phenomenon on your front steps ¡ª it¡¯s a CRAB PARADE, for cryin¡¯ out loud! But nooo, you¡¯re not gonna make a show about that. You¡¯re making a whole different kind of show, about kidnapped people, and sunburns!¡± Russell took a breath, formulating his final blow. ¡°What? You, uh, you run out of fancy-sounding British dudes for your voiceovers?¡± Nailed it. Of course, just like the four other times during his trek in which he¡¯d shouted malice into the trees, there was no response. The jungle, as a whole, had become the ¡°bad guy¡± in Russell¡¯s mind. The territory a hundred hidden cameras, microphones, and let¡¯s not forget, the rock-throwing monkey-man. Somewhere deep in the green, there was a control center, probably disguised as a fake mountain or something equally ridiculous, where the Gamemaster was watching it all. With no one else to blame, Russell picked the trees themselves as his enemy, talking all the shit he could. It wasn¡¯t helping. He turned his attention back to the Crotch Goblin. The crab skimmed across the wet sand like it didn¡¯t have a care in the world ¡ª except those loyal crabs who followed its lead. Meanwhile, Russell ¡ª 220 pounds of dehydrated regret ¡ª sank into the sand with every step. It was like dragging his feet through wet cement, and those ridiculous mascot leggings weren¡¯t doing him any favors. The way they fit ¡ª or rather, didn¡¯t fit ¡ª turned his otherwise normal stride into a goofy waddle. It was hard to talk shit with a goofy waddle, even to a bunch of trees. Under his breath, Russell attempted his best impression of a British nature documentarian. "Having thoroughly humiliated a hungover fool in a spectacular display of claw-to-hand combat, the victorious crustaceans now embark on their grand pilgrimage to a newly-beached sea craft, where female crabs await to give lap dances to the returning warriors. Remarkable, truly." It¡¯s stupid things like this that kept Russell distracted during his long haul across the sands ¡ª that, and yelling at trees. But it wasn¡¯t all dicking around. He also put in some screen time with the device. He¡¯d hoped there was something he hadn¡¯t found yet ¡ª an SOS button or some emergency feature that would airdrop him some water. Wrong on both accounts. Clearly, there were more menus he could eventually access, more features to unlock, but they were off-limits for the time being. The perks of being a LVL 1 chump, he figured. Still, there was one menu he could access. The LOG tab kept a written transcript of everything the device had said. So far, the only entry was ¡°WELCOME (LEVEL 1)¡±, which didn¡¯t do him much good, but it was something. If anything, the Gamemaster was shooting themselves in the foot, keeping a written record of their unlawful shenanigans. Russell made a mental note to request a copy for his lawyer. But if they wouldn¡¯t give him that, he was damn sure going to make Buzz read through the LOG to corroborate this madness. Buzz. The thought of his missing buddy hit Russell like a gut-punch. Was he out there somewhere, caught up in this same freakshow? Was he strapped with one of these devices too? Man, he hoped not, but they¡¯d both agree Buzz was better suited for this circus. Talk about a guy who knew a thing or two about starting fresh and reinventing a ¡°whole new you!¡± The old man would die for a second chance ¡ª a real one ¡ª even if it came wrapped in a ridiculous reality show. Russell was pulled away from his thoughts when he saw the Crotch Goblin changing course, skittering away from the shoreline toward the jungle. His troops fell in line after him, like air hockey pucks, weightlessly sliding up the beach. ¡°What¡¯s up, fellas?¡± Russell said. His cracked lips stung just forming the words. Still looking for his pot of gold, Russell figured he¡¯d follow them into the jungle, evil as the place was, but something further down the beach stopped him cold. A cardboard cube bobbing in the surf, nudged towards the shore with every passing wave. Every so often, the tide flipped it onto another side, a slow, tantalizing tumble that said come and get me, baby. Russell¡¯s eyes were locked on the thing. The box practically demanded his attention. What the hell was it? What was inside? Could it be water? ¡°Hey guys, check this out,¡± he started, then caught himself. Talking to crabs now. Jesus Christ, Russell, get it together. He glanced back at the caravan, watching as it vanished through the treeline. ¡°Shit.¡± He was about to lose them. But the box. The box. The box was too appetizing. If he turned on the gas, not that he had any left, he could grab it and still rejoin the crabs. But he¡¯d have to run. Russell took off as fast as he could, which wasn¡¯t fast at all. The sand swallowed every footfall, burning extra energy just to get free. His vision narrowed, dehydration tunneling his focus until the box was the only thing that existed. The crabs, the jungle, even the stupid leggings ¡ª all gone. Just him and the box. He snatched it up just as his knees gave out, the effort sending him sprawling into the surf. The waves hit him hard, cold and relentless, but he clutched the box like it was the Holy Grail. Rolling onto his ass, he shook his head to clear the stars forming in the periphery of his vision. His head was felt like a balloon. A few deep breaths and a self-inflicted slap to the face pulled him back from the brink. ¡°Jesus,¡± he muttered. He couldn¡¯t go much longer. This box better be the jackpot. He held it up for inspection ¡ª a package about the size of a tea kettle, light as a feather. Too light. Shit. Anything worth a damn usually isn¡¯t light. He gave it a shake. Something inside jostled around. The soggy cardboard was plastered with a colorful logo that stopped Russell in his tracks. He squinted, then blinked, thinking maybe his eyesight was shot. Nope. The logo was what he thought it was: a smiling cartoon pile of shit, with little arrows shooting out like it was sending its shit all across the world. ¡°Unbelievable,¡± Russell said, rubbing his eyes and looking again. No mistake. A happy pile of shit. Below the logo, a slogan that Russell had to read aloud to believe: ¡°DUDU: Cheap stuff, cheap price¡­¡± Russell sighed. It certainly didn¡¯t feel like Christmas morning. But beggars couldn¡¯t be choosers. He tore the package open, the soaked cardboard peeling apart like wet tissue paper, and dumped the contents into the sand. PLOP. What stared back at him was worse than he expected. A pink plastic panda bear with painted-on eyes, nose, and a sharp-toothed grin. It wore a French beret and across its bloated belly were the words: ¡°DRINKING UP, WATER SLUT!¡± Russell blinked. His brain struggled to process. The words didn¡¯t make sense ¡ª hell, the thing didn¡¯t make sense. Now he was really beginning to wonder if his eyes were shot. Or worse, was he having a stroke or something? Again, no. The panda was real, and so were the nonsense words across its belly. He turned the thing over in his hands, inspecting it. Hollow. He put his hands on the beret, and with a twist, it started to unscrew. As it came loose, a tinny speaker hidden in the hat crackled to life. The voice that followed sounded like a Care Bear trying to do the job of a drill sergeant. ¡°Tumzy love you, DRINK NOW!¡± The message was sweet and playful on the surface, but with an edge of aggression that made Russell frown. He leaned back, squinting at the ridiculous toy. ¡°Tumzy? The fuck?¡± This was what he¡¯d wasted the last bit of his strength chasing ¡ª a stupid kid¡¯s toy that barked orders at him. Like the voice from his device wasn¡¯t annoying enough. Between the two of them, it felt like the island wasn¡¯t just trying to kill him ¡ª it was trying to piss him off while it did it. He almost tossed the panda back into the ocean, returning it to the blue hell from whence it came. But then he looked inside. Hollow, sure, but more than a toy. He could see that now. ¡°Oh, shit,¡± Russell said, realizing what it was. ¡°That a water bottle?¡± The question caught him off guard, but he answered instinctively. "Yeah, man," Russell said, eyes fixed on the ridiculous water bottle, his grin growing to match the panda¡¯s. It was the first time he¡¯d smiled all day, but it didn¡¯t last long. Because the voice that had just asked him a question, it wasn¡¯t some silly-sounding recording. It hadn¡¯t come from his wrist, or the thing in his hands. It was a human voice. And it had come from right behind him. CHAPTER 5: Spawn Camped ¡°Oh, thank you, god!¡± Russell said, facing the voice behind him. He sized up the guy standing over him, relieved to see he was real. ¡°Another normal person. I was starting to think I¡¯d lost my damn mind.¡± The guy wasn¡¯t much older than a kid, mid-20s at most. Lean but wiry, with a sharpness to his posture that said he was always ready for a fight ¡ª or to run like hell, if the cops were coming. He stuck out a hand, and Russell noticed the device strapped to his wrist ¡ª same as his. ¡°Nah, homie,¡± the guy said dismissively, his voice full of swagger. ¡°We just as fucked as you.¡± He hauled Russell to his feet with one sharp tug, like he was impatient just standing there. Russell took him in. The guy was a demon in denim from head to toe ¡ª skin-tight Levi¡¯s and a matching jacket shredded at the edges, either by design or because the island had already taken a bite out of him. His sides were shaved close, but the top was a greasy mop, slicked back with the kind of shine you get after a few days without a shower. His manicured eyebrows slanted down in what could¡¯ve been a permanent scowl or just his resting face. He carried with him the light odor of dead fish. The cuts, the sunburn, the slight fishy odor, it didn¡¯t do much to dull the fact that the guy was handsome, but it was the kind of handsome you¡¯d see hustling people on the street, scamming tourists out of their money, or throwing hands on some livestream for content. Chaotic. Dangerous. He might as well have had a neon sign hanging over his head with one word lit up bright: TROUBLE. ¡°How you doin¡¯?¡± the guy asked, his voice low and steady, though his eyes flicked over Russell with a mix of suspicion and amusement, like he was trying to decide if he should fight Russell, or fuck him. Russell clocked it, and he knew he¡¯d better keep a delicate balance between the two. ¡°I¡¯m Russell,¡± he said, keeping it short, keeping it simple. He wasn¡¯t sure if he should offer a handshake or not. The kid didn¡¯t bother with one anyway. Instead, he cocked his head, his gaze dropping to the pink panda bottle in Russell¡¯s hands. ¡°What level are you?¡± he asked. ¡°What?¡± Russell blinked. ¡°I just got here, man. Woke up maybe a couple hours ago. Hey, did you say ¡®we¡¯?¡± The guy didn¡¯t answer right away, still staring at the panda like it owed him money. Russell¡¯s grip tightened on the ridiculous toy. Finally, the guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°Yeah. We.¡± Russell followed his gesture to the treeline. Sure enough, there was a woman perched on a fallen palm, working the jagged head of a ramshackle spear against a rock between her feet. She was older than the guy, probably early 30s, like Russell. Her brown hair was tied back in a thick braid, and her bikini ¡ª if you could call it that ¡ª leaned more fashionable than functional. Even so, she radiated toughness, the kind of energy that said she could snap that spear over her knee and still carve you up with the splinters. Every few seconds, she¡¯d pause her sharpening to glance their way, her measured gaze flicking between Russell and her associate like she was weighing her options. Russell gave her a small wave, the kind you¡¯d give a neighbor ¡ª or at least the kind you¡¯d give to another stranger who¡¯s been kidnapped and strapped with a screwed-up device. She didn¡¯t wave back. ¡°Great,¡± Russell said, chuckling nervously. ¡°Three of us. That¡¯s enough to get class-action on their asses.¡± He nodded at the guy¡¯s device. ¡°Against them.¡± The guy didn¡¯t laugh. The woman didn¡¯t hear him, but she didn¡¯t look like the laughing type. Russell scratched the back of his head, regretting the attempt at humor. ¡°You just got here?¡± the guy asked, his tone as casual as it was sharp. ¡°Yeah. Woke up down the beach, stupid fuckin¡¯ thing on my wrist, telling me I¡¯m playing a game. But fuck all that. I¡¯m trying to find a way outta here. I was following some¡ª¡± Russell stopped short, swallowing the part about joining a crab caravan. First impressions were important. ¡°I was thinking of heading inland,¡± he said instead, thumbing towards the jungle. ¡°Find a town, maybe a bar. Someone with water ¡ª hey, you got water?¡± The guy finally gave Russell his full attention. ¡°Don¡¯t go into the jungle, bro. Fucky shit happens in there.¡± There was a seriousness in the young guy¡¯s voice. His eyes, too, carried something real ¡ª a caution, maybe even fear. Russell wasn¡¯t sure if this guy had seen what he¡¯d seen, but it clearly wasn¡¯t just about a rock-throwing asshole. This was bigger. Worse. A million nightmare possibilities churned in Russell¡¯s head. Jungle cats with a taste for manhood? Snakes that went straight for the goods? Naturally, his worst fears were centered on the parts he¡¯d almost lost to crab claws not too long ago. ¡°What do you mea¡ª¡± Russell started, but the guy cut him off by reaching for the panda bottle and snatching it out of his hands. ¡°I¡ª I just found that,¡± Russell said, trying not to sound as defensive as he felt. He barely stopped himself from adding, It¡¯s mine! The guy turned the bottle over like it was an artifact from another world. ¡°Drinking up, water slut?¡± he read. Just like Russell had been, he was immediately frustrated by the nonsense. His eyes snapped back to Russell, full of accusation, like he¡¯d come up with the message himself. Then he popped off the beret, and the hat¡¯s little speaker activated once more. ¡°MAKE HYDRATION, Tumzy like!¡± The guy squinted at Russell. ¡°The hell is this?¡± ¡°I found it,¡± Russell said, this time sounding more like a kid caught with a forbidden toy. ¡°I think its name is Tumzy.¡± The guy snorted. ¡°More goddamn cheap Chinese bullshit,¡± he muttered. Then, with a shrug: ¡°Listen, this is mine now.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s mine. Dibs, dawg. I call dibs.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Russell blinked, unsure how to respond. In the short time he¡¯d had with Tumzy, he¡¯d grown oddly attached to it. I mean, it was a water bottle. Only one more necessary ingredient, and he¡¯d have a solution for his thirst. But arguing over ownership with a guy like this, that seemed like a bad call. ¡°Buddy, I fuckin¡¯ found it, but I don¡¯t really give a shit.¡± It was a lie ¡ª he cared more than he¡¯d admit. ¡°What¡¯s important is getting the hell outta here. You got, like, a phone or something?¡± Finally, Russell managed to get a laugh out of the guy. He tilted his head back and cackled loud enough to echo off the treeline. The jean jacket fell open, revealing a tattoo scrawled across his chest in dramatic cursive: THE HOTNESS. Still chuckling, he turned and called out to the woman on the fallen palm. ¡°Mari, baby, you hear this? He goes, ¡®You got a phone?¡¯¡± The woman, Mari, looked up from her spear, then stabbed the jagged point into the sand. Russell noticed the tip had been fashioned out of a license plate, bent and sharpened into a brutal tool. ¡°Ask him why he dressed like¡¯a asshole,¡± she called out. Her accent was thick, maybe Miami, maybe somewhere further south ¡ª someplace where the sun burned hotter. Hotness, on the other hand, was American as baseball and bad credit but leaned hard into a wannabe street-rich persona, like he¡¯d cribbed his whole vibe from social media. Hotness turned back to Russell, his grin cocky as hell. He pointed at the fuzzy purple leggings. ¡°She wants to know why you dressed like an asshole.¡± Russell stared at him. Maybe it was the dehydration, but none of this felt real. The whole interaction had the energy of a bad dream: a dude in tight jeans, a woman with a spear, and a panda water bottle speaking broken bullshit. Maybe he¡¯d died back there in the sand, and this was some twisted purgatory where you have to wait until a spot opens up in heaven or hell. Russell figured these two were headed down the devil¡¯s way, and frankly, he might be joining them. ¡°It¡¯s a long story,¡± he said finally. ¡°I don¡¯t remember most of it. Look, you two just here to fuck around? Or are we gonna figure out how to get off this rock? If not, give me back Tumzy, and I¡¯ll¡ª¡± Hotness cut him off, sticking a finger in Russell¡¯s face. ¡°It¡¯s my panda water bottle. I called dibs.¡± ¡°Dude, what¡¯s your¡ª¡± Russell began, but the young dude was already moving in, jamming his finger into Russell¡¯s forehead. ¡°I just decided something,¡± Hotness said, the words coming with a poke to Russell¡¯s neck, then his chest, then his collarbone. Each jab was punctuated by a step forward, forcing Russell to stumble back, his balance shaking with every step. ¡°I just decided I don¡¯t feel like being nice to you no more. So here it is, simple.¡± Hotness shook Tumzy in Russell¡¯s face, taunting him. ¡°You work for us now. You¡¯re our box bitch. Anything you find washed up ¡ª packages, loot, whatever ¡ª that shit¡¯s ours. You don¡¯t produce, you don¡¯t get shit. And if you¡¯re lucky,¡± he added with a shrug, ¡°maybe I¡¯ll let you have a sip from this googly-woogly-eyed, girly-ass panda once I fill it up back at the crib. If not, you can drink your own piss, ¡®cause we ain¡¯t got the time for lazy bitches. You feel me?¡± No, Russell didn¡¯t feel him. Russell didn¡¯t feel anything but anger. He didn¡¯t think. He didn¡¯t plan (his claim to fame, really). He just reacted. With a guttural yell, he lunged at Hotness, tackling him with all he could muster. His ridiculous purple pants weren¡¯t made for this kind of action, but he didn¡¯t care. They hit the sand hard, Tumzy tumbling out of sight. Russell landed on top, pinning Hotness between his legs and throwing punch after punch into his ribs. Each hit was like pounding a brick wall, and his sunburned knuckles screamed in protest. Hotness didn¡¯t take the beating lying down ¡ª well, not figuratively. For every punch Russell landed, Hotness threw two back, quick and wild, straight to Russell¡¯s chest and gut, then one to the bottom of his jaw. Lean as he was, the kid¡¯s fists were like stones. He fought like he had nothing to lose, like he¡¯d been waiting for this kind of chaos all his life. Russell had the high ground, but it didn¡¯t feel like it. ¡°You pussy, you don¡¯t want none!¡± Hotness roared, his eyes blazing with fury. His punches were sharp, relentless, driving pain through Russell¡¯s already broken body. The kid could rumble, no doubt about it. ¡°I¡¯m nobody¡¯s box bitch!¡± Russell shouted, pulling on everything he had just to keep Hotness pinned between his fuzzy legs. He knew he couldn¡¯t keep the demon trapped for much longer. Russell felt the world tilting. His vision swam with stars, the edges going dark. He was going to pass out or get knocked out ¡ª it didn¡¯t matter which ¡ª but this fight was about more than winning. It was about principle. The panda was his. He just had to keep swinging. And then he froze. No more punches. No more swinging. Only a bit of light reading. HL-922. These were the letters and numbers that were etched into the rusted edge of the license plate pressed against Russell¡¯s neck. The sharp, jagged edges dug into his skin, except where the rust had taken over. It wasn¡¯t from any state or country he recognized, but it didn¡¯t matter. A sharp edge is a sharp edge anywhere in the world, and this one was plenty sharp enough to open his jugular. All it would take was Mari shifting her spear an inch, a flick of her wrist. ¡°Get off¡¯a him,¡± she said, her voice low and calm, pressing the blade a little harder against Russell¡¯s throat. Russell turned his head, slowly meeting her eyes. Where Hotness burned with rage, Mari¡¯s stare was cold, businesslike. No hesitation, no mercy, no second thoughts. This was a woman who¡¯d cut him down and sleep like a baby after. And Russell, for all his pride, knew better than to test her. ¡°Lady, what the fuck?¡± Russell said, raising his hands into a slow surrender. Mari didn¡¯t flinch, her spear steady, but Hotness didn¡¯t waste a second. He rolled out from under Russell¡¯s ridiculous fuzzy legs and sprang to his feet. Bloodied teeth and knuckles, he grinned and held out his fists, proud of his work. ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s the best you got, little guy?¡± Hotness screamed, practically vibrating with adrenaline. He looked like he could go ten more rounds without breaking a sweat, while Russell was fighting gravity just to stay upright. His head swam, and the stars creeping into his vision were getting bigger by the second. He only had one weapon left: his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s gotta be against the rules to threaten to kill somebody,¡± Russell said, trying to buy himself a second wind ¡ª and maybe his life, but he doubted the Gamemaster would let it go that far. ¡°You try and do me in, they¡¯re gonna haul your ass to jail, and you¡¯ll miss your chance to cash in on the lawsuit I¡¯m gonna bring down on the asses of whoever¡¯s running this shit-show.¡± He swallowed hard, feeling the blade shift just enough to remind him how close it was. He steadied his breath, keeping his tone light, almost casual. ¡°And,¡± he added, ¡°you won¡¯t even get to be on TV. Just think about that.¡± Mari tilted her head, almost pitying him. ¡°You know, you stupid, man. Really stupid.¡± Hotness stepped in close, his sweat reactivating whatever cheap cologne was clinging to him. Mixed with the stink of fish, it was enough to make Russell gag. Hotness swatted Russell on the side of the head with his device-strapped hand, nearly causing an easy knock-out. ¡°Ain¡¯t nobody comin¡¯, bro,¡± Hotness said, bitterly. ¡°Nobody. Now, I¡¯mma say this again ¡ª you work for us.¡± Russell blinked at him, trying to process the insanity of it all. He thought back to that first message from the device. ¡°Take on a new role.¡± Could that be what¡¯s happening here? People trying on new roles, playing the villain for their 15 minutes of fame. Maybe the best move would be to play along, until he could leave these two knuckleheads in the dust and figure out a way off this show himself. ¡°I need water,¡± Russell croaked. ¡°Oh, you thirsty? You need water?¡± Hotness asked, oh-so sarcastically. ¡°We had no idea. That¡¯s funny, because we need something too. Stuff. Just a whole bunch of fuckin¡¯ STUFF. And you¡¯re gonna go find it.¡± Russell shook his head, or maybe it just wobbled on its own. ¡°Look, I¡¯ll do what you guys want. But I can¡¯t do shit if I¡¯m passed out. Just common sense, man.¡± Hotness stared him down, so close their noses nearly touched. Russell could see the gears turning behind those angry eyes, Hotness wrestling with the undeniable logic of it. He looked up at Mari and they shared a silent conversation. Finally, Hotness grunted, ¡°God damn it,¡± and stood up straight, his fists still curled like he wasn¡¯t quite ready to let it go. ¡°You¡¯re coming back with us,¡± he said, pointing down the beach where the crabs had been heading before they veered into the jungle. ¡°We¡¯ll give you some water. But only a little. And then you¡¯re clocking in. You¡¯re gonna be our employee of the month, dawg. So get your ass up and¡ª¡± ¡°Shobuuuuu daaaaa!¡± The cry came from back the way Russell had come from, loud and theatrical ¡ª a call to war if Russell had ever heard one. He craned his neck to look, careful not to graze Mari¡¯s spear. There he was, the rock-throwing guy, standing maybe fifty yards away, buck-naked and veins-popping. Small in stature, but at the same time larger than life. He struck a dramatic pose, chest puffed out, arms bent like he was channeling some cosmic power. Then, with all the conviction of an anime hero on the verge of ascending into their next form, he shifted into another ridiculous stance and let out another primal bellow. ¡°Kakatteeeeeeeeee koiiiiiiiii!¡± ¡°Rock-throwing guy?¡± Russell said, half convinced he was hallucinating. Before he could figure out what was real, Mari whipped the blade away from his neck and bolted, her spear tucked tight like a runner¡¯s baton. ¡°Chinga tu madre, that little asshole,¡± she hissed as she tore past, moving like wildfire. Hotness blinked at her, his brain catching up a second too late. When it did, the rage reignited. ¡°THAT SLIMY LIZARD FUCK! WE GOT YOU NOW!¡± he screamed, taking off after her in a frantic sprint, both hands grabbing at the belt loops above his ass. As they disappeared down the beach, Hotness threw a final command over his shoulder. ¡°Stay here!¡± Russell didn¡¯t bother processing the circus playing out in front of him ¡ª it didn¡¯t matter. What did matter was that the loony duo was tearing off down the beach after the rock-throwing man, who stood his ground for a moment, proud as a peacock, before turning and bolting in the direction Russell had woken up. That was all the cue Russell needed. He picked himself up, grabbed Tumzy, and hauled ass the other way. CHAPTER 6: Buccaneer Bill can go to Yo-Ho-Hell ONE MONTH EARLIER A fly landed in Russell¡¯s frothy mug of beer. He watched it crawl across the clouds of suds, unaware of the amber peril below. Drowning in beer, Russell thought. Not a bad way to go. He knew he should be disgusted by the winged invader skittering around his drink, but he really wasn¡¯t. After all, Russell was dressed like a pirate. And better yet, Buccaneer Bill¡¯s Bar and Grill, his current employer and watering hole, leaned so hard into their swashbuckling theme that they referred to every beer on tap as ¡°Grog.¡± A bug in the suds seemed pretty damn authentic. This type of pragmatism was easier to swallow than admitting the place was a bonafide shit-hole. Buzz Holiday softly swatted Russell¡¯s hand, breaking his trance. ¡°Buddy, you listening?¡± Russell looked up from his mug. There was Buzz, squeezed into the booth across from him, eyes dripping with expectation. In the months since he¡¯d started meeting up with Buzz, Russell had come to enjoy Buzz¡¯s boundless enthusiasm, no matter what the day threw at him. But today, Russell wasn¡¯t feeling it. He was hungover, and life, with all its bullshit, felt like it was landing punches harder than usual. ¡°Yeah, man,¡± Russell began, dipping his finger into the beer to offer the fly a lifeline. ¡°It sounds like things are really lining up. Ol¡¯ Buzz, back on the rise.¡± Buzz grinned, his teeth unnervingly white. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, this new job I got lined up? Exactly what I need. The thing they¡¯re doing? Ain¡¯t nobody ever tried something like this before. When I get behind the wheel of this thing? Oh baby, I¡¯m just gonna turn on, you know? Life-changing stuff. Life-changing.¡± ¡°Is this the same thing as before, or something new?¡± ¡°Oh no, that last thing, the hair-growth gig? That was a wash. Knew it from the start. This?¡± He leaned in, tapping the table with his index finger like it held the secrets of the universe. ¡°This is big. Real big.¡± Russell studied Buzz. Something was different. His cheeks were clenched, and his eyes had the kind of glow you¡¯d see on someone who¡¯d been ¡°saved¡± at a revival. Or on a cult member who¡¯d reached true ascension. Russell didn¡¯t know much about cults, but he knew a user when he saw one. The dilated pupils gave Buzz away. Damn, Russell thought. Buzz is off the wagon. If that was the case, it wouldn¡¯t be long before Buzz was driving a rental car through the front window of a liquor store. Shame. Russell had actually come to enjoy their time together. The fly had taken Russell¡¯s finger as a lifeline and was now drying off on his knuckle. Buzz snapped his fingers, pulling Russell¡¯s focus back. ¡°Russell. What¡¯s going on, man?¡±Stolen novel; please report. ¡°Buzz, what do you want me to say? I¡¯m happy for you. But look around, man.¡± Russell swept his arms wide, taking in the scene. The pirate-themed restaurant was a testament to neglect ¡ª faux-wood walls stained with decades of grease and grime, like they¡¯d been polished with fryer oil. A couple nearby picked at melted ice cream in a soggy cardboard treasure chest, eating like prisoners on their last meal. On a stage done up to look like the deck of a ship, greasy teenage "shipmates" (read: employees) dressed as pirates fumbled with their instruments, tuning up for the next big production number. ¡°You call me down here on my lunch break to tell me about some big shot opportunity? That¡¯s messed up, man. Don¡¯t get me wrong, you¡¯ve always been good to me. Tried to hook me up a couple times, too. But I¡¯m not here to blow sunshine up your ass and tell you this is your shot. I¡¯m still trying to find my own, man.¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re not getting it¡ª¡± Before Buzz could finish, a teenage pirate walked up, the dead-eyed, grinning mascot head of Buccaneer Bill tucked under one arm. He plunked it on the table with all the reverence of a sack of potatoes, then turned his glazed, disinterested stare to Buzz before locking eyes with Russell. ¡°We¡¯re about to start the show,¡± the kid said flatly. ¡°Birthday boy¡¯s waiting.¡± Russell glared at the head sitting in front of him, its painted grin mocking him. Buccaneer Bill, his nemesis in felt and foam. He sighed and turned to the kid. ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯m on break for another¡­¡± He checked his phone. ¡°Eight minutes.¡± The kid nodded at the beer in Russell¡¯s hand. ¡°Pretty sure you¡¯re not allowed to be drinking on your break.¡± Russell didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯m pretty sure you¡¯re not allowed to hit on the hot mom of that fat kid, but that didn¡¯t stop you, did it?¡± ¡°That¡¯s his sister. I go to high school with her, you old bitch. I¡¯m calling the manager.¡± ¡°Here we go again! Always calling Kurt! How about you be a man?¡± Buzz held up a hand, defusing the situation as only Buzz could. ¡°Whoa, whoa. Easy, kid. Russell and I go way back. Best performer I¡¯ve ever seen. But he¡¯s gotta have the one drink. It¡¯s his thing ¡ª like a ritual, you know? Brings out the magic.¡± The teenager barely blinked, studying Buzz with all the enthusiasm of a bored cashier. ¡°Pretty sure my mom¡¯s got a blender with your face on it.¡± Buzz lit up with a grin, hitting his signature two-thumbs-up pose like it was second nature. ¡°That¡¯s right, baby.¡± The teenager rolled his eyes. ¡°Yeah, whatever. Just get ready, man. You¡¯re doing the Treasure Trove Stomp in ten.¡± Russell groaned, shaking his head. ¡°Goddamn Treasure Trove Stomp. The whole thing¡¯s just jumping up and down. That tubby kid¡¯s been slamming birthday cake all day ¡ª he¡¯s gonna blow chunks all over the place!¡± As the teenager walked away, Buzz leaned forward, dropping his voice a notch. ¡°Buddy, you¡¯re better than this place.¡± Russell let out a dry laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t you think I know that?¡± He threw up his hands, motioning to the grease-stained walls, the ball pit that smelled like feet and lost dreams, the stupid pirate head still grinning on the table. ¡°Look at this shit. I¡¯m in yo-ho-hell. But I got bills, man.¡± Buzz reached over, picked up the head of Buccaneer Bill, and placed it gently on the floor like he was putting a child to bed. Clearing the space between them, he locked eyes with Russell. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re hearing me,¡± he said, voice steady and low. Buzz reached into his chest pocket and flicked a packet onto the table. The way it landed, it made a sound like powder shifting inside. Russell¡¯s first instinct was to slap his hands over it like he was defusing a bomb. The last thing he needed was Buzz pulling out something illegal, right here in the middle of pirate hell. ¡°Jesus, man,¡± Russell hissed through clenched teeth. ¡°You trying to get me fired?¡± Buzz just laughed, leaning back in the booth, hands spread wide like he didn¡¯t have a care in the world. ¡°Relax, buddy. Just look.¡± Russell peeled his fingers away from the packet and squinted at it. The thing was bright purple, obnoxiously so. It looked like a fast-food sauce packet, but longer. In jagged yellow lightning-bolt lettering, it read: ¡°Spazz Energy Powder.¡± Buzz tapped the packet with a proud grin. ¡°This, my friend, is the future. The end-all be-all of energy supplements. The next big thing, no question about it. They just need someone like me ¡ª someone with flair ¡ª to make sure the world knows about it. And let me tell you, what we¡¯ve got planned? Oh, they¡¯re never gonna forget Spazz Energy, baby.¡± Russell frowned. He¡¯d heard this song before. Buzz had a new ¡°next big thing¡± every time they talked. He¡¯d met with entrepreneurs for hair-growth pills, vibrating massage wands, even something he called the ¡°Ass-O-Matic 3000.¡± And every time, Buzz was all in. Again, the enthusiasm was endearing, but just not today. ¡°Great,¡± Russell said flatly, staring at the purple packet in front of him. Spazz Energy. What a joke. ¡°Great? That¡¯s it? That¡¯s all you got to say?¡± Buzz¡¯s grin faded, replaced by a look of genuine disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re staring at a game-changer, and all you¡¯ve got for me is great?¡± Russell nodded toward the stage. ¡°Look, you heard the pizza-faced kid. I got a show to do.¡± Buzz slapped the table, making the packet jump. ¡°Do you really not get it? I¡¯m offering you a job, dummy.¡± CHAPTER 7: World鈥檚 Worst Survivalist Cries Uncle in a Jack Shack of Trash Just as soon as his would-be captors chased after the naked rock-thrower, Russell hightailed it away in the opposite direction, pausing just long enough to scoop Tumzy, the ridiculous panda water bottle, out of the sand. He didn¡¯t know what came next, but one thing was clear: his mission was to fill that stupid thing with water, no matter what. If he were left to his own survival skills, of which he had none, finding drinkable water would be an impossible task. He¡¯d be dead, no doubt. But Hotness, for all his bluster, had mentioned water back at their ¡°crib.¡± God knows what qualified for a crib in this place, but whatever it was, it had to be close. Neither Hotness nor Mari, the spear-wielding death stare of a woman, had been wearing shoes. Russell figured they weren¡¯t pulling off any cross-country feats, not after he¡¯d just spent an hour slogging through the sand like a drunken penguin. Hotness had pointed down the beach when he talked about their hideout, no sleight of hand, no games. Russell could tell the guy was scared shitless of the jungle; the beach was their turf. So Russell jogged on, his legs aching, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of the insanity he¡¯d just lived through. Man, those guys were out of their minds. They¡¯d bought into this game, hook, line, and sinker. Were they really that desperate for their time on television? Fame-starved lunatics, clawing at the spotlight no matter how ridiculous it got. But even with his brain fully-baked from dehydration, Russell couldn¡¯t shake a couple of details that didn¡¯t fit. There was Mari¡¯s look, cold and sharp, not like someone play-acting for cameras but a person who was doing whatever it took to survive. And there was the way Hotness said, nobody¡¯s coming, like he wasn¡¯t trying to scare Russell, just level with him. Like he was telling him the rules of a game nobody signed up for. But then again, it all started with a fight over a panda water bottle, and they¡¯d chased after a naked guy like it was the most natural thing in the world. This kind of circus only happened on reality TV. If they¡¯d really drunk the Kool-Aid, Russell wasn¡¯t about to save them. He couldn¡¯t. And he sure as hell couldn¡¯t make them rich with legal payouts. What he could do was use them. Specifically, rob them blind while they were busy chasing a nude lunatic down the beach. And hey, maybe looting two fame-hungry psychos would be ¡°badass¡± enough to earn him a level-up in this ridiculous game. His little quest paid off quicker than he¡¯d expected. The smooth white sand started to shift into jagged stone, an uneven stretch of shoreline dotted with tidal pools. The rocks jutted up in tight clusters, forcing him to navigate carefully as waves crashed against the edges, frothing the water. About thirty yards ahead, a cliff face rose up like a natural wall, cutting the beach short. If those two lunatics had a base, it had to be here. A white tarp flapped lazily in the breeze, fastened to the cliff side just above the tidal pools. Even with his vision blurred, Russell could read the crudely-written words painted across the tarp, all caps: FUCK OFF Russell smirked. ¡°I¡¯m here now, bitch.¡± He unspooled Tumzy the Water Slut¡¯s lanyard, slipped the panda around his neck like some ridiculous badge of honor, and stepped into the rocky labyrinth. The smell hit him first, thick and sour, the kind of stench that crawls into your throat and makes itself at home. Rot, salty and heavy. Russell pressed forward, leaning on a jagged stick he¡¯d scavenged for balance, stepping carefully through the stones. The ground was littered with fish carcasses, gutted and gnawed down to the bones, then tossed aside like candy wrappers. Russell kept his eyes on the pools as he went, hoping for some sign of fresh water, but all he found were scraps of sea life, sluggishly circling in stagnant, briny death traps. It was the worst kind of aquatic slum, a cocktail of trash and despair. If the jungle was a survivalist¡¯s nightmare, this place was a drunk hoarder¡¯s fever dream. Every pool told a story of neglect. Empty soda cans floated in formation, a tin-can armada. Shredded DUDU packages lay scattered, their contents raided. Plastic bits, knotted rope, and decades-old netting clogged the pools. Russell kicked through the debris and spotted a twisted car bumper, rusted to hell and back, missing its license plate ¡ª though, he had a feeling he knew where it had gone. A few VHS tapes bobbed in one corner like bloated corpses. Enough of them to start a rental store ¡ª if you were dumb enough to think a VHS comeback was still in the cards. But the biggest find came in the form of a pinball machine, slumped on its side in one of the deeper pools. Its paint had faded to faint ghosts of what used to be, but it was unmistakable: a relic from better days, now marinating in brine. Fish darted in and out of its cracked glass, making it more useful to them than it ever would be to Russell. The whole place was a shit-hole. Russell kicked a fish head off a rock, watching it splash into the nearest pool. "And these psychos are eating out of it," he said, shaking his head. No way in hell he¡¯d stoop that low. Raw trashbag-fish wasn¡¯t on the menu, not today, not ever. He didn¡¯t need their food, didn¡¯t want it. All he needed was their water. So where the hell were they hiding it? Russell leaned on his stick, fingers tapping against Tumzy on his chest as he scanned the mess. No jugs, no barrels, no bottles. Just filth and decay. ¡°Dammit.¡± He¡¯d been so sure this whole ¡°rob the assholes blind¡± plan would work out, he hadn¡¯t given much thought to a Plan B. The treeline loomed not far off, but if Hotness was even half-right, the jungle was no sanctuary. And Russell already had enough problems without adding whatever fresh hell lurked in there. Clicking his device, he scrolled through the menu again, praying he¡¯d missed some hidden ¡°emergency water¡± feature. Nothing. Of course not. Watching him flail was probably the whole point. Good television, right? Bastards. He glanced back at the tarp, still rippling in the breeze, its rude little warning flapping at him like a middle finger. Maybe he should just take the advice, pass out somewhere dramatic, and force the Gamemaster to step in. No way they¡¯d let him actually die out here. Right? ¡°No,¡± Russell said, shaking his head. He had way too much pride for that. Then he spotted it. Behind the tarp, something darker, deeper. The fabric wasn¡¯t just a warning ¡ª it was a curtain, hiding whatever was stashed behind it. Russell grinned, tossing his walking stick aside. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Gotcha.¡±
The cliff face was rough, jagged, and about as welcoming as a DMV, but Russell had his hands on it anyway, sizing up the climb. The tarp wasn¡¯t too high, but the way up wasn¡¯t laid out easy either ¡ª and this wasn¡¯t exactly his line of work. He scanned the rock face, spotting a few narrow ledges zigzagging toward the tarp. They weren¡¯t exactly pathways, he¡¯d have to press himself against the cliff just to use them, but they¡¯d do. Problem was, none of them dipped low enough to grab. No stairs, no handrails, just a wall that didn¡¯t give a damn. Then he saw the boulders at the base of the cliff. Big, black, scorched bastards, piled up like a giant had dropped them there and walked off. They looked like leftovers from some rockslide, huddled together in a way that might form a makeshift ramp. Key word: might. Russell hated might. But standing there feeling sorry for himself wasn¡¯t an option either. He adjusted Tumzy around his neck and gave the stupid panda a pat. ¡°We got this, pal.¡± The boulders were hot to the touch, gritty with soot, like they¡¯d been through hell. Each step smeared black streaks on his hands, but he climbed anyway, taking it slow. Every few feet, he stopped to catch his breath, forcing himself not to look down. His throat burned, his legs wobbled, but he pressed on, cursing every stupid life choice that had landed him here. At the top of the pile, he paused, sucking in as much air as his cigarette-abused lungs would allow. The gap to the cliff wasn¡¯t far ¡ª just a jump. But not the kind you could screw up. The ledge on the other side was barely wider than a shoe, just enough to shimmy up the rest of the way if he landed it right. One misstep, and he¡¯d be nothing but a crumpled mess at the bottom. ¡°Don¡¯t think about it,¡± he said. He wiped the non-existent sweat from his head, bent his knees, and leapt. For one fleeting second, Russell was airborne. Just a man and gravity, locked in a duel. BA-DING! In the middle of his fateful jump, his device gave an upbeat little chime ¡ª a cheerful sound at odds with the fact that he might die in the next half-second. WHAM! He hit the ledge hard, scraping his arms and knees against the rock, his body flailing to stay vertical. ¡°Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,¡± he hissed, clinging to the rock like it was the bosom of a centerfold model. His heart pounded in his throat, but after a moment of sheer panic, he realized he wasn¡¯t falling. Not yet, anyway. He pressed himself flat against the cliff, forcing his breathing to slow, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. Then, one shaky hand after another, he dragged himself the rest of the way up. When he finally reached the tarp, his chest felt like it might explode, but for the first time all day, his head didn¡¯t feel like it was swimming through molasses. Something about his dehydration had changed. Huh. Maybe exercise wasn¡¯t bullshit after all. He shook the thought away, grabbed the edge of the tarp, and yanked it aside just enough to squeeze through. ¡°God damn,¡± Russell said, stepping into the primitive little hideout. The cave, or at least what Russell could see of it, wasn¡¯t much to look at. About the size of a dingy motel room ¡ª the kind where you could park your car right outside the door, if you didn¡¯t mind risking your hubcaps. The decor wasn¡¯t any better. Two makeshift bedrolls were shoved against opposite walls: one a sagging cardboard palette stained darker in places that Russell didn¡¯t want to think about, the other a deflated yellow raft, like something a seven-year old would use in the backyard pool. Straight ahead, the cave swallowed itself in darkness, the kind of black that made you think twice before stepping forward. How far it went, what was lurking back there ¡ª hell if Russell knew, and he wasn¡¯t about to find out. His eyes stung, vision blurry unless he got close to something, but he didn¡¯t need sharp eyesight to tell him the place was sparse. It was clear this wasn¡¯t home sweet home; this was survival by the skin of your teeth. But they¡¯d gone to all the trouble of hiding it behind a tarp, which meant they had something worth hiding. Water, maybe. He had to find it. He started with the cardboard bedroll. Beneath a heap of salt-stained clothes that reeked like Hotness himself, there was nothing but a few loose-leaf papers ¡ª they looked like photos even, but Russell didn¡¯t waste his time with them. He wrinkled his nose and kicked the pile aside, catching sight of a cluster of empty tuna cans scattered around the base of the bedroll. That wasn¡¯t the worst of it. There were napkins, too ¡ª a dozen or more, crumpled and stiff, frozen in their folded misery. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ve gotta be kidding me,¡± Russell groaned, staggering back like the napkins were radioactive. ¡°Gross motherfucker!¡± Had he really climbed all this way to raid some psycho¡¯s jerk-off station? The thought alone was enough to make his already-foggy brain break in half. He rubbed his temples, willing the image away. He¡¯d check the other bedroll and pray to whatever cruel gods existed that Mari wasn¡¯t sharing Hotness¡¯s hobbies. Her side of the cave didn¡¯t offer much better. Inside the raft, Russell found an old in-flight magazine warped with moisture, a tube of lipstick, and a couple of sharpening stones. He fanned the magazine, hoping to knock loose something tucked inside, but no dice. More useless shit. Not a drop of water in sight. ¡°FUCK!¡± The word tore out of him before he could stop it. He ripped Tumzy¡¯s lanyard off his neck, furious at everything and nothing, and punted the panda into the cave¡¯s shadowy depths. His bruised foot screamed in protest, and Russell let out a yelp that echoed through the cave like a wounded animal. He collapsed onto the filthy floor, clutching his foot, curling himself fetal in defeat. His chest heaved, his throat burned, and his head spun with exhaustion and shame. This was it. He was done. Let the Gamemaster have their fun, he thought bitterly. Let them send in a stretcher for the guy in piss-stained leggings, film it all for the audience to see. He could already imagine the episode title: World¡¯s Worst Survivalist Cries Uncle in Jack Shack of Trash. Maybe it would be better this way. He¡¯d take a nap, wait for production to find him, and let the rest of the world laugh it up. It wouldn¡¯t be long now. It couldn¡¯t be. He¡¯d just close his eyes until they came¡­ ¡°Don¡¯t give up so easy, silly boy!¡± The voice snapped Russell out of his stupor, yanking him back from the brink of unconsciousness. His eyes shot open, darting around the cave in confusion. ¡°Who¡­ who said that?¡± Russell croaked. His voice echoed into the darkness, where it was met with an equally chirpy reply, fairy-like and feminine. ¡°You just lie there, die like big dummy? Come on, try harder, lazy guy!¡± The voice was sweet, playful even, but it came from the shadows like a ghost ¡ª friendly on the surface, but spooky as hell in the echoing dark. ¡°Who are you?¡± Russell asked, though deep down, the answer already itched at the back of his mind. The voice giggled, light and innocent. ¡°Wrong question. Who you? You big quitter? Or you man who get up, do work?¡± Russell swallowed hard, his voice shaky as he answered, ¡°The second one.¡± ¡°Then stand up, lazy man! Show you not dead weight!¡± Despite every fiber of his body screaming in protest, Russell dragged himself to his feet. He wobbled, unsteady but upright, and took a cautious step toward the voice. ¡°That¡¯s it, you move now! But careful, okay? Watch step!¡± ¡°I need light,¡± Russell said. ¡°Light would be good.¡± ¡°Then make light! You smart man, no?¡± Russell frowned but tapped at the device on his wrist, ignoring the notification that was blinking on the screen. It flared to life, blinding him momentarily as it lit up the cave. The glow revealed jagged rocks and uneven ground, stretching out into an open chamber that seemed to go on forever. The air felt colder, every step sinking him deeper into the icy void. Still, the voice pushed him forward. ¡°You do good! Step careful now, don¡¯t fall. Big hole in front!¡± Russell froze mid-step, glancing down. Sure enough, the ground dropped away just a few feet ahead, leaving a jagged ridge between him and a steep fall. He let out a shaky breath and adjusted his path, hugging the edge of the ridge as he moved toward the source of the voice. ¡°Where are you?¡± he called out, best as he could muster. ¡°Here! Come quick! I not wait all day!¡± He followed the sound, the light from his device bobbing with each step. His foot hit something solid ¡ª a small object, kicking it lightly toward the cliff¡¯s edge. ¡°Ahh! Help me, clumsy guy, you kick me!¡± Instinct took over. Russell dove, snatching the thing just before it tumbled into the abyss. He sat back, catching his breath, holding the object in his hands. It felt familiar. ¡°Whew! Good save, close call!¡± The voice chirped, this time coming from the thing he held. Russell lifted it into the light of his device, still ignoring the message on the screen. ¡°Tumzy?¡± The panda bottle grinned back at him, its painted mouth somehow moving. ¡°Who else, silly man? You forget me already?¡± Russell stared, disbelief plastered across his face. His first instinct was to hurl the talking toy into the darkness, but he stopped himself. Curiosity got the better of him. ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± he asked. ¡°Big trouble for you,¡± Tumzy said. ¡°On brink of death, no good! So I come help and you no give up.¡± ¡°No death. They¡¯ll come get me,¡± Russell said. ¡°This game¡¯s over. I¡¯m done.¡± ¡°Ha! Not so sure. Remember what Gamemaster say, ¡®You survive, or you not.¡¯ That mean you on own, dumb-dumb.¡± ¡°Fuck that guy,¡± Russell muttered, sagging against a rock. ¡°I¡¯m cold. I¡¯m tired. I just wanna sleep.¡± ¡°Sleep later! Water close, very close! You almost have it, but you quit now? Bad move. Reach out, take what you need.¡± Russell groaned, his body barely responding. He scanned the cave with his device. He could make out the line of the ridge, the curtained light from back the way he came, and then something else. Something shiny not far from the edge of the ridge. Metallic, almost within his reach. With a groan of effort, Russell dragged himself forward, sliding across the ground on his belly like a seal. His hand brushed the cold surface of the object. It was rectangular, solid. He felt around until his fingers closed around, my god, a handle. He gasped, and he could¡¯ve sworn dust came out of his throat. ¡°Yes, yes! You got it! Big strong man!¡± ¡°Shut up,¡± Russell grunted, pulling the object closer. Plastic wheels squeaked over the rocky ground as the thing rolled into view. It was a beverage cart, the kind flight attendants used on airplanes, maybe a little smaller. Russell stared at it, baffled. ¡°What the hell is this doing here?¡± ¡°Does it matter, smart guy? Open it!¡± Russell hesitated, then spotted the words scrawled across its side in smudged lipstick: KEEP COOL. His heart thudded. Above the message, another handle. With trembling hands, he yanked it open. Inside were rows of water bottles, glistening with condensation, packed tight like buried treasure. Russell¡¯s eyes sparkled, and even Tumzy¡¯s painted ones lit up in excitement. One voice was a Saturday morning cartoon, the other a hoarse whisper, but together they nailed the only phrase that fit the moment. ¡°FUCK YEAH!¡± CHAPTER 8: The Perks of Being an Idiot The cave floor was a battlefield, littered with empty water bottles. Russell sat in the middle of it, belly bloated, grinning like a troll gloating over the goat bones of his conquests. ¡°We did it,¡± he said, clutching Tumzy. ¡°We did it.¡± He waited, expecting a response, a shared note of celebration from his oddly animated water-holding pal. To his disappointment, it never came. He waited, but the silence was broken by a sucker-punch of nausea that hit his gut like a boot. BAM. He shoved the beverage cart aside, flopped himself to the edge of the ridge, and let loose. Of the seven bottles he¡¯d inhaled, about four of them came right back up, splattering into the dark below. From the sound of it, the drop wasn¡¯t far ¡ª maybe five or six feet. No bottomless pit of doom here, just a dirty lower level. Russell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the wall. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Tumzy,¡± he muttered, his voice scratchy. ¡°Still got plenty left in the tank.¡± Tumzy, however, still didn¡¯t speak. Russell shook the panda, held it up to his device, tapped the beret a few times. Nothing. Just a lifeless plastic bottle once more, looking stupid and smug. Where was the friend that led him to salvation when he needed it most? He felt clear-headed for the first time in hours, and now that clarity came with an uncomfortable thought: maybe Tumzy hadn¡¯t talked at all. Maybe it had all been in his head, a fever dream cooked up by dehydration and desperation. But it had felt very, very real. That¡¯s when he finally noticed the blinking of his device, flickering like it had been trying to flag him down for hours ¡ª which, for minutes at least, it had. He squinted at the screen, the glow cutting a sharp line through the cave¡¯s darkness. A notification filled the display, bold and in-your-face:
PERK ACQUIRED!
Russell blinked, then focused on the silly animation that had filled the screen. It was him, in cartoon form. A little Russell caricature, mascot leggings and everything ¡ª curled up in the fetal position, convulsing on repeat like a GIF. Surrounding him were cheerful little spirits, waving signs of encouragement: ¡°DON¡¯T DIE!¡± and ¡°GET THE FUCK UP!¡± The whole thing was ridiculous, but Russell couldn¡¯t look away. He read the Perk information below the silly cartoon.
HOARSE WHISPERER You¡¯ve danced on the edge of dehydration so severe it cracked the veil between reality and insanity.
EFFECT: Grants the ability to "hear" cryptic advice, taunts, or insights from inanimate objects and imagined characters during moments of extreme survival.
Russell stared at it, reading it twice, then a third time for good measure. When the hell had this kicked in? Back on the cliff maybe, during that leap of faith? He vaguely remembered a cheerful little chime. Figures. He nearly died, and what did he get for his efforts? Fucking schizophrenia. ¡°This is such bullshit,¡± he said out loud to nobody in particular. ¡°I don¡¯t want schizophrenia!¡± But there was no way he was actually hearing voices. The panda wasn¡¯t just some cheap plastic bottle; clearly, the Gamemaster had rigged it. That had to be it. The thing was more than just a broken-English cheerleader in a French beret. It was a mouthpiece. A plant. An agent of the show. An asshole! Russell looked down at Tumzy, angrily. ¡°How could you betray me like this?¡± he said through gritted teeth. ¡°I thought we were homies!¡± He stood up and shuffled to the ridge, reeling back to throw Tumzy into the deeper cavern beyond. But before he could do it, voices echoed through the cave. Russell froze, listening. They weren¡¯t in his head. These were real, loud, and coming closer. It was Hotness, madder than hell, going off about something or other. And he was just outside the tarp. Russell¡¯s threatening grip on Tumzy turned into a fearful embrace. His voice dropped to a whisper. ¡°Oh shit dude, we gotta go!¡± He scanned the cave, heart pounding. No time for a grand escape. No way he¡¯d make it out without being spotted. He looked around for options ¡ª anywhere to hide. The shadows were deep, but not deep enough. And when they came for their water, they¡¯d find him sooner or later, surrounded by the empty bottles of his shame. His eyes darted back to the ridge. The drop to an unseen level ¡ª down to where he¡¯d barfed big-time just a minute or so ago. Not ideal, but it¡¯d have to do. He pulled Tumzy close, sucked in a sharp breath, and rolled over the edge. He hit the ground hard, the air knocking out of him, but the sound of his landing was masked by Hotness yanking the tarp open, moaning as he went. Hotness stormed into the cave, his steps heavy and full of purpose. ¡°I swear to God,¡± he said, flopping down on the beat-up cardboard he called a bed, ¡°when I catch that little shit again, I¡¯m gonna knock him so hard he¡¯ll smell the secret herbs and spices.¡± He grabbed an empty tuna can from the mess around him and flung it into the darkness at the back of the cave. It clattered against a wall somewhere beyond Russell, who was crouched low in the shadows just beneath the ridge. His heart thudded in his chest as the can skipped past, close enough to rattle his nerves. He held his breath, wondering if Hotness was onto him, baiting him out with these half-assed throws. But no, Hotness just grumbled and grabbed another empty can. ¡°Friggin¡¯ little asshole,¡± he muttered, letting it fly. It skidded and tumbled off the ledge, landing uncomfortably close to where Russell crouched. He shifted slightly, keeping his movements slow and quiet. ¡°Chill,¡± Mari said, her voice low and calm. Russell hadn¡¯t even heard her come in. She moved like a ghost, barely disturbing the tarp as she entered. ¡°We¡¯ll find him. Not a lot of places for a naked fool to hide.¡± Russell exhaled quietly. They weren¡¯t talking about him ¡ª yet. This was about the naked rock-thrower. Whatever beef they had with that guy ran deep. Hopefully deep enough that they forgot about Russell entirely. ¡°Yeah, and what about the other one?¡± Hotness asked. ¡°The half-a-Muppet from the beach.¡± Russell winced. Spoke too soon. ¡°What¡¯chu worried about?¡± Mari said. ¡°You said he just woke up here. We find him again, put him to work. Easy-peasy, no problem.¡± Hotness chuckled, a low, nasty sound. ¡°Look at you, mastering the art of pimpin¡¯. Student becomes the master.¡± Mari muttered something sharp in Spanish that sounded less than complimentary, and Hotness snorted. The room fell into a tense silence as the two of them moved around, each doing their own thing. Russell clenched his teeth. They were still after him, still planning to turn him into their personal errand boy. Not a chance. His thirst was quenched, his head clearer, and while he wasn¡¯t exactly in fighting shape, he could throw a punch if it came down to it.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Still, he¡¯d rather have an edge ¡ª and he didn¡¯t mean his unwanted perk of auditory hallucinations (which was bullshit, he reminded himself). He needed a weapon, anything that could split a skull if he needed. He fumbled in the dark, feeling around for anything he could use. A rock, a stray tuna can, anything. His fingers brushed against something soft. Fabric? What the¡ª He flinched, then crept back to it, patting cautiously. Beneath the cloth was something solid. He felt its shape ¡ª a stubby cylinder with a fat, rounded end. A wrench? No, not quite. It felt older, more brutal. It could work. ¡°You check your level?¡± Mari¡¯s voice cut through the silence, making Russell freeze mid-grab. ¡°Nah,¡± Hotness replied. Russell heard the faint taps of plastic as Hotness accessed his device, then a pause. ¡°I dunno, progress bar moved a little. This system¡¯s so stupid. I shoot badass outta my fat hog every day. World¡¯s a more badass place ¡®cause I woke up this morning. I should be like, Level 9000 by now!¡± ¡°C, you gotta make it happen. We¡¯re close to unlocking the¡ª¡± ¡°I know, I know,¡± Hotness grumbled. Russell¡¯s brow furrowed. C? Was that a name? A nickname? He¡¯d been calling the guy ¡°Hotness¡± in his head for so long, he hadn¡¯t considered he might have an actual name. ¡°You don¡¯t have to be on my ass about it,¡± Hotness added. ¡°I¡¯ll go out there and bust a nut of badass all over this goddamn island.¡± Russell rolled his eyes in the dark. Mari probably did the same, based on her tone. ¡°Oh yeah, when you gonna do that, huh?¡± ¡°Later, dammit!¡± Hotness responded. ¡°I just need some water first.¡± ¡°Not too much,¡± Mari warned. ¡°We gotta make it last.¡± ¡°What did I just say about being on my ass?¡± His voice grew louder, closer, as he entered the darkness of the cave, feeling his way towards the snack trolley. Russell heard the squeak of the metal door opening. He held his breath. ¡°Yo, what the fuck?¡± Hotness¡¯s voice jumped an octave. ¡°Where¡¯d you put it?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°A shitload of the water¡¯s gone, Mari. Don¡¯t mess with me. You planning on cutting out on me? We¡¯re supposed to be a goddamn team.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t take anything,¡± Mari snapped. ¡°What are you even talking about?¡± ¡°Take a look yourself.¡± Hotness¡¯s tone was sharp, angry, but there was something else there ¡ª paranoia, maybe even fear. Russell stayed perfectly still, listening to their frantic rustling as Mari checked the cart, just above his head. She frisked around in the darkness, finding the plastic bottles, evidence of Russell¡¯s robbery. ¡°Shit!¡± she hissed. Her voice echoed through the cave. ¡°That purple-leg bastardo! It has to be him.¡± Hotness¡¯s voice hit a pitch just shy of a shout. ¡°Mari, be straight with me. If you¡¯re trying to run out on me, we¡¯re both fucked¡ª¡± ¡°IT. WASN¡¯T. ME,¡± Mari fired back, each word landing like a slap. ¡°We should¡¯ve tied him up when we found him. First Shoji, now this fuckin¡¯ guy. Ay dios m¨ªo¡­¡± Hotness started pacing, his footsteps loud and uneven, the sound of a man unraveling. ¡°They think they can walk all over us. Like we¡¯re some kinda punks.¡± His voice had a new edge to it, sharp and jagged, like something dangerous was clawing its way out. ¡°Maybe if you hadn¡¯t tried to steal his stupid panda¡­¡± ¡°Oh, here we FUCKIN¡¯ go!¡± Hotness¡¯s pacing stopped abruptly. ¡°You¡¯re the one who said all those packages are worth grabbing, even though they¡¯re full of cheap-ass off-brand SHIT. Then, the one time I get my hands on something that actually holds water, I¡¯m the fuckin¡¯ bad guy!¡± Mari let out a bitter laugh, the kind that cuts deeper than words. ¡°Ya c¨¢llate con tus mamadas. You didn¡¯t grab it for water! You thought it was cute, est¨²pido. What, you planning to open a toy store now?¡± Hotness didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°SO WHAT IF I AM?!¡± For a second, it seemed like they might go at each other, their voices huffing and snapping like two alley cats about to scrap. Russell, crouched below the ridge, wanted more than anything to poke his head up for a look. But he stayed put, arms tight around Tumzy, even as curiosity itched at him like a bad rash. Finally, Hotness broke the tension with a growl. ¡°I need the cave. I need me time.¡± Mari laughed again, meaner this time. ¡°No. You¡¯re just gonna use my magazine to jerk off again. Fuck that. I want the cave for me time.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not your mag¡ª¡± Hotness started, then stopped, throwing his hands up, realizing he didn¡¯t want to go there. ¡°You know what? Fine. I¡¯ll be outside. Doing badass shit, earning levels like a MAN.¡± He stomped off, shoving past the tarp on his way out. Mari exhaled loudly, muttering after him, ¡°Yeah, you do that. Maybe go find Shoji¡¯s make-believe boat so we can get the fuck outta here while you¡¯re at it.¡± Russell froze. Boat. ¡°This fucking place,¡± Mari muttered, low and bitter, but Russell caught it clear as day. And as much as he agreed with the South American psycho, the bigger headline was the boat. Someone found a boat. His boat. The cave settled into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the faint sound of Hotness stomping and swearing his way across the tide pools. Then came the scrape ¡ª metal on stone, steady and deliberate. Mari was sharpening something. Russell didn¡¯t have to see it to know it was her spear. The rhythm of it carried a kind of menace, the kind that made you want to stay real still and out of sight. At least it gave him enough noise to breathe without giving himself away. Russell hadn¡¯t forgotten the thing in the dark ¡ª the one he figured might just save his skin if push came to shove. His fingers brushed the fabric again, prodding it, coaxing out its secrets. Whatever it was, he needed to see it. Moving slow, he lit up the device, praying the soft blue glow wouldn¡¯t catch Mari¡¯s attention. SHHRT, SHHRT. Mari¡¯s blade scraped against the rock in steady rhythm. Russell eased his head up over the ridge like a prairie dog checking for predators. She was still hunched over her work, laser-focused on turning sharp into sharper. He ducked back down, tilting the light toward the object he¡¯d been feeling for. The glow hit, and suddenly it all came into focus. The fabric wasn¡¯t just any cloth ¡ª it was a pair of swim trunks, orange sherbet bright, the kind a guy wears to a beach party with a six-pack under his arm. Above that, a faded floral shirt. And all of it was clinging to the bones of a guy long-gone. Russell was looking at a dead man.
Russell swallowed the panicked shout building in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stared at the skeleton splayed out in the cave¡¯s hidden depths. The poor guy, down here in the dark, had gone completely unnoticed by the two inhabitants of the cave. That, or they just didn¡¯t give a shit. He swallowed again, fighting the urge to back off, and leaned closer. The guy ¡ª or what was left of him ¡ª looked like he¡¯d been down here long enough to become part of the d¨¦cor. Almost real enough to make Russell barf again, but his mind overpowered his stomach. He wasn¡¯t buying it. This was just more stage dressing in this sick sideshow. Either way, he had to hand it to whoever set this up. Killer detail. Too good. This was one dead beach bum done right. With his arms splayed wide and feet together, the beach bum was laid like fun-in-the-sun Jesus on the cross ¡ª minus the head, of course. It had been smashed flat under a boulder the size of a beach ball. Russell¡¯s eyes drifted to the rock ¡ª heavy and blackened, crusted with soot. He rubbed a bit of the residue between his fingers and sniffed. That smell ¡ª burnt, acrid ¡ª took him right back to the time they¡¯d stuffed him into the Dinger the Bear suit and tried to fire him out of a cannon during the seventh inning stretch. The suit came out toasted; Russell nearly came out with a busted arm. His eyes wandered to the skeleton¡¯s hand. Sure enough, there was a device strapped to its wrist, just like his own. Nice touch. He tapped the screen, half-curious if the thing would light up and show him something useful. Nothing. Just another prop to sell the illusion, apparently. ¡°Cute,¡± he whispered, shaking his head. Russell fondled the skeleton¡¯s floral shirt, his fingers grazing over something in the front pocket. He fished out a pair of orange party shades, holding them up to the glow of his device. Cheap plastic, scratched to hell ¡ª the kind you wear to get trashed at the beach, fully expecting them to end up at the bottom of the sea by sunset. He smirked, but shook his head. This wasn¡¯t it. Not what he¡¯d felt earlier. That had been heavier, solid ¡ª something with weight. So where the hell was it? Russell¡¯s eyes traveled down, past the ruined swim trunks to a pair of flip-flops on each foot, simple and sun-bleached. Useful, but the flip-flops were also not what Russell had fondled in the dark. His eyes went up, towards the waistband of the trunks. There it was ¡ª something thicker, half-hidden by the elastic band and whatever remained of the poor bastard¡¯s hips. He tugged it free, holding it up to the glow of his device. He turned it over in his hands, squinting at its shape. It was a wooden stick, smooth and worn, attached to a short, stubby cylinder of metal at the end, where it carried its weight. It had a certain rugged quality, like it belonged in a toolbox or maybe an old military surplus store. There were even some faint markings etched into the metal, instructions maybe, but they were too worn to make out in the dim light. Huh¡­ he thought to himself, turning it over again. It¡¯s like a billy club. Something an old-time cop would use. Because that was the rub ¡ª the thing was certainly old. But he gave the club a few test swings, feeling the weight shift as the metal end carried momentum. Yeah, this thing could do some damage. If only he knew.
Mari worked the jagged edge of the license plate against the rock, scraping it over and over until the anger in her chest had dulled. She paused, cheeks puffed full of air, then let it out slow as she studied her work. Her spear had been sharp enough to turn heads ¡ª now it could take them off. She¡¯d spent days perfecting it, though it was likely dangerous enough the moment she fished it out of the tide pool. Rust and tetanus were their own kind of weapons, after all. She stood, brushed the dirt off her legs, and pulled the tarp aside. The sun was sinking fast, painting the horizon in blood-orange streaks. Another day slipping into night. They¡¯d need a fire soon, and she didn¡¯t feel like fumbling around for kindling in the dark. Her eyes caught her companion deep in the tide pools. He was wailing on a busted pinball machine with a big stick, cursing to himself with every wallop, like some caveman who¡¯d just discovered an alien artifact fallen from the sky. Mari shook her head. A neanderthal in designer denim, beating the crap out of something he couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°Oi,¡± she yelled, hands on her hips. ¡°What are you doing?¡± He looked up, panting. He gestured dramatically at the mangled machine with his stick. ¡°What¡¯s it look like? Badass shit.¡± Mari sighed. They¡¯d just had a blowout earlier, and she wasn¡¯t about to start another. ¡°Go crazy,¡± she said, giving him a thumbs-up. Who knows, maybe he was onto something. Neither of them really had a handle on how this ¡°badass progression¡± system worked, but violence always seemed to do the trick. If beating the hell out of a pinball machine got them closer to their next prize, she¡¯d take it. Worst-case, it kept her companion¡¯s hands busy and off his junk for a while. She dropped the tarp and turned back into the cave, intending to grab some water before beginning her trek for firewood. That¡¯s when she heard it ¡ª the squeak of wheels. Slow and ominous, like a cart rolling across a grocery store parking lot in the middle of the night. Mari froze, hand tightening on her spear. Then it emerged from the shadows: the beverage cart, with that ridiculous pink panda perched on top. Behind the cart was the last person she wanted to see. The purple-legged man had been pathetic the first time she¡¯d laid eyes on him, a sunburned wreck who reeked faintly of piss. Now he had been reborn a bandit, rocking party shades like he¡¯d pulled a heist in Cancun. He gave her a cheery wave as he rolled the cart, her cart, forward. ¡°Howdy,¡± he said, every bit the outlaw making off with his treasure. If you looked past his sunburns, the massive welt on his head, it was clear to see he was feeling better, no-doubt thanks to the stash of water he¡¯d stolen. And by the look of it, he planned to take the whole damn cart with him. Mari¡¯s eyes narrowed as she calculated her next move. She could call for her companion, rush the guy, or¡ª The purple-legged man waved the thing in his hand, grinning like he¡¯d just discovered fire. ¡°Don¡¯t stab me, alright?¡± he said, giving his weapon another little shake for emphasis. ¡°Just put your pig-sticker down or I¡¯ll, you know, bop you one.¡± Mari froze. She knew what she was looking at before he even finished his little cowboy act. Slowly, she lowered her spear, making sure to remember its exact location on the cave floor. ¡°Alright,¡± she said, her voice calm. ¡°Take it easy. What¡¯chu want?¡± The man blinked, clearly impressed by how well his brandishing routine was working. He pointed the thing at her raft, wagging it like a finger. ¡°Take a seat,¡± he said. ¡°Let¡¯s talk. That¡¯s all I want. I¡¯m not here to club anybody like a baby seal, but I will if I have to.¡± Mari didn¡¯t argue. There was no point. The purple-pants man was getting a taste of power, and she knew what that did to people. She had spent her life surrounded by it, growing up in a place where generals, guerrilla leaders, and gang lords fought endlessly over a crown of shit. She sized him up, this swaggering fool in party shades, and saw someone way in over their heads. He was playing dress-up as a bandit, thinking he had it all figured out. But Mari knew better. She knew danger when she saw it. Knew how to spot it before it blew up in her face. And she definitely knew what a grenade looked like, even if the dumbass holding it had no clue. CHAPTER 9: Main Character Syndrome ¡°You know what that is?¡± Mari asked. Russell studied the "billy club" in his hand, blazing with a newfound confidence that only hydration and the sweet, sweet taste of having the upper hand in a confrontation could bring. Mari hadn¡¯t taken her eyes off his weapon, her lips pressed tight. He could see the gears turning in her head, sizing up her odds. She didn¡¯t like them. Neither did Russell, really, but the fact was, he held the cards. Or at least one dangerous-looking stick she seemed deathly afraid of. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s my thwackin¡¯ stick,¡± he said. He jerked his chin towards the tarp. ¡°How long¡¯s pretty-boy gonna be out there?¡± Mari¡¯s eyes stayed locked on the grenade ¡ª though she hadn¡¯t called it that yet ¡ª and she gave the smallest shake of her head. ¡°Dunno.¡± Russell smirked, mostly at himself. He had to admit, it was wild how well this stupid bluff was working. A part of him felt bad, but not bad enough to stop. She¡¯d held a hunk of rust to his neck earlier, so, really, this was just karma balancing the books. Still, just to be sure, he gave her spear a casual nudge with his foot, sending it clattering across the floor. He moved to the tarp, easing it aside. The tide pools sparkled in the golden hour glow. The place might¡¯ve been beautiful, if not for all the trash, and the fool who was bashing a busted pinball machine with Russell¡¯s old walking stick. Each swing Hotness took with the stick was punctuated with a bellow. ¡°Level me up, god dammit!¡± THWACK. ¡°Fucking. Piece. Of. Shit!¡± THWACK. Russell let the tarp fall back. ¡°That guy¡¯s a moron on a mythological level.¡± Mari¡¯s glare cut just as hard as her spear ever could. ¡°If you¡¯re gonna talk, then talk,¡± she snapped. ¡°But stop shaking that thing around, okay?¡± Russell plopped himself down on Hotness¡¯ crusty cardboard bed, ignoring how gross it was. He¡¯d sat in worse ¡ª his own pee and puke, both in just the last few hours alone ¡ª and right now, he just wanted something between his ass and the cold, hard ground. He swept a pile of petrified napkins aside with a lazy flick of his flip-flop and the indifference of a half-assed housekeeper clearing out a cheap Vegas brothel. ¡°I¡¯m Russell,¡± he said, his tone flat, neighborly vibes long gone. ¡°I think I heard the guy call you Mari, right?¡± She stared at him for a beat, long enough to make it clear she wasn¡¯t a fan of small talk. Finally, she gave a nod, but that was it. Now that he got a better look at her, Russell pieced it together. Even without the spear, Mari was all sharp edges. Her don¡¯t-even-think-about-it attitude and her dark eyes had the kind of weight that made you feel like you¡¯d already lost whatever fight you were thinking about starting. The braid running halfway down her back was thick, almost menacing. Everything about her said she¡¯d been in more scraps than she cared to count. Definitely not someone to mess with. And yet, here he was. ¡°Do me a favor, Mari,¡± he said, pointing to Tumzy, perched on the beverage cart like a prize at a sad carnival. ¡°Fill my friend up, would you?¡± He almost cringed at calling Tumzy his friend. The stupid panda was most likely some rigged-up prop, part of the production¡¯s twisted game, but Tumzy was also his golden ticket to getting water out of this cave. There was no way he was lugging that cart down a cliff. Mari didn¡¯t move, sizing him up again. ¡°We don¡¯t got much left,¡± she said, her voice flat. ¡°Oh, I know,¡± Russell said, giving the grenade a casual shake. ¡°I don¡¯t feel good about any of this, but if being an asshole is what gets me out of here, then guess what? I¡¯m King Asshole, first of my name.¡± Her jaw tightened, but she finally let out a huff of frustration. With a look that could curdle milk, she dragged the cart closer to her raft, flipping open the hatch and unscrewing Tumzy¡¯s beret. ¡°Fill up my tum-tum-Tumzy!¡± Russell froze. His eyes darted around the cave, worried that the hallucinations had returned. His grip tightened on the grenade. ¡°You heard that, right?¡± he asked, his voice uneasy. Mari didn¡¯t move for a second, then gave a wary nod, like she wasn¡¯t sure if she was dealing with a lunatic. ¡°Good,¡± Russell said, swallowing hard. ¡°Good. Well, uh, best do as Tumzy says.¡± Mari worked the cap off the first water bottle, slow as a slug, making a show of struggling with it. Russell wasn¡¯t buying it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the grenade resting in his lap. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about boats,¡± he said. Mari didn¡¯t look up. ¡°What¡¯chu mean?¡± ¡°I heard you when you came in,¡± Russell said, nodding toward the back of the cave. ¡°You said a guy found a boat. That boat¡¯s gotta be the one I came here on. So tell me where it is.¡± Mari¡¯s fingers paused on the bottle, then resumed their deliberate twist. ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t listen so good. Shoji is a liar. Ain¡¯t no boat.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s Shoji?¡± ¡°A liar. Bad person.¡± Russell snorted. ¡°If he¡¯s the naked guy throwing rocks, I agree. Dude almost got my¡ª¡± He stopped short, thinking better of oversharing about his close call at a crab castration. ¡°Yeah, bad dude. But if that bad dude knows where to find my boat, then I gotta find him.¡± The water began to trickle into Tumzy¡¯s open top. Mari poured slow, her eyes flicking between the panda and the grenade in Russell¡¯s hand. ¡°I get it, you know,¡± she said, voice softer now. ¡°Day one. All you wanna do is bounce out.¡± She wiggled her device at him. ¡°Call it quits, go home. Yeah, I remember that¡­¡± Her words trailed off, and Russell¡¯s gaze shifted to the wall above her makeshift bed. He hadn¡¯t noticed it before, the black soot marking six short hash-marks. Six days. Had they really been here that long? The thought gnawed at him. ¡°I just wanna know what the fuck is going on,¡± Russell said, his voice rising. ¡°You and the pinball wizard out there really seem convinced we have to play this shit, but I¡¯m here to tell you we don¡¯t. So, come with me, back to the boat. Even the idiot outside can come.¡± Mari scoffed, shaking her head. ¡°I ain¡¯t going nowhere with you, man. You¡¯re dead and don¡¯t even know it.¡± Whatever chance Russell thought he had of getting through to her fizzled. He swung the grenade around like a conductor leading a symphony, adding flair to his words with wide, careless arcs. Mari¡¯s eyes tracked every movement, growing wider with each reckless swing. ¡°Think whatever you want,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m not dead. All I did was get drunk and fall off a boat. That¡¯s never had consequences for me before. All I have to do is get back onboard.¡± Mari tipped the empty bottle in her hand, shaking it lightly to show she¡¯d done as he demanded. Tumzy, now almost half-full, sat in front of Mari with a reserve that barely reached her belly button. Russell frowned at the waterline, giving her a once-over.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°More,¡± he said. ¡°Tumzy¡¯s a big girl. She¡¯s got room for a couple more.¡± Mari¡¯s lips tightened, her eyes flicking toward the spear lying just out of reach. Russell saw it, too, and tightened his grip on the grenade. The message was clear: don¡¯t even think about it. Mari exhaled through her nose ¡ª it might as well have been steam. But she buried her anger and reached into the cart for another bottle. Russell pulled the tarp back, just enough to peek out. Hotness was a picture of failure, slumped by the tide pools with his stick tossed to the side. He sat with his hands on his knees, staring at the sunset like it had personally insulted him. ¡°Tell me where to find Shoji,¡± Russell said, letting the tarp fall. ¡°You¡¯re wasting your time,¡± Mari said as she twisted the cap off another bottle. ¡°You can¡¯t trust him for shit. Lost his mind, like, day two. He hasn¡¯t found no boat, I promise you.¡± ¡°Well, how about you let me go ask Shoji, and I¡¯ll see what I can find out?¡± Russell leaned forward, the grenade balanced in his hand. ¡°Just tell me where he¡¯s at.¡± Mari¡¯s eyes dropped to the grenade again, and Russell caught a flicker of something in her face ¡ª contempt, sure, but maybe something else. Fear. His guilt tried to sneak in, but he shoved it aside. He wasn¡¯t the one with days of fresh water sitting in a cart. His gaze wandered past her, to the soot-streaked walls of the cave. Black char, thick in places, and blasted back in explosive movement. Black soot on the boulders, black soot on the walls... What the hell had happened in here? ¡°We chased him into the jungle,¡± Mari finally said, voice flat. ¡°You guys don¡¯t like the jungle, do you?¡± ¡°Hell no.¡± Mari flashed a sharp, fake smile as she poured a second bottle¡¯s worth of water into Tumzy. ¡°But if you wanna go for it, you do you.¡± Russell matched her smile, just as fake. ¡°Pour another bottle, how about?¡± Her shoulders stiffened, but she grabbed a third bottle, the cap twisting off in a snap of broken plastic. Her tongue moved like a snake striking from the darkness as she cursed him in Spanish. If looks could kill, Russell figured he¡¯d already be a smoldering pile of ash. Still, she poured. He had to give her credit for that much. ¡°It doesn¡¯t have to be this way. I said you guys could come with me,¡± Russell said, gesturing broadly, his grenade-free hand sweeping the area around Hotness¡¯ makeshift corner. ¡°But if you¡¯d rather take your chances here, at Jack-Off Mountain, then that¡¯s on yo¡ª¡± He stopped mid-sentence. Something under the layers of cardboard and filth caught his eye. A corner of glossy paper, sticking out like it didn¡¯t belong. He remembered seeing it earlier when he¡¯d been tearing through the cave looking for water. Back then, it hadn¡¯t been worth a second glance, but now, with a moment to think, his curiosity got the better of him. Keeping the grenade steady in his other hand, Russell leaned down and plucked the glossy paper from beneath the mess. It wasn¡¯t just a scrap; it was a photo. A professional headshot, no less. Like everything else on the island, the picture had seen better days. Its edges were frayed, scratches cut across the image. But there was no mistaking Hotness. His face stared back in over-the-top Hollywood lighting, the kind that screamed serious actor ¡ª or at least wannabe. Even better, he was wearing the exact same outfit as now, down to the grease-slick hair, a look made with gallons of product instead of days without bathing. At the bottom of the headshot, a name in bold font: Conrad Rock-Hard. Russell laughed as he flipped the photo around to show Mari. ¡°He¡¯s an actor? Seriously?¡± Mari didn¡¯t so much as flinch. Her expression stayed flat. To her, this was old news, and that only made it better for Russell. The pieces started falling into place in his mind, clicking together the poorly-written plot twist. He tapped the photo with his grenade like a wizard who¡¯d finally cracked the spell of all-seeing. ¡°Oh my god. It all makes sense now.¡± He thought back to long nights on the couch with his roommate Wayne, playing Big-tittied Warrior Woman Saves the Day. The game was jam-packed with bumbling background extras ¡ª villagers, shopkeepers, hapless cannon fodder. They weren¡¯t heroes, just simpletons meant to make the world feel alive. In gamer terms, these nobodies had a name: Non-Playable Characters. NPCs. The supporting cast to someone else¡¯s story. Every production needed a supporting cast, and just now, it hit Russell: he¡¯d found his. ¡°You¡¯re just an NPC!¡± Russell said, pointing at Mari. ¡°That¡¯s why you can¡¯t tell me how to quit. You¡¯re just a quest-giving asshole!¡± Whatever guilt Russell was having about stealing their water was immediately wiped clean. These weren¡¯t real people ¡ª they were characters. Props with a pulse. Mari stood up slowly, measuring how much trouble Russell was worth. ¡°Hey, Russell, or whatever your name is,¡± she said. ¡°I ain¡¯t no NPC. So don¡¯t call me that.¡± Russell barely heard her. He was too caught up in his own epiphany. ¡°Right, right,¡± he said, holding up his hand like he was calming a toddler. ¡°You¡¯re not NPCs ¡ª you¡¯re actors. Playing a role. Real-deal actors.¡± Mari exhaled hard, the kind of sound someone makes when they¡¯re done explaining something to a brick wall. ¡°You just don¡¯t get it, do you? You¡¯re so fucked, bro. You ain¡¯t gonna last a day.¡± Russell snatched Tumzy from in front of Mari, screwing the cap tight with a smug twist. He gave a lazy shrug, there was nothing she could say to bring him down. ¡°You know, I was wondering why you were so freaked out over my little club here, but now it clicks. You¡¯re acting scared. Playing your part. Gotta hand it to you, though ¡ª top-notch work. Bravo. I¡¯m sure the Academy will be calling any day now.¡± He strolled toward the tarp, dragging out his charade with every step. ¡°Sorry to piss on your big break, but you might wanna leave this role off your resume. Something tells me this production¡¯s gonna get tanked in post. Bad press, lawsuits, the whole nine yards.¡± He glanced back, pulling a fake sad face that made him look like a drunk theater kid. ¡°So tragic.¡± Mari crossed her arms, rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable except for the venom in her eyes. She didn¡¯t try to stop him. Instead, she said, almost conversationally, ¡°You know, this is almost worth losing the water.¡± Russell paused, halfway through shoving the tarp aside. ¡°Oh yeah? How¡¯s that?¡± Mari looked down and smiled, then tilted her head toward the object in his hand. ¡°Just knowing you¡¯re walking out of here, thinking you¡¯ve got this place all figured out. Thinking it¡¯s all fake. Meanwhile, you¡¯ve been holding a grenade this whole time, too stupid to realize it could blow your dumb ass straight to hell.¡± Now, that stopped Russell. His eyes dropped to the so-called billy club. He turned it over, narrowing his gaze, and yeah, he could admit it ¡ª he¡¯d been a little hasty claiming this thing as his Excalibur. But hey, desperate times. Here in the light of the cave¡¯s mouth, under Mari¡¯s smug scrutiny, he started seeing the little details he¡¯d blown past. The old metal casing. The wooden handle. The faint, faded markings that screamed vintage military hardware. His brain finally stumbled into the party, late and a little drunk. He¡¯d seen this kind of thing before, during the few times Wayne swapped his RPGs for hardcore WWII shooters. Stick grenades. Stubby little bombs on wooden handles, just like the one in his hand. Heavy, authentic, and built to blow things to hell. If it were real, anyway. But Russell dismissed the thought ¡ª it was just another well-made prop, designed to crank up the immersion of this bat-shit production. Immersion, he was realizing, was all that mattered. Russell knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was his game. And in his game, he was the main character. Nothing could hurt him. He had the strongest armor of all: plot armor. ¡°Huh,¡± he said, tossing the grenade up and catching it, as carefree as a baton-twirler. ¡°Would you look at that.¡± Mari hit the deck like he¡¯d just shouted fire in the hole. Russell let out a sharp laugh, the kind that says you¡¯re ridiculous and I¡¯m loving this all at once. ¡°Now that¡¯s how you commit to a role! You and the dead guy back there ¡ª hell of a cast.¡± Mari peeked up from her cowering position. She glanced toward the back of the cave, then back at Russell, her expression screaming dead guy, what the fuck? Russell waved her off. If he wasn¡¯t so sunburned, he¡¯d be red in the face from chuckling so damn much. ¡°No notes! You¡¯re killing it.¡± For his final flourish, he stepped onto the spear, bending it just enough to snap the rusted license plate loose. He stomped the deadly metal for good measure, then kicked the whole mess into the shadows, letting the clang echo through the cave like a closing curtain. ¡°And, scene!¡± he said, forming an imaginary clapperboard with his hands and snapping it shut. With a smug grin, he placed Tumzy around his neck and ducked out through the tarp. Behind him, Mari didn¡¯t move. Her hatred sat heavy in the air. Much like the grenade in Russell¡¯s hand, Mari had become a powder keg just waiting to go off.
Russell was halfway down the boulder pile when the license plate came whistling past his head. He ducked instinctively, but not quick enough. A sharp sting shot through his sun-scorched arm, and when he looked, blood was leaking from a freshly cleaved wound on his bicep. ¡°What the hell!¡± Russell spun toward the cave, clutching his bleeding arm. Mari stood at the entrance, framed by the tarp with its bold, flapping declaration: FUCK OFF. If she were the hero in a fantasy novel, those two words would be her house motto. And she looked every bit the part ¡ª fierce, unflinching, full of fury that matched his own. But she wasn¡¯t the hero. That was Russell¡¯s job. And she¡¯d broken the unspoken rules. Supporting characters don¡¯t take cheap shots at the lead. And they definitely don¡¯t try to give them a case of tetanus. ¡°I told you,¡± she said. ¡°You stealing the water, getting blown up. It was almost worth it,¡± Her voice was calm and venomous. ¡°But nobody steals from me.¡± Then she turned, calling out to Conrad, who had turned away from the sunset like an awakened ogre. ¡°Ay, C! Look who I found.¡± ¡°You Muppet FUCK!¡± Conrad roared, launching to his feet. Russell¡¯s stomach dropped. Mari came leaping down the cliff-face with ease, Conrad thundering across the tide pools. A spider and a bull, coming at him from different angles, and they had nothing but violence on their minds. Russell didn¡¯t wait to see what would happen when they reached him. ¡°Oh, shit,¡± he muttered, bolting for the tree line as he gripped Tumzy close to his chest. The loose rocks slipped under his feet as he scrambled, high-stepping like he was running hurdles. His new flip-flops weren¡¯t doing him any favors, but he couldn¡¯t ditch them. Not now. To buy himself some time, Russell held the grenade high above his head, waving it like an Olympic torch of doom. ¡°I¡¯ll do it!¡± he hollered over his shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t test me!¡± At the tree line, he chanced a glance back. His threat had stopped Mari, who had one hand clamped on Conrad¡¯s arm, holding him back. ¡°You¡¯re a dead man,¡± Conrad spat, his voice booming as he pointed to the jungle. ¡°Go in there, and you¡¯re a fucking dead man.¡± ¡°Uh-huh,¡± Russell said, stuffing the grenade into the waistband of his leggings like it was no big deal. ¡°Think I¡¯ll take my chances, Mr. Rock-Hard.¡± Conrad¡¯s face was a storm cloud, brewing by the second. He snarled, spat at the ground, but didn¡¯t move any closer. That alone was victory enough. Russell flashed them both a big, triumphant middle finger before backing into the thick green wall of jungle. He didn¡¯t stop moving for ten minutes, pushing through the never-ending tangle of vegetation, ignoring the sweat pouring down his face and the sting in his arm. Hell, it felt good to sweat again, and the cut on his arm a badge of honor from his first skirmish in this lunatic game. Proof he¡¯d survived something. The shouting from Mari and Conrad had faded, swallowed by the uncomfortable hum of the jungle. Everything was alive around him, but he couldn¡¯t see any of it. He almost missed the sound of the ocean waves. Almost. Then, the device on his wrist chimed. Russell stopped, glancing down. His own sunburned face stared back at him on the screen, the bird-flipping avatar the device had made him take earlier. Before he could curse it out, the little cartoon version of himself strutted onto the screen, this time decked out like a pint-sized foreman. Hard hat, hammer, the works. The little guy squinted up at the avatar like a sculptor sizing up a block of marble. Then, in a blur of cartoon chaos, the little guy whipped out a hammer and nails and flew around in a flurry of dust clouds, building a crude frame of driftwood and broken planks around the avatar¡¯s portrait. The finishing touch was a tiny plaque at the bottom: LEVEL 2. The device crowed in that overly-enthusiastic voice that Russell had come to despise.
¡°Level 2 Reached! That¡¯s Badass!¡±
Well hell, at least it was good news. CHAPTER 10: Adderall and Trucker Pills, a Love Story TWO WEEKS AGO ¡°You¡¯re out of your goddamn mind,¡± Russell said, and hell if he didn¡¯t mean it. Buzz just laughed ¡ª that loud, reckless laugh that told Russell he didn¡¯t have a chance. ¡°That¡¯s what they say about all the greats,¡± Buzz said. They were standing on the dock, looking out at the massive sailing yacht that, according to Buzz, was going to be his home for the next six months. And what a home it would be ¡ª the boat was a stunner. The kind of yacht that screamed wealth and whispered promises of champagne sunsets. It looked like something straight out of a high-end watch commercial, where the action hero sails off with a supermodel draped over his arm, and by nightfall, she¡¯s bent over the polished chrome rails. Must have been 75 feet of pure luxury, before Spazz¡¯s unhinged marketing team had gotten hold of it. The giant sail was obnoxiously purple, emblazoned with ¡°SPAZZ: JOLT YOUR INSIDES¡± in bold, lightning-like letters that could be read from space. Whatever dignity the yacht might¡¯ve had was long gone, sunk by bad branding and, to Russell''s dismay, the absence of supermodels. He scratched at his beard, trying to piece together how, in the name of all that was sane, he¡¯d let himself get roped into this. Buzz said he had a job for Russell, but he still didn¡¯t have a damn clue what it was. ¡°Run it by me again,¡± Russell said. ¡°Slower this time. You were talking so fast on the phone, I barely caught a word.¡± Buzz clapped his hands together with a monumental force. He¡¯d always been a high-energy guy, but Spazz had taken him to a whole new stratosphere. ¡°Here¡¯s the deal, pal: The bigwigs at Spazz want me to sail this beauty all the way around the goddamn world.¡± The words tumbled out of him, fast and manic. Russell raised a hand to stop the runaway train before it derailed completely. ¡°Why?¡± he asked, skeptical from the get-go. Buzz considered for a half-second, as if he¡¯d never really considered it before. ¡°Because that¡¯s what Spazz does, man!¡± Buzz said, pointing to the ridiculous sail. ¡°They sponsor all kinds of wild shit to move their product. F1 racing, train-hopping hobo speedruns, something called competitive gooning. If it¡¯s extreme, Spazz wants a piece. And now? Now it¡¯s time for long-haul sailing. Across the goddamn globe, baby.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen the videos, it¡¯s always some crazy shit. But the people in those videos doing the crazy shit, they¡¯re professionals. Whatever their weird thing is, they¡¯ve been doing it for years. No offense man, but what do you bring to the table?¡± Buzz snapped his fingers, pointing at Russell with electric pride. ¡°Exactly! That¡¯s why this works. I¡¯m the salty old dog, the advisor, the guy behind the scenes. What Spazz needs now is new blood. A fresh face of the brand, you dig?¡± He paused, letting it sink in, before dropping his brilliant bomb. ¡°That¡¯s where you come in, partner. I¡¯m saying I want you to join me. My first mate, my prot¨¦g¨¦, the new face of Spazz Energy.¡± Russell blinked. ¡°So, I¡¯d be like a¡­ brand ambassador?¡± ¡°Sure, call it what you want!¡± Buzz clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°Face of the brand, my man! I¡¯ll be your Jedi Master, helping you refine your craft ¡ª but you¡¯ll be front and center. We¡¯ll film as much as we can while we sail ¡ª promo videos, behind-the-scenes stuff, the works. This isn¡¯t just a stunt, buddy. It¡¯s the viral marketing campaign that¡¯s gonna blow all their other bullshit outta the water.¡± Russell cocked an eyebrow. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve seen those highlights of the professional gooners. Talk about endurance.¡± Buzz grinned, he¡¯d been waiting for this. He reached into his pocket and tossed a packet of Spazz Energy Russell¡¯s way. Russell juggled it for a second before catching it, saving it from a swim. ¡°That¡¯s the beauty of it, pal,¡± Buzz said, his grin stretching wider. ¡°We¡¯ve got the same leg-up all them other crazy bastards did. The powder. We¡¯ll be running on the stuff the whole trip.¡± He paused, then quickly added, ¡°You know, as per our contract.¡± ¡°What?¡± Russell said, but Buzz continued, practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he poked at the packet in Russell¡¯s hand. ¡°This boat¡¯s stocked with enough of this shit to fuel a Berlin fuck-club for a decade. They say the trip will take six months, but I say we crush it in three. Legends, man. That¡¯s what we¡¯re gonna be. Fucking legends.¡± Russell eyed the packet of Spazz like it might grow fangs and go for his throat. Truth was, Buzz picking him for this wild-ass scheme hit a nerve he didn¡¯t like to admit existed. Made him feel wanted, maybe even valued. But while Buzz wasn¡¯t the type to screw him over, he also wasn¡¯t the type to read a label. Russell had done some digging on Spazz, and what he had found under all that purple powder was a fine print they didn¡¯t want people to read. He flipped the Spazz packet around, pointing to the ingredient list for Buzz to see. ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to talk to you about this. You know what¡¯s in this shit, right? If Adderall hooked up with trucker pills and shat out a baby, it¡¯d be purple. ¡°Aw, come on,¡± Buzz said. He plucked the packet from Russell¡¯s hand and shook it like it was magic dust. ¡°This is pixie sticks for grown-ups. Harmless as apple pie. I mean, I¡¯ve been on this stuff for a month, and look at me.¡± Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. He thrust out one of his meat-hook hands, the fingers jittering out of their knuckles. He¡¯d probably look more relaxed sticking a fork in an electrical socket. ¡°See? Alert! Focused! Like a goddamn spider monkey!¡± Russell was inching towards the part of the conversation he really didn¡¯t want to have. ¡°It¡¯s just, with your heart condition, you may wanna talk to a doctor about this stuff.¡± Buzz threw his arms wide, opening up his chest. ¡°You think the Spazz suits would pay for two months of sailing lessons if they didn¡¯t have a doc look me over first? I jumped on a video chat with some white-coat from Croatia or something. He didn¡¯t speak a lick of English, but he watched me do a few jumping jacks and gave me the all-clear. I¡¯m fine, buddy.¡± Russell rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. Fuck it, he thought. Just say it. ¡°Look, maybe it ain¡¯t my place Buzz, but what with you being in recovery¡ª¡± ¡°Stop right there,¡± Buzz said, gripping Russell¡¯s shoulders. His voice softened ¡ª this was not the Buzz ever shown on the infomercials. ¡°This isn¡¯t a relapse, man. This is a comeback. What we have right here, right in front of our goddamn hands, is a comeback.¡± Buzz walked a few steps down the dock, holding his hands out in front of the boat as if to say can you believe it? ¡°You know I¡¯ve had it rough,¡± Buzz said. ¡°Hell, the whole world knows I¡¯ve had it rough, but I know you have too. But if we ¡ª no, when we pull off a stunt like this, the gates¡¯ll open wide. Job offers coming in from every direction. Forget Dinger the Bear. Forget Jack-Off the Pirate. You¡¯ll be Russell Murphy. Just you.¡± Russell felt himself being tugged forward, not by Buzz¡¯s arm but by his sheer gravitational pull. Was Buzz offering him a chance at something real? Like a cartoon character sniffing out a pie on a windowsill, Russell drifted closer until they were both standing in the shadow of that absurd purple sail. Buzz threw an arm around his shoulders, the grin locked in like it was going to seal the deal. ¡°Look at it, Russ. It¡¯s all there. All you gotta do is grab it. Take the wheel with me, and we¡¯ll sail straight into the future. No looking back.¡± Russell let his eyes wander over the yacht again ¡ª the sleek lines, the polished deck, the promise of something bigger than the mess he¡¯d been calling a life. Buzz wasn¡¯t wrong. It was a hell of a pitch. And yeah, it was one hell of a boat. Even with that obnoxious sail screaming SPAZZ: JOLT YOUR INSIDES. If they got lost at sea, the coast guard wouldn¡¯t need a distress signal ¡ª they¡¯d just fire up a satellite and zero in on the purple assholes. ¡°And we get paid up-front?¡± Russell asked. ¡°Money hits your account the day we set sail.¡± Russell sighed, shaking his head like he was already regretting it. Buzz leaned in, hand extended, his eyes practically popping out of his skull ¡ª part excitement, part Spazz-fueled mania. Russell hesitated, his gut screaming no, but his hand moved anyway. He clasped Buzz¡¯s big paw, and that was all it took. ¡°Oh baby! What a ride this is gonna be! We¡¯re headed for glory, my boy!¡± He clapped Russell on the back so hard, he nearly knocked him into the water. ¡°Now, there¡¯s just one last thing we need to talk about.¡± Russell¡¯s eyebrows raised a notch. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Well, let¡¯s talk onboard. My prot¨¦g¨¦¡¯s gotta see his digs.¡±
"Hot damn. Not bad, man," Russell said, stepping onto the yacht. ¡°Not bad.¡± The yacht was even more impressive with Russell¡¯s feet firmly planted on its polished deck. "Not bad?" Buzz said, sweeping his hands across the top deck. "Buddy, this isn¡¯t just a boat. This is paradise on the water! Hey, you see the camera?" Russell¡¯s eyes followed Buzz¡¯s nod to a shiny new camera mounted on a tripod, aimed at the main deck. "That bad boy? Straight off the lots of Hollywood. We¡¯re gonna use it for those marketing videos I mentioned. Raw. Real. Viral content. The kind of shit people share with captions like, ¡®You gotta see this!¡¯ or ''Those Spazz fellas are INSANE!¡¯" Buzz grinned like he was already counting the views. Russell chewed on his gums, trying to keep his grin from getting too wide. Over the past few months, he¡¯d worked hard to drag the old dog into the digital age, setting up accounts, teaching him the tricks, even showing him how to wipe his browser clean of any lingering porn tabs. And Buzz, to his credit, soaked it all up like a pro, ready to sell to a whole new generation of schmucks. Russell¡¯s grin finally broke loose. It felt like Buzz was paying the favor back, taking a leap of faith on him. Inviting him into something big. Dangerous as shit, but big. Buzz was betting on Russell when most people had long since folded, and for the first time in years, he felt like he had something to prove ¡ª not to the world, but to the guy who believed he could pull this off. ¡°You know, maybe I should shave before we kick this off,¡± Russell said, scratching at the scruff on his chin. ¡°Pretty sure the ¡®face of the brand¡¯ shouldn¡¯t look like they just crawled out of a week-long bender.¡± Buzz laughed, big and booming, the kind of laugh you throw out when your buddy cracks a bad joke, more for their sake than yours. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry about it,¡± Buzz said, waving him off with a grin. Russell shrugged, though the thought lingered. He¡¯d meant it. If he was gonna be standing in front of a camera, maybe he ought to clean up his act a little. But Buzz didn¡¯t seem the least bit concerned. ¡°Come on,¡± Buzz said. He motioned Russell toward the stairs. ¡°Wait till you see the rest.¡± The galley was massive, built for a crew of ten but converted into a shrine to Spazz. T-shirts, stickers, branded junk piled everywhere. In the kitchen area, Buzz threw open the fridge, showing off an endless lineup of snacks and drinks. ¡°Check this out,¡± he said, grabbing a bottle of water and tearing open a packet of Spazz. He dumped in the purple powder, gave it a few shakes, and the liquid lit up like neon. ¡°Take boring ol¡¯ water, toss in some Spazz, shake it up, and BAM! Instant energy drink. Pure fuckin¡¯ magic.¡± Russell tried to match Buzz¡¯ excitement about purple water, but his eyes had wandered to a special cooler below the fridge, spotting a trove of beer bottles, the condensation dripping down like temptation itself. ¡°Don¡¯t get excited,¡± Buzz said with a chuckle, catching the glance. ¡°Non-alcoholic. By special request. This whole trip, we''ll be living the sober life. Hope you''re good with that.¡± Russell swallowed his disappointment, but knew it was best for Buzz. Hell, Russell needed to dry out too. Whatever. He stepped back, letting the space soak in. He could see himself calling this place home for a few months, easy. Even buried under all the Spazz swag, it was the nicest boat he¡¯d ever stepped foot on ¡ª hands down. Then again, the competition wasn¡¯t exactly stiff. Russell wasn¡¯t a yacht guy. He was a city bus guy, maybe a stolen scooter guy on a good day. ¡°All this, just for us?¡± Buzz leaned back against the countertop, a smirk of pure satisfaction spreading across his face. ¡°When you¡¯re the face of the company, you ride in style.¡± He let the moment hang, both of them soaking in the luxury around them, before he pushed off and clapped his hands. ¡°Come on, I¡¯ll show you where you¡¯re staying.¡± The hallway ran the length of the yacht, lined with doors on each side and one at the very end that was a little fancier than the rest. Buzz pointed toward it. ¡°That¡¯s me, down there. Most of the other cabins, well¡­¡± He gestured to the others with a little flourish. ¡°They¡¯re for storage.¡± He popped one open, and Russell saw why Buzz had said the word ¡®storage¡¯ like he was speaking of ancient treasure. Inside the cabin was a wall of boxes labeled SPAZZ in bold purple letters. The sheer amount of it was staggering. Metric tons of purple powder. ¡°They want us slinging this at every port. Gettin¡¯ the world hooked on Spazz, that¡¯s our game, baby.¡± Buzz said, giving the boxes a proud slap. He moved on, but Russell lingered a moment, staring at the mountain of purple poison. If it meant sailing with Buzz, soaking up every trick of the trade from the master himself, Russell figured he could live with turning the whole damn world into jittery Spazz junkies. Oh captain, my fucking captain. Buzz reached for the next door, ¡°This one¡¯s all you,¡± he said. But before Buzz could push the door open, Russell reached out, putting a hand on his arm. It wasn¡¯t planned ¡ª just something that bubbled up inside him, something he felt he needed to say. ¡°Buzz, listen,¡± Russell said, his voice steadier than usual. ¡°I just gotta say it ¡ª thank you. Ten minutes ago, I thought you were out of your mind. But now? I¡¯m in, man. All the way. You letting me be a part of this whole thing, learning from you, a master ¡ª it could change everything for me. And for once, I won¡¯t have to jump around in a damn suit, acting like a fool for laughs. Like you said, I¡¯ll finally get to be me.¡± Even with Spazz pumping through his veins, Buzz had the good sense to realize there¡¯d been a misfire somewhere between them. His grin softened, and his tone turned almost apologetic. ¡°Russ, buddy¡­ maybe I didn¡¯t lay it out quite right.¡± Buzz pushed open the door to Russell¡¯s room. Sensing something was wrong, Russell¡¯s eyes darted into the room, locking onto the bed, and the stupid-looking bastard sprawled out on it. It was a mascot costume ¡ª or at least an unholy parody of one ¡ª scattered across the bed in five ridiculously purple pieces: mangy fur leggings, a fuzzy torso with molded plastic nipples, furry paws the size of boxing gloves, a tail decked out in lightning bolt stripes, and a raccoon head with bloodshot eyes and a foaming smile so deranged it could easily be the villain in a B-movie slasher flick. The thing didn¡¯t just look deranged ¡ª it looked like it had freebased an entire factory¡¯s worth of Spazz and was moments away from suplexing a preschool teacher. ¡°Meet Blitz,¡± Buzz said sheepishly. ¡°The face of Spazz Energy.¡± Russell let out a groan so deep it felt like it started in his soul. He wasn¡¯t the face of the brand, he was the guy behind the face. The idiot in the furry suit, all along. CHAPTER 11: Here I am, Little Naked Man
¡°Congrats! You¡¯re still not dea-¡±
¡°Shut the fuck up!¡± Russell hissed, shoving the device into the crotch of his leggings like he was cramming a squawking parrot into a suitcase. He peeked over the fallen tree he¡¯d claimed as a makeshift sanctuary, his eyes darting through the suffocating green of the jungle. He pushed his scavenged party shades up onto his forehead for a clearer look. Every rustle of a branch or crunch of a leaf sent his pulse into overdrive, but the only thing staring back at him was an endless maze of vines and shadows. No Mari. No Conrad. Good. Either they¡¯d finally had enough of him, or the jungle truly scared them shitless. Both worked. His arm, though, was another story. The gash on his bicep ¡ª Mari¡¯s parting gift from her license-plate ninja-star bullshit ¡ª was still leaking blood. Russell stared at the wound, unsure what to make of it. Knowing he couldn¡¯t do anything about it even if he wanted to, he decided to focus on something more pressing: the smug little device on his arm that wouldn¡¯t shut the hell up. With a grunt, he yanked it out of his leggings. The screen lit up like it was expecting applause, his avatar ¡ª still flipping the bird ¡ª stared back at him. Below it, his SPUNK stats blinked in bold, impossible-to-ignore letters:
SWAGGER: 6 POWER: 3 UTILITY: 5 NERVE: 7 KNOW-HOW: 3
The driftwood frame slapped around his avatar felt less like an accolade and more like putting sprinkles on a steaming turd. The shiny little plaque that said LEVEL 2, well that was just the cherry on top of the shit sundae. Was this seriously all he got for leveling up? A dingy looking frame around his sun-fucked face? As if on cue, the device¡¯s chirpy voice chimed in.
¡°Welcome to Level 2! Have you been taking advantage of your SPUNK score, playing to your strengths?¡±
¡°I figured out your little game, bitch,¡± Russell hissed, full of venomous vindication. But the device didn¡¯t skip a beat.
¡°Any gamer will tell you, leveling up is a big-baller move. But Level 2 is more baller than most. Welcome to the progression system, big dawg!¡±
Russell¡¯s teeth clenched so hard he swore he might¡¯ve cracked a molar. He jabbed a finger at the screen. ¡°Listen, you cringey little shit. One of your dumbass actors brought his headshot to the island. And the other one tried to murder me. With a fucking license plate.¡±
¡°The progression system will guide your crafting skills and boost your abilities as you survive the island. See what I mean? This is next-level baller stuff!¡±
¡°Stop saying ¡®baller¡¯! Fuck you!¡±
¡°Now, the progression system is broken down into two primary components: CRAFTING and PERKS."
Russell squinted at the screen, the chipper indifference of the Gamemaster eating at every bit of him. He thought about smashing the screen with a rock, ending the whole charade right there. But even his half-assed KNOW-HOW stat was enough to tell him that¡¯d probably break his wrist in the process. Not exactly a win, no matter how you cut it. The screen lit up with two new tabs at the top: CRAFTING and PERKS. Both pulsed faintly, daring him to make a choice. ¡°Fine,¡± Russell said, scowling as he eyed the PERKS tab. He wasn¡¯t a ¡°gamer¡± by any stretch, but the idea of ¡°perks¡± wasn¡¯t totally alien. If the fever-dream insanity from the cave wasn¡¯t just his brain melting down, he¡¯d already had a preview of how these things worked. Might as well get the full picture. ¡°Let¡¯s see what fresh brand of bullshit you¡¯ve got for me now,¡± he said, tapping the menu. The screen shifted, revealing a grid of postcard-sized boxes. Each one featured a cartoon version of Russell in some absurd scenario: clutching sparking wires like a deranged mad scientist, sprinting from a murderous flock of birds, and ¡ª because why the hell not ¡ª strutting down the beach in a frilly dress. There were dozens of these cartoons, maybe even hundreds. The sheer stupidity of it all might¡¯ve been funny, in any other scenario. Before Russell could express his frustration at being depicted over and over again as a fool, the device cut in, still drunk on its own enthusiasm.
¡°PERKS offer passive or one-time bonuses to help you survive on the island. Each Perk provides small, incremental improvements to your overall survivability or temporary advantages in specific situations.¡±
Russell scrolled through the grid, the animations looping like twisted comic strips that wouldn¡¯t stop mocking him. Each card showed him doing something either psychotic or outright doomed, but not one bothered to explain what perk it represented or what it actually did. Instead, every card came stamped with requirements, like ¡°LEVEL 6¡± or ¡°UTILITY 7¡± or sometimes a maddening mix of both. Locked. All of them locked, gated behind a combination of levels and SPUNK thresholds he didn¡¯t yet meet. All of them, except one. At the top of the grid, a card stood out. Brighter, sharper, its colors more vivid than the rest. The one perk he¡¯d already unlocked. He didn¡¯t need the animation to remind him ¡ª it was burned into his memory. A cartoon version of himself lay twitching on the ground, surrounded by cheery little ghost-things waving signs that screamed encouragement like DON¡¯T DIE! and GET UP, LOSER! The text beside it was as blunt as the illustration. Russell tapped the card, and it expanded.
HOARSE WHISPERER You¡¯ve danced on the edge of dehydration so severe it cracked the veil between reality and insanity. EFFECT: Grants the ability to "hear" cryptic advice, taunts, or insights from inanimate objects and imagined characters during moments of extreme survival.
Russell side-eyed Tumzy, sitting there next to him on the jungle floor. The water bottle¡¯s soulless, painted-on eyes stared blankly into the dense green beyond. Russell huffed. So, the nonsense in the cave had really happened ¡ª or at least the device had twisted his near-death experience into some cruel joke. He shifted his attention back to the screen. At least it had the decency to spell out the one perk he¡¯d managed to unlock. The rest? Just cryptic little cartoons, each one taunting him to guess the special kind of hell he¡¯d have to endure to earn their abilities. Before he could even start deciphering the doodles, the screen flicked over to the CRAFTING tab on its own. Where the PERKS tab had felt like flipping through a quirky stack of postcards, the CRAFTING tab was something else entirely ¡ª cleaner, more streamlined. A grid of colorless thumbnails stretched across the screen, each one showcasing a shadowy silhouette of a tool, weapon, or some other vague object. The shapes were a mixed bag: sharp and stabby, round and pointless-looking, or just plain confusing. A giant question mark hovered in the center of each image, like the universe asking, What in the holy hell is this?
¡°With CRAFTING, you¡¯ll unlock schematics to create tools, structures, and all sorts of useful items. From the simplest of shelters to advanced technology that once seemed out of reach, there¡¯s a Schematic for everything you could ever want or need. But you¡¯ve got to be the one to make it!¡±
The more Russell stared at the grid of Schematics, the more it felt like a Youtube front page ¡ª just stripped of any excitement or color. Boring as hell. Still, Russell poked at a couple of the thumbnails, each one expanding with his finger-tap. Instead of useful details about what the Schematics could actually do, all he got were more gates: level requirements, SPUNK thresholds, and a whole lot of nope. All of it, locked tight. But as he scrolled, his scowl began to ease, anger giving way to something more dangerous ¡ª curiosity. He glanced over his shoulder, the jungle humming with its usual menace, before turning back to the device, comforted ¡ª if only slightly ¡ª by the thought that he probably wasn¡¯t about to take a license plate to the neck and he could dive into this system a bit more. The grid taunted him with its endless line-up of silly silhouettes and vague promises, every locked thumbnail a challenge. Like most gates Russell had faced in his life, it wasn¡¯t the barrier that mattered ¡ª it was the thrill of figuring out how to hop it and grab whatever was on the other side. ¡°So,¡± he muttered, half to himself, half to the device, ¡°I can make shit?¡±
¡°As you¡¯ve likely noticed, Schematics and Perks are locked behind levels. With every level you gain, more of each become available. Buuuuut, it¡¯s not just about levels. Your SPUNK score determines what Schematics and Perks are offered to you. Many will remain inaccessible, regardless of your level.¡±
Russell¡¯s ADHD flared, mind already bouncing between annoyance and intrigue. ¡°Well, that¡¯s fucked up,¡± he said.
¡°Surely you agree it¡¯s a fair system! But for those of you who don¡¯t ¡ª there¡¯s a catch!¡±
Russell leaned back against the tree and winced as the grenade in his waistband jabbed his hip. Without thinking, he grabbed it and lobbed it aside. The clunky thing sailed through the air and smacked Tumzy square in the face, toppling the panda bottle like a sad, sloshing bowling pin. For a second, he didn¡¯t care. Then he sighed, picked Tumzy up, and made sure she was sitting comfortably upright in the dirt. Just in case, he thought, still side-eyeing her like she might blink back at him. ¡°Alright,¡± he said to the device, brushing dirt off his hands. ¡°Tell me about the catch.¡±
¡°You may find crafting Schematics while scavenging the wilds, and you may unlock Perks through actions of EXTREME BADASSERY. These discoveries and feats will be outside of your SPUNK level, expanding your capabilities in ways you would not otherwise be able to access.¡±
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Russell nodded along, as much as he hated it. That explained Hoarse Whisperer, unlocked before he¡¯d even been introduced to this bullshit system. Funny how almost dying counted as an act of ¡°extreme badassery.¡± Then again, he supposed most badass things came with a high chance of getting mortally wrecked. The device returned to the SPUNK tab, where Russell¡¯s stats still glared back at him as a stark reminder of just how much he didn¡¯t know about staying alive. Below the numbers, though, something new caught his eye.
1 UNLOCK POINT AVAILABLE
Well well, what''s this? Russell had a thing for arbitrary points. As did many people with low KNOW-HOW.
¡°Every time you level up, you get to unlock a crafting Schematic or Perk fitting of your SPUNK score. Check out what¡¯s available, and make the right choice. Your life may depend on it! Peace, big-dawg!¡±
A little plus sign flashed next to the LOG menu, letting Russell know the message had been saved. Not that he gave a damn. The system was simple enough, even without Wayne there to guide him into the depths of nerd-dom. Every level, he got to pick something ¡ª one new crafting Schematic or one new Perk. Each level unlocked more options, as long as he met the bullshit SPUNK requirements. Russell scowled at his KNOW-HOW score, then leaned the device toward Tumzy like he was showing off a bad grade on a report card. ¡°See this? They¡¯re calling me a big dumb fuck,¡± he said, jabbing at the screen. ¡°But I just figured out this whole progression system, no sweat. And I¡¯m hungover. So who¡¯s the big dumb fuck now? That Gamemaster fuck, that¡¯s who.¡± Tumzy¡¯s lifeless eyes stared back, unblinking. Without her or the Gamemaster¡¯s chipper voice chiming in, Russell felt uncomfortably alone. The jungle pressed in on all sides, the shadows deepening as the sun dropped lower, and the whole place felt like it was breathing, alive with unseen movement. He didn¡¯t like that feeling. If he was honest with himself, he almost wished Tumzy would start talking again, just for something to fill the silence. He unscrewed her beret, and her speaker came to life. ¡°Slurp good, think good!¡± Tumzy screamed. ¡°You¡¯re right, Tumzy,¡± Russell responded, taking a swig of cool water from the panda¡¯s insides. ¡°You¡¯re god damn right.¡± He looked back at the gadget on his wrist. Only a few minutes ago, when the device informed him of reaching Level 2, Russell had been ready to tear into it, ready to tell the Gamemaster to shove their prick-pinching crabs, their F-list actors, and their fake dead guys right up their ass. He¡¯d figured out the game and he could no longer be played. But now, with the light fading and the jungle closing in, he wasn¡¯t so sure. Maybe this system was his salvation. He chewed his lip, staring at the unlock point like it might have all the answers. He swiped back to the PERKS tab. He needed something game-changing. Something that might actually get him off this godforsaken island. Three new postcards blinked to life, their colors brighter than the rest but still paling next to the glamorous glow of Hoarse Whisperer, his only unlocked perk. The first postcard showed a cartoon of Russell levitating a few inches off the ground, arms outstretched as a buzzing halo of mosquitoes floated above his head. He looked oddly christ-like ¡ª if Christ had been the patron saint of pests and wearing purple mascot bottoms.
ENBLIGHTENED Others merely adopted malaria, you worn born in it. EFFECT: Gain an immediate boost in BADASS EXP for every bug bite you have, along with a fun infectious disease! REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, NERVE 2
The second postcard played a looping animation of Russell standing over a small pile of rocks, tapping his foot, one eyebrow arched, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance.
ROCKIN¡¯ OUT Hell yeah, rocks motherfucker! EFFECT: Instantly receive a surplus of rocks. Useful for crafting, throwing, or in cases of middle-aged dads, collecting. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
The last postcard showed Russell strolling through the jungle, whistling like he didn¡¯t have a care in the world. Thick, cartoon stink lines trailed off of him, wilting the plants in his wake.
FUNK-BE-GONE Body odor? More like body acceptance. EFFECT: Completely neutralizes your ability to smell your own stench, just like that weird guy in the office who believes deodorant is a form of government mind control! REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, UTILITY 3
Russell rubbed his face, letting out a long, frustrated groan. Nonsense, wrapped in humiliation. Whether these perks even worked or not (Russell had his doubts), he was tired of being the punchline in the Gamemaster¡¯s comedy routine. ¡°This is such fucking bullshit,¡± he said. Clearly, perks were a way for the Gamemaster to point and laugh while tossing him the occasional bone. Or, in this case, a pile of rocks. Every option was a prank, a reminder that no matter what he did, the game was rigged. There had to be something better in the CRAFTING tab. Something practical. Something that could actually help. Something that might, just might, get him one step closer to the boat, to rescue, or at the very least, to a stiff drink. In the CRAFTING tab, three Schematics lit up in the otherwise drab grid, bringing a much-needed splash of color to the bleak, gray layout. He tapped the thumbnails, one after another. A title and a brief description popped up, laying out what was on offer for each.
BASIC SHELTER DESCRIPTION: A simple, makeshift shelter that provides protection from the elements, or a place to cry yourself to sleep. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
IMPROVISED SPEAR DESCRIPTION: A rudimentary weapon offering a simple means of self-defense. Can also work as an ass-scratcher. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, POWER 2
CRUDE FIRE STARTER DESCRIPTION: A basic fire-starting tool, necessary for warmth, cooking, and if you¡¯re cool, lighting cigarettes. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
Russell sucked his teeth, shaking his head. Deep down, in the part of his brain ruled by delusional pride, he already believed he could make all of these things without help. That little voice reassured him he was a natural survivalist, capable of building a spear, winning a fistfight with a monkey, and swinging from vines like he¡¯d done it all his life. It was the same voice that got him into trouble back home, but here? It was roaring like a caveman ready to take on the world. Then came one of those rare moments of introspection ¡ª his second today, which might¡¯ve been a record. The last few hours had been a parade of bad decisions, humiliations, and close calls. He was pretty sure a plastic panda had saved his life not even an hour ago. Maybe these so-called gifts weren¡¯t something to sneer at after all. Still, he wasn¡¯t here to play house. Screw the shelter. He was finding Shoji, tracking down that boat, and getting the hell off this island. At least, that¡¯s what he kept telling himself. But a glance past the trees painted a different picture. The sun was sinking fast, and the jungle would soon turn into the kind of black that swallowed everything whole. Soon he wouldn¡¯t be able to find his own dick, even if he was holding it. Russell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Fine. He needed light. Something he could wave through the jungle and say, Here I am, little naked man. Let¡¯s talk. Light was the answer. Fire. Like some prehistoric man figuring out how to outsmart a saber-tooth tiger, fire would be his salvation. With a resigned grunt, he jabbed a finger at the Crude Fire Starter Schematic. A confirmation box popped up on the screen.
Unlock Schematic?
YES NO
Russell hesitated, glancing toward Tumzy like she might offer some kind of counsel or at least hurl an insult to push him along. But, as expected, the panda bottle said nothing. So he tapped YES to confirm his choice to unlock the Crude Fire Starter. The grid shifted, the schematic saturating with even more color. Over the image of the tool, a play button appeared. And then it clicked. There was a reason the CRAFTING menu reminded him of a Youtube front page ¡ª because it basically was. Okay, not YouTube exactly, but some funky, island-specific version of it. Every Schematic in the grid wasn¡¯t just a tool or a blueprint or an idea ¡ª it was a video. An instructional video, by the look of it. And Russell had just unlocked his first. He pressed play.
The video opened with the sound of crashing waves and a cheery ukulele riff ¡ª the kind of music you¡¯d expect in a commercial for a tropical getaway. The scene was a beach, not too different from where Russell had woken up, with endless sand and water stretching to the horizon. Standing in front of a weathered workbench was a man in a crisp flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up like he had important work to do. His bandana was faded, his grin wide, chemically white, and toothy ¡ª except for the tooth that wasn¡¯t there. Behind him, a jungle loomed, probably the same one Russell was in right now. ¡°Salutations, survivor!¡± the man said, his Canadian accent as warm and syrupy as maple taffy. ¡°Name¡¯s Jerry Riggs. Four-time participant of the survival show, Buck Naked in Timbuktu ¡ª and, uh, special celebrity guest on the adults-only spinoff, Buck Naked: Beaver¡¯s Bush.¡± Jerry¡¯s grin didn¡¯t falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes, like even he wasn¡¯t sure why he¡¯d just said that. He cleared his throat and pressed on. ¡°I¡¯ve built a career outta surviving places no sane person would ever go, and now I¡¯m here to pass some of that wisdom onto you, eh?¡± He clapped his hands together and motioned off-screen. ¡°Before we dive in, I wanna give a big ol¡¯ thanks to *BEEEEP* for lettin¡¯ me be part of this incredible survival experience, that is in no way connected with the lying snakes over at Buck Naked in Timbuktu. Remember to¡ª¡± A loud *BEEEEP* cut him off mid-sentence as a ¡°REDACTED¡± sticker slapped over his mouth. The video cut awkwardly to Jerry mid-smile, looking a little rattled but still trying to own the screen. ¡°Right,¡± he said, recovering. ¡°Let¡¯s get down to it. When it comes to surviving, there¡¯s no tool more important than a fire starter. Fire¡¯s your best friend, eh? Besides your wife, of course. Fire keeps you warm, scares off the creepy crawlies, and lets you cook whatever mystery meat you can scrounge up.¡± He gestured to the items on his workbench: a chunk of blackened stone, a rusty scrap of metal, and a pile of dried leaves. ¡°Here¡¯s what you¡¯ll need: flint, steel, and tinder. And make sure that tinder¡¯s dry, eh? If it ain¡¯t, you¡¯ll be sittin¡¯ there with sparks in your lap and nothin¡¯ to show for it.¡± Jerry chuckled, his grin widening as if to say he¡¯d been there before. ¡°Now, some of ya might be thinkin¡¯, ¡®Jerry, where the heck am I supposed to find steel on a desert island?¡¯¡± He swept his hands wide, gesturing at the beach and jungle around him. ¡°Well, this ain¡¯t just any island. It¡¯s got a history, you hear? You¡¯d be amazed what you can find if you poke around. That¡¯s survival, folks: resourcefulness.¡± He held up the rusty steel to drive the point home. ¡°Be adventurous. Get creative. And Kathleen, if you¡¯re watching, remember that creativity was one of the things you loved about me.¡± Jerry paused, staring off for a beat, before shaking his head and forcing a smile. ¡°Anyway! Speaking of adventures, let¡¯s talk about the sponsor of today¡¯s video ¡ª Cowabunga Credit! Got bad credit? Maybe you¡¯re struggling to pay off that speedboat you bought during a better time in your life. Or maybe your wife left ya after you unknowingly participated in a porno disguised as a survival show ¡ª totally misled by the producers, by the way ¡ª and now you¡¯re stuck payin¡¯ alimony to a woman you still love. Well, Cowabunga Credit¡¯s got your back!¡± He threw up a hang-loose gesture, pinky and thumb out, shaking it like he was trying to summon enthusiasm from the depths of despair. His eyes shimmered with the faintest hint of tears. ¡°Cowabunga Credit. It¡¯s tubular!¡± he said, the words cracking just slightly at the edges. Jerry coughed into his hand, setting down the steel like nothing had happened. ¡°Alright, we¡¯ve got our materials: flint, steel, and tinder. Watch close, eh?¡± He picked up the flint and steel, angling them just so. ¡°Hold your steel steady ¡ª don¡¯t grip it like you¡¯re choking a chicken. Then take your flint and strike down at a nice angle. Be confident. Sparks¡¯ll fly, and if they don¡¯t... well, you¡¯re probably doin¡¯ it wrong.¡± Jerry looked directly into the camera, eyes still watery. ¡°But that¡¯s okay. We all make mistakes.¡± Jerry struck the flint against the steel, and sparks showered into the tinder. The leaves began to smoke immediately. He leaned down, blowing gently until a small flame flickered to life. As the fire grew stronger, Jerry stepped back, holding the flint and steel up for the camera like a proud dad. ¡°And there ya have it, folks. A fire starter. Don¡¯t get much simpler than that. Be resourceful, find the materials that are there for the taking. And check your INVENTORY. Who knows, you might already have what ya need.¡± He stepped closer to the camera, his grin faltering for just a second. ¡°Anywho, that¡¯s all I¡¯ve got for ya today. And Kathleen, if you¡¯re still watchin¡¯, I just wanna say... I¡¯m a better man now.¡± Behind him, the fire on the workbench started to spread, but Jerry didn¡¯t notice. The ukulele music picked up again as he waved goodbye to the camera. The screen faded to black, leaving only the Schematic for the Crude Fire Starter and a lingering sense that Jerry Riggs might not be okay.
Russell stared at the screen, trying to process the surreal presentation he¡¯d just watched. In two minutes of Jerry Riggs rambling about fire-starting, Russell had managed to rack up at least a dozen questions, and none of them had to do with striking flint against steel. The main one: Who the fuck is Jerry Riggs? He¡¯d heard of the survival show Jerry mentioned ¡ª Buck Naked in Timbuktu. Big deal back in the day. Ran for over 15 seasons until it imploded spectacularly when a contestant got eaten by a shark. But that porno-sounding spinoff? No clue. Russell didn¡¯t like his pornos themed anyway. Just good ol¡¯ gloryholes, like any self-respecting American. Was this some kind of reboot of the show? A resurgence, maybe? He doubted it. The vibe was all wrong, and Jerry even said so himself ¡ª they weren¡¯t part of that shark-infested shit-show. Then there were the censored parts of the video. Who the hell had Jerry thanked, and why didn¡¯t they want their name mentioned? It was weird ¡ª just another layer of what the fuck to toss onto the ever-growing pile of mysteries the island had thrown at him. But, like most of those questions, the answers didn¡¯t matter. Not really. Armed with the knowledge of how to make fire, Russell was one step closer to getting the hell off this island, and then lawyers could shake out the details of the who and why. Still, one question nagged at him, something Jerry had mentioned that he couldn¡¯t shake. What the fuck was his INVENTORY? CHAPTER 12: The Many Uses of Monkey Shit Jerry¡¯s stupid grin and watery eyes were tattooed in Russell¡¯s mind. Flint, steel, and tinder, Jerry had said, like those were everyday items on some deserted island. Well, turns out they were ¡ª at least most of them. In about twenty minutes, Russell had managed to scrounge up two of the three components right out of the jungle¡¯s overgrown ass. The leaves? Easiest find of the bunch. He¡¯d ripped enough off the nearby palms to choke a throat goat¡¯s moneymaker, then twisted them into a fat, cigar-like bundle, and shoved them down his leggings. Flint, though. Sure, he¡¯d found it, but it hadn¡¯t been a masterclass in survival skills. He¡¯d spent most of the remaining sunlight stomping through the jungle, kicking at rocks like some kid stuck in a school parking lot, waiting for his deadbeat dad to remember he existed. Every damn rock was just like the next ¡ª no shine, no glint, nothing close to that midnight-black stone Jerry had shown in his video. God damn Jerry, with his flannel fucking shirts, ally to the Gamemaster. Russell¡¯s list of enemies was growing larger. He stared off into the jungle, searching for the unseen cameras no-doubt hidden somewhere in the tangle. He wasn¡¯t going to take this nonsense lying down, even if this new crafting system had him feeling like a fool. After kicking enough rocks, Russell found hope in the form of something half-buried in the dirt ¡ª a lump of mineral, dark and crumbly. Coal, is what it looked like. It had that same dull black gleam as the stone Jerry used. Paydirt. Russell gave it a solid kick to knock it loose. His flip-flop ¡ª and most of his foot ¡ª sank into the thing like he¡¯d kicked an old cake. Then the smell hit him a split second later. Not coal. Definitely not coal. Monkey shit, or some other jungle beast¡¯s contribution to the ecosystem. After a hearty parade of cursing, Russell used his bundle of dry leaves to wipe away the worst of it. But anybody who¡¯s ever stepped in shit knows the truth ¡ª there¡¯s only so much you can do without water, and Russell wasn¡¯t about to waste a drop of Tumzy¡¯s precious reserve on his stupid mistake. Instead, he threw what most would politely call a tantrum. Russell, though, would¡¯ve called it righteous frustration ¡ª a natural reaction to the universe conspiring against him. His glorious performance ended in rebellion against the whole fucking system. ¡°Fuck it!¡± he screamed. He lifted his device high and slammed it down against the nearest rock ¡ª WHAM! If he couldn¡¯t figure out how to properly make shit, then at least he could break shit. But the device had other plans. It responded with a sharp BEEP and delivered an electric jolt that sent Russell sprawling onto the ground like a misbehaved puppy dog with a shock collar. BZZT! ¡°Ah shit!¡± he winced, clutching the device. ¡°Alright! Fine!¡± The shock had left his skin humming, muscles twitching like he¡¯d grabbed a live wire. That shock wasn¡¯t a warning ¡ª it was a command. He really was like a puppy dog; he wouldn¡¯t be fucking with the device again any time soon. ¡°What happened to helping me in moments of danger, asshole?¡± he shouted, turning his frustration toward Tumzy. The panda stared back, its painted-on grin as empty as ever. But to Russell¡¯s surprise, his tantrum hadn¡¯t been a complete waste of time (and naturally, he¡¯d learn nothing about the futility of throwing one). While the device didn¡¯t even have a scratch on it, the rock he¡¯d smashed it against had taken the brunt of his anger, leaving a sharp, axe-head-shaped shard lying in the dirt. Russell picked it up, turning it over in his hand. The inside was smooth, shiny, and dark ¡ª just like the flint Jerry had shown in his video. He held it up for Tumzy. ¡°I meant to do that,¡± he said, plain as day. Flint in hand, he hauled himself up, feeling just a little less stupid. Not much ¡ª his foot was still covered in shit, and he was chasing after a naked man ¡ª but enough to keep moving. Two-thirds of the way to fire. That was something. But now, as the sun crept even lower, shadows stretching long and sharp through the jungle, Russell found himself stuck. Steel. The final piece of Jerry¡¯s three-step miracle plan. Steel. In a jungle. Still, Russell tried to follow the survivalist¡¯s instructions, to be ¡°adventurous and resourceful¡±. These valiant efforts resulted in fuck-all; there wasn¡¯t any steel to be found. Because it was a god damn jungle. ¡°There supposed to be some survivalist thrift store around here, Jerry?¡± he screamed into the jungle. ¡°Steel doesn¡¯t grow on trees, stupid dick!¡± No, the answer wasn¡¯t out there, hidden beneath the brush. Russell knew that. But Jerry¡¯s advice had mentioned something else ¡ª an INVENTORY. Whatever the hell that was. He¡¯d ignored it earlier, figuring it wasn¡¯t worth his time. But now, with no other options, he tapped at the device, maybe to re-watch the video, maybe to figure out what the bigger picture was. If there even was one. That¡¯s when he saw it. Right there, wedged between the CRAFTING and PERKS tabs, a new option had appeared: INVENTORY. It glowed like it had been waiting for this moment of realization. Russell blinked and moved the device closer, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the screen. Had it always been there? Maybe it was new, something shaken loose when he¡¯d bashed the device against the rock. Maybe it was only unlocked after reaching Level 2. Or maybe he¡¯d just been too distracted by, well, everything to notice it before. ¡°Alright,¡± he muttered, jabbing at the tab. The display blinked, then shifted, and Russell found himself staring at the cartoon version of himself, proudly standing beside a categorized list of items and attire. As random as the list was, it was all painfully familiar ¡ª because it was everything Russell had to his name, scraps and souvenirs of his island misadventures. As he scrolled through the tragic catalogue, on-screen Russell would pull out a cartoon version of the object, or model the questionable excuses for clothing he had on.
Fuzzy Mascot Leggings
  • Type: Apparel
  • Effects:
    • Increased Carrying Capacity
    • Stealth Detriment (bright and noisy)
  • Description: Part of a professional mascot costume. Purple as hell. Piece 1 of 5.
Party Shades
  • Type: Apparel
  • Effects:This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
    • Confidence booster
    • Minimal Protection against staring into the sun (don¡¯t do that anyway)
  • Description: Cheap orange shades worn by exclusively ¡°very cool guys¡±.
Flip-Flops
  • Type: Apparel
  • Effects:
    • Minimal/Basic Foot Protection
  • Description: Beachwear essentials. Guaranteed to break when least convenient. Once white, more brown now.
Golden Crab Claw
  • Type: Tool/Weapon
  • Effects:
    • Unknown
  • Description: A shiny golden crab claw, seemingly useless but somehow still worthy of your limited space. Great work.
Off-brand ¡°Tumzy¡± Water Bottle
  • Type: Utility
  • Effects:
    • Hydration Storage (1 Gallon)
  • Description: A suspiciously pink panda water bottle with a beret cap and just enough ¡°creative liberties¡± to dodge copyright lawyers. Equal parts adorable and obnoxious. Capable of holding 1 gallon of water.
Grenade
  • Type: Weapon
  • Effects:
    • Area Damage (because it¡¯s a fucking grenade)
  • Description: A vintage stick grenade, minimal rusting on the metal casing. Handle with care or GO BOOM.
Dry Leaf Bundle
  • Type: Crafting Material
  • Effects:
    • Combustible (useful for fire-starting)
    • Diseased (contains monkey poop residue)
  • Description: A tightly bound collection of jungle foliage, gathered with questionable hygiene standards.
Flint Fragment
  • Type: Crafting Material/Tool
  • Effects:
    • Spark Generation (fire-starting capabilities)
  • Description: Basic flint material, useful for lighting a fire under your ass.
It was all laid out for him, in more detail than Russell ever wanted to know. A man draped in rented rags, toting party favors, animal parts, and an ego bruised to hell. Somewhere out there, some pasty intern was probably logging every move he made to keep his sorry inventory up to date. ¡°Hope you¡¯re having fun!¡± he shouted toward the treeline. ¡°Loser.¡± He had to admit, the detailed inventory wasn¡¯t all bad. Seeing everything laid out like that got his brain turning. And hey, at least now he knew for sure the panda¡¯s name really was Tumzy. Not that it made her any less useless. Tumzy was dead weight ¡ª unless he figured out how to weaponize her obnoxious one-liners ¡ª but the prop grenade? That was a different story. He read the description again: Minimal rusting on the metal casing. He didn''t need to go searching for steel, because he had some right in his waistband. He fished the grenade out of his leggings, holding it up to the dim light. Solid enough ¡ª cold metal, rusted in spots ¡ª but it¡¯d do. One hell of a replica, this little toy. Russell grabbed the bundle of leaves he¡¯d collected earlier, the same he¡¯d used to clean his poop-covered foot, and piled them in front of him. Dropping to his knees, grenade in one hand and flint in the other, he got to work. The setup wasn¡¯t pretty. The grenade was wedged near his crotch like he was about to perform a backwoods vasectomy, but he didn¡¯t care. With monkey shit on his feet and hands, dignity wasn¡¯t really a factor anymore. Russell raised the flint, gripping it so tight his fingers throbbed. He couldn¡¯t pussyfoot around. He had to hit the thing hard, no hesitation! But he did hesitate. Because even someone with a KNOW-HOW of 3 would second guess slamming a rock against a grenade that may or may not be real. He just stared at it for a second, considering. ¡°You got nothing to say?¡± he asked, cutting his eyes to Tumzy. ¡°You let me get zapped. Now you¡¯re gonna sit there and watch me blow my junk off?¡± The panda didn¡¯t flinch. Same painted grin, same dead eyes. Russell let out a sharp breath. Hoarse Whisperer had promised hallucinatory help in critical survival situations, or something like that. If this didn¡¯t qualify, what the hell did? But Tumzy wasn¡¯t real, and neither was the grenade. It was just a prop, dressed up to look scary. That¡¯s all it was. He was the main character. ¡°Alright,¡± he muttered. ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡± He took a deep breath, braced himself, and brought the flint down hard. WHACK! The grenade clanged like a miniature gong, loud and hollow. No sparks, no fire ¡ª just Russell hunched over like a guy trying to knock sense into his ballsack. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his grip, and readied for another try. It was all in the technique. Jerry didn¡¯t slam the flint into the steel, he sliced against it. Russell took another deep breath, narrowing his focus. This time, he dragged the flint across the grenade¡¯s rusted casing with the kind of determination only pure, unfiltered frustration could fuel. SHHRT! A cascade of sparks shot from the steel, lighting up the dusk in a burst of tiny fireworks. Russell froze, wide-eyed, then let out a bark of laughter. Did he really just do that? ¡°Oh, baby! Oh-ho-ho baby, that¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about!¡± He struck a third time, angling the sparks toward the shit-covered bundle of leaves. The reaction was almost immediate. Smoke festered from the pile, and within seconds, the leaves began to smolder. The stench of singed monkey shit hit his nose like a slap, sharp and rancid, but Russell leaned on his NERVE, powering through where most men would¡¯ve gagged and given up. He didn¡¯t just endure it ¡ª he dove in. Dropping his face closer to the smoldering pile, sunglasses sliding down his nose, he blew on the embers like his life depended on it. Because, let¡¯s face it, it fucking did. A tiny flame licked to life, spreading greedily through the leaves. Turns out, monkey shit made for excellent accelerant. Or maybe Russell just had a natural talent for burning things to the ground. The smoldering wreckage of past friendships and job opportunities would certainly back that up. ¡°Fire,¡± he whispered, grinning like he¡¯d just discovered a new planet full of hookers and blackjack. ¡°I made goddamn fire!¡± He shot to his feet, arms wide, spinning slowly like a victorious gladiator. ¡°You see this, Gamemaster? FI-YAH, baby! Suck it!¡± As he turned, he made wild crotch-thrusts into the air, slapping the grenade and flint around his junk with karate chop action. If they were watching ¡ª and he was damn sure they were ¡ª he wanted the message delivered in crystal-clear HD. SUCK. IT. When he finally turned back to admire his work, the little flame had grown into something far bigger. It devoured the leaves in seconds, then started chewing through the ground cover, racing outward like it had somewhere to be. ¡°Oh. Hell yeah,¡± Russell said, though his voice cracked as he grabbed Tumzy, holding the panda close. ¡°Alright, buddy. No big deal. Let¡¯s find a stick. Make ourselves a torch, Indiana Jones-style, you know. We¡¯ve got this.¡± But the fire was making every effort to show Russell he did not, in fact, ¡°got this¡±. It leapt to the nearest palm tree, racing up the trunk in seconds. Smoke billowed into the sky, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of things spiraling out of control. And, of course, the smell of burning monkey shit. ¡°Okay, okay,¡± Russell said, his voice climbing an octave. ¡°This is fine. Asian guy¡¯ll see it. He¡¯ll come running. Totally fine.¡± The flames jumped to another tree, and then another, the crackling roar growing louder with every leap. Blackened fronds rained down around him. One flaming scrap landed on his leggings, and Russell swatted it away, hopping back like his pants were already ablaze. Yes, Russell was most definitely good at burning shit down. ¡°This is fine,¡± he said again, clutching Tumzy tighter. ¡°Totally fine.¡± That¡¯s when, God help him, he heard it ¡ª a voice coming from the plastic panda in his hands, delivered in that oddly soothing tone of cartoonish chaos. The voice he¡¯d been told would only show up when he needed it most. ¡°You better run, dumb-dumb.¡± CHAPTER 13: Shooting at Seagulls with a T-Shirt Gun ONE WEEK AGO Most people might think a life at sea would be a chance to grow, to learn, to discover. For Russell, it couldn¡¯t have been further from the truth. The open sea was nothing but an endless stretch of blue ¡ª a boring, wet desert. No moments of self-discovery, no spiritual communion with majestic whales set to an inspiring soundtrack. Just waves, sun, and Buzz¡¯s endless commentary. The one break in the monotony came when Buzz fished a blow-up doll out of the ocean and decided it was the funniest thing he¡¯d ever seen. He waited until Russell was dead asleep, then propped it up beside him like some waterlogged lady-of-the-night. Waking up next to a plastic prostitute wasn¡¯t what Russell would call a moment of discovery, or even all that funny. Buzz, on the other hand, laughed about it for days. But when they hit the Hawaiian islands after weeks of sailing, Russell found island life had its own set of revelations. As their caffeinated crusade to sling Spazz across every beach, resort, and, occasionally, strip club got underway, Russell finally learned a few things about himself. For one, he hated being sober for weeks at a time, especially when it meant cramming himself into the Blitz costume. Sobriety made everything sharper, louder ¡ª the blaring electronic music that pounded relentlessly at the events, the sweaty crowds grinding against each other like drunken sardines, and worst of all, Buzz shouting ¡°HEEEERE COMES BLITZ!¡± into a megaphone like some deranged carnival barker. Being the one sober person in the middle of that chaos, especially as the center of attention, it was a special kind of hell for Russell. But it wasn¡¯t all negatives. The most important thing he learned? Just how much he loved a good t-shirt gun. Few things could hit the sweet spot like the THWOMP of a t-shirt leaving his CO2-powered hand-cannon. Even better, it was the one weapon he could aim at someone, pull the trigger, and not have to deal with any consequences. All day long, he¡¯d pelt beach-goers and club-rats with high-speed swag, and they¡¯d cheer for it. They¡¯d thank him. Man, did those sweaty lunatics love their free shit. He could nail someone square in the face with a bundled t-shirt, and they¡¯d still dive to the ground like rabid dogs, clawing for their prize. Absolute animals. Which, ironically, made what Russell was doing at the moment seem almost civilized: shooting at actual animals. ¡°Last chance, bastards!¡± he barked, a cigarette wobbling dangerously from his lips. He stood upon the top-deck of his yacht, still decked out in full Blitz ¡ª minus the head ¡ª after another grueling day of Spazz events. His t-shirt gun was aimed towards the skies as he awaited a response. The only answer he got was a mocking chorus of squawks. Now, he didn¡¯t speak seagull, but Russell was pretty sure it translated to ¡°Get fucked, purple bitch!¡± These rats with wings had decided that his yacht was their personal shitter. They circled above the neon-purple sail, the floating Spazz billboard that it was, bobbing and weaving in the wind like sky bandits, just waiting for the perfect moment to drop their chalky bombs. And Russell wasn¡¯t having it. He lined up his shot, zeroing in on the plumpest of the flying pests, and squeezed the trigger with righteous vengeance. THWOMP! The t-shirt sailed through the air, rubber-banded into a soft, cotton cannonball. Unsurprisingly, Russell missed ¡ª his aim was about as reliable as a drunken dart player ¡ª but it tore close enough to send the seagulls scattering before landing in the harbor with a sad little plop. A victory for no one. All Russell managed to do was scare the shit out of the feathered fucks, literally. A splattering, chalky barrage pummeled the sail as the gulls cackled and flew away. ¡°Shit,¡± Russell said, blowing out a plume of smoke like a resigned dragon. ¡°Who knew the fastest gun in the west would have a little tail?¡± The voice drifted up from the dock, cutting through the squawking chaos. Aside from the screaming t-shirt goblins at their Spazz events, it was the only human voice Russell had heard for weeks. He turned to find Buzz standing down by the yacht¡¯s ramp, camera in hand, squinting against the setting sun. Buzz¡¯s grin was sharp ¡ª the kind that could make you want to punch a guy or buy him a beer, depending on the day. Not that they had any beer. Buzz raised the camera, hamming it up as he pretended to frame the shot. If he was actually filming, he¡¯d be capturing a masterpiece: Russell on the top deck of the yacht, half-dressed as a gun-toting purple raccoon, waging a one-man war against the heavens ¡ª all of it set against the backdrop of a Hawaiian sunset in a peaceful little harbor. ¡°You look like you belong in some kinda sci-fi movie,¡± Buzz said with a laugh. ¡°Or at least the porno parody.¡± ¡°Put that down,¡± Russell snapped as he struggled to remove his raccoon tail ¡ª because yeah, he¡¯d somehow forgotten he was still wearing the damn thing. ¡°You might accidentally erase all the actual footage. I¡¯ve shown you fifty times where the damn record button is on that thing.¡± Buzz lowered the camera but the evergreen grin didn¡¯t budge. ¡°How many shirts you launched into the drink so far?¡± Russell shot a quick look into the harbor, where at least a dozen rubber-banded t-shirts bobbed around like purple, poisoned apples. He snorted, unapologetic, and dropped into one of the yacht¡¯s absurdly overpriced beach chairs. ¡°You told me to keep an eye on the boat, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Buzz said, hiking up the ramp with the grace of a man who spent years pretending he was still in his prime. He flopped into the chair next to Russell, chuckling as he sank deeper into the cushions. ¡°If even the birds are fighting for a taste, I¡¯d say we¡¯re killing it in the marketing department.¡± The chuckle turned into a groan, low and tired, as the day¡¯s hustle caught up with him.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Russell could see it ¡ª behind the grins and bravado, Buzz was running on fumes too. While Russell sweated it out as Blitz, dancing his ass off and slinging Spazz swag at anyone in range, Buzz was right there in his wake to seal the deal. He was the one keeping the whole circus spinning, shooting footage, schmoozing the right people, and plastering Spazz¡¯s obnoxious logo on everything Russell launched. Into the crowd, into their brains ¡ª Buzz made sure Spazz was something they wouldn¡¯t forget. They were both grinding. But where Russell¡¯s idea of decompression involved firing shirts at birds, Buzz had recently developed a different remedy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an already-opened packet of Spazz. Purple powder spilled onto the deck as he stuck two fingers inside, coating them in neon energy dust, then slid them along his gums. He worked the powder with his tongue, giving his head a sharp little shake as it started to hit, his whole body twitching with manufactured energy. He finished it with a quick, high-pitched whistle, as if to say: Good as new. The first time Russell saw this behavior ¡ª which could only be described as ¡°fiend shit¡± ¡ª he¡¯d thought about saying something. But he didn¡¯t. In their weeks of sailing together, there were still plenty of things left unsaid between them, particularly about Russell¡¯s misinformed role in this whole promo tour. And to have one serious conversation would inevitably open the door to the other ¡ª the one he really didn¡¯t want to have. Besides, fiend shit or not, Buzz was the captain of this little operation, and so far, he¡¯d been holding it together. He¡¯d gotten them to Hawaii, hadn¡¯t he? That had to count for something. A few more months, they¡¯d wrap this thing up, hopefully before that fiend shit got the best of him. ¡°How¡¯d it go with the guy?¡± Russell asked, trying not to show he cared all that much. ¡°The resort guy? Over the moon,¡± Buzz said with a new energy behind his words. ¡°Said our show today brought in more patrons than he¡¯s seen all season. And man, let me tell you, he¡¯s a big fan of Blitz. Big fan of you.¡± Russell kept his face blank, but inside, he was fist-bumping. He¡¯d crushed it today, and he knew it. Hell, half of Hawaii probably knew it. He thought back to the crowd roaring for Blitz, their electric energy fueling him as he worked the chaos, pouring Spazz into any open mouth he could find. Even sober, that was Russell at his best, right in his element. Then his eyes landed on the raccoon tail lying next to him, and the memory shifted ¡ª to the drunken meathead who¡¯d grabbed it, yanking and laughing as Russell flailed around, helpless, until he hit the sand in a moment of unplanned slapstick comedy. The humiliation hit hard, like a gut punch, snapping him out of the glow. For all the joy Russell could bring, it only took one asshole to remind him that, to them, he was just a walking joke. This was why he wanted out. Why he needed a change. Why he deserved more. Maybe Buzz was high, or maybe Russell¡¯s face gave too much away, because the old salesman didn¡¯t miss a beat. He wasn¡¯t about to let Russell sink too low. ¡°Get this ¡ª the guy wants Spazz to sponsor a wet t-shirt contest at his resort,¡± Buzz said, grinning like he¡¯d already signed the deal. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll tell him you got a head start ¡ª filled up the harbor with our finest, just waiting for the ladies to dive in and grab ¡¯em.¡± He slapped Russell¡¯s furry knee, laughing at his own joke. Russell took another drag of his dying cigarette, a hard feat through those giant furry claws of his. Buzz finally gave in to the silence, the kind that had become all too common over the weeks at sea. Most of the voyage had been like that ¡ª long stretches of quiet where neither of them seemed to know what to say, even if Buzz kept trying to talk over it. Russell wasn¡¯t good with disappointment, let alone talking about it. With the Blitz head on, he came alive, giving Buzz the high-intensity show he needed. But the moment it came off, so did the spark. He was back to being the same old Russell. ¡°Russ,¡± Buzz started, his voice softer than usual. ¡°Listen to me, buddy. I know this whole adventure hasn¡¯t been exactly what you thought it¡¯d be. Now, I don¡¯t think I sold you a crock of crap ¡ª your mind got ahead of itself a little ¡ª but I¡¯ll admit, I could¡¯ve been clearer about just what you¡¯d be doing out here.¡± Buzz turned, meeting Russell¡¯s eyes. Jesus, his pupils were massive. ¡°But it¡¯s just like I said that day, back when I first showed you this boat,¡± Buzz continued, his voice picking up momentum. ¡°If this works out, nobody¡¯s gonna forget the two guys who pulled it off. And so far, man? We are pulling this the fuck off. Hawaii loves us. Corporate loves us. They¡¯re eating up every clip we send back.¡± Russell crushed his cigarette between his claws. Looked like the conversation he didn¡¯t want to have was happening, whether he liked it or not. ¡°I know. I¡¯m not trying to sound ungrateful. For the first time in forever, my phone isn¡¯t blowing up with negative balance alerts from my bank. Probably because we¡¯re in the middle of the ocean half the time, but still. You gave me a shot, and I appreciate it. I just¡­ Buzz, at the end of the day, I¡¯m still a clown. And I¡¯m tired of being a fuckin¡¯ clown.¡± Even without the energy powder coursing through his veins, Buzz was ready for that one. ¡°Alright, so what is it you want to do, buddy? In life, I mean.¡± Russell sat with the question, letting it hang in the air. It was simple, sure, but the weight of it? Not so much. ¡°Well, what you do, man. Sell things, build brands, connect with people, all without looking like an idiot!¡± Buzz couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°You must not remember the last ten fuckin¡¯ years of my life, Russ.¡± ¡°You know what I mean,¡± Russell said. ¡°Not the Buzz who was betting on cockfights or driving his car through an all-you-can-eat buffet. I¡¯m talking about the Buzz who got every person in America to buy a stupid mop because it came with a dozen useless attachments.¡± ¡°The Gunk Buddy had fourteen attachments,¡± Buzz cut in, his voice snapping with energy. ¡°And you¡¯re the guy who made us believe we needed all fourteen of those goddamn attachments to clean our houses. And we loved you for it. You weren¡¯t the clown; you were our friend on TV.¡± Buzz nodded, his grin softening. ¡°Look, the way you see yourself, that¡¯s you. I can¡¯t change how you see yourself. But what I see, when I see you dominating a crowd, or leading a chant, working a room like you own it? I see someone who has a God-given gift of inspiring people. Buddy, you¡¯re like an X-Man at this. It ain¡¯t something to just toss aside because a few assholes yank your tail.¡± Buzz waved his hands, clearing the air. ¡°But if you want more for yourself ¡ª if you want to use those skills for something different, something bigger ¡ª I get it. Just stick with me. Get through this, and I promise you, Russ. I promise. I¡¯ll get you to the top. I¡¯ll get you selling the stuff, not just slinging it.¡± Russell exhaled slowly, flicking his cigarette into a Spazz-branded cup. It hit with a soft sizzle. Of course he was sticking with Buzz. What else was he gonna do? Jump ship? Go back to a life of debt and disappointment? This was the only shot he had in the barrel. But above all that, out of all the weird relationships Russell had formed through his line of work, Buzz was the only one he¡¯d truly considered a friend. ¡°I¡¯m with you. All the way.¡± Some might¡¯ve called it a tender moment, others a reality check. Either way, it didn¡¯t last. The sound of clinking glass and rubber wheels on wooden planks cut it short. Both men turned to see a young guy rolling a dolly down the dock, a stack of big cardboard boxes wobbling precariously on top. Buzz clapped his hands together, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. ¡°Right on time!¡± he said, already heading to meet the guy. ¡°I got you something. Come help me with it.¡± The boxes were heavy, rattling with the unmistakable sound of glass. Russell had a pretty good idea what was inside, but when he cracked one open, he still took a step back, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. ¡°Woah,¡± he said. Inside was an alchemist¡¯s dream for alcoholics ¡ª dozens of bottles in every color imaginable, catching the light like jewels in a chest. Russell opened another box, then another. More of the same, a haul that could stock a bar for months. ¡°Buzz, this is so much fucking booze!¡± ¡°Well, we¡¯ve got a long stretch of open sea ahead,¡± Buzz said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°Plenty more videos to make ¡ª don¡¯t forget that ¡ª but there¡¯s gonna be downtime too. And I know how you like to spend your downtime. You earned this, buddy. Thanks for showing up.¡± Russell pulled out a bottle, turning it over in his hands like he¡¯d just uncovered buried treasure. He glanced at the open boxes. There had to be at least fifty bottles. ¡°The resort guy just gave you all this for free?¡± Buzz let out a sharp bark of laughter. ¡°Hell no! I¡¯m trading it pound for pound in Spazz powder. The guy says it¡¯s got potential as a party drug. Can you believe that? Spazz, a goddamn party drug! Bet the suits never saw that one coming.¡± Russell¡¯s eyes flicked to Buzz¡¯s pupils, massive and unblinking, and he hesitated, holding the bottle between them. ¡°And you¡¯re sure you¡¯re gonna be okay around all this?¡± Buzz snorted and threw up his signature two-thumbs-up, the move that had sold America. ¡°I¡¯ll be A-OK, buddy!¡± he said, grinning so wide it almost looked real. CHAPTER 14: Running From Demons in Flip-Flops The jungle was on fire. Not smoldering, not sparking ¡ª fucking burning. ¡°Ohshitohshitohshitohshit,¡± Russell panted, purple leggings swishing, flip-flops slapping the ground with a panicked rhythm. His eyes were wide, darting around like a kid who¡¯d just stuffed a lit cherry bomb in the neighbor¡¯s mailbox. He glanced a quick look back as he ran. The jungle wasn¡¯t just burning; it was exploding. What started as a ground fire had become a full-blown apocalypse ¡ª trees toppling in clouds of ember, sparks shooting like bottle rockets, smoke rising with a fury. And the whole thing never stopped chasing after Russell. ¡°Look at what you did!¡± Tumzy shouted through painted lips. Tucked into the crook of Russell¡¯s elbow like a panda-shaped football, Tumzy kept yelling, her voice cutting through the chaos as Russell ran. ¡°Big time fire guy, you crazy! Big big crazy!¡± ¡°Shut up, you didn¡¯t see shit,¡± he said through a whispered pant. Russell might¡¯ve been the reason this all started ¡ª key word, might ¡ª but as he sprinted away from the inferno, one thing was crystal clear: if he made it out of this alive, he wasn¡¯t paying for a damn thing. He still had a lawsuit to file. And if anyone deserved the blame, it was goddamn Jerry Riggs! ¡°Run faster, faster, crazy guy!¡± Tumzy cheered, her painted grin beaming up at him. No shit, I have to run. Thanks for the survival tip. ¡°Yo!¡± Russell yelled, ignoring her. ¡°YOOOO!¡± His voice cracked, raw and desperate, half a plea for help, half a long-shot Hail Mary. Maybe, just maybe, Shoji ¡ª the island¡¯s mythical streaker ¡ª would hear him and swoop in to save the day. Shoji, who knew of a boat somewhere on this hellhole. His boat. Russell needed him. Which meant he needed to keep running. So further he ran, and further fucking still. Ahead of him, the jungle offered no path, just a green labyrinth that forced him to make quick, desperate decisions on the fly. Squeeze through here, hop over that, duck under whatever was ready to take his head off. It was his own scuffed version of an endless runner game, where only a high score meant he got to stay alive. It wasn¡¯t easy, especially not for an out-of-shape guy in furry leggings and stolen flip-flops. As hard as he pressed himself, the fire was always at his back. It grew quicker, bigger, meaner, and Russell, with every step, only got slower. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flames spreading wider, unfurling like a noose so it could cinch tight around him. He needed something, anything, to keep going. Otherwise, he was cooked. ¡°Drinking up, water slut!¡± Tumzy¡¯s voice chimed in, the words echoing the busted wisdom painted on her belly. Finally, some advice worth listening to. ¡°Come on, come on!¡± he screamed, unscrewing Tumzy¡¯s top as he ran. He slammed the opening against his mouth, water rushing down his throat, soaking his beard, his chest. He probably quenched the dirt more than his own thirst, but it was enough. Or so he hoped. Russell trudged on through the wilderness, yanking his leggings high to give his feet some room to move. At some point, it felt like he¡¯d leveled up in his jungle running game because the obstacles were getting nastier. Duck under the vines that look like snakes, dodge this falling tree, dive headfirst through the massive spider web because, honestly, what else could he do? No matter how fast or clever he thought he was, the flames kept closing in. ¡°Don¡¯t get fired!¡± he yelled at himself. It was a mantra that had kept him going through countless summer days, cooking alive inside one mascot suit or another, knowing full well that if he passed out, they¡¯d can him and replace him before he even hit the ground. It worked back then, and it was working now, though ¡°fired¡± had taken on a much more literal meaning. Fueled by that mindset, Tumzy¡¯s cheery one-liners, and a little water sloshing around in his gut, he gradually gained some distance from the flames ¡ª not a lot, but enough to grab a lungful of air, though even that was half smoke and all bad news. The fucking smoke, man, thicker by the second, closing in like a suffocating fog. And as his visibility began to dwindle, the sounds of the jungle became louder. Burning or not, it was still alive. And it was pissed. Birds shrieked high above, monkeys howled like little demons, and somewhere out there, squealing boars bulldozed through their burning turf. He couldn¡¯t see any of it ¡ª the smoke was thickening by the second, and stopping wasn¡¯t an option. No time to think, no room for mistakes ¡ª just keep moving, or die. Die. The word clung to him like the smoke in his lungs. He¡¯d exposed the Gamemaster¡¯s game, called out the actors, survived the early trials. But this fire? This wasn¡¯t part of the script. This was all on him. The inferno didn¡¯t care if he was the so-called ¡°main character.¡± And for all the chaos the Gamemaster could cook up, even they might not be able to save him from his own colossal fuck-up. No grand plan, no hidden lesson ¡ª just Russell and his knack for destruction. If this firestorm killed him, he¡¯d have no one to blame but himself. And Jerry Riggs. But through the choking haze of smoke, as he ran, a flicker of hope caught his eye ¡ª a glint of gold off to his right. Not far, just off the never-ending obstacle course he was running. He tracked it as he moved, his legs never slowing. Gold. He¡¯d seen that color only once today, and now, in the middle of all this chaos, here it was again. The crab. That same one-clawed menace, leading his loyal posse up the trunk of a tree. They climbed steadily, moving up to the canopy above, escaping the inferno raging below. Everything else blurred ¡ª smoke, flames, the pounding of his own pulse ¡ª but there was no mistaking who he saw. ¡°Crotch Gob¡ª¡± Russell tried to call out, but the words were slammed back down his throat. THUNK! PUH! WHAM! The low-hanging branch hit him square across the chest, knocking him flat on his ass at the speed of a rubberband coming to rest. Tumzy went flying, and Russell slammed into the dirt, the breath blasted out of him. Flat on his back, staring up at the canopy, he wheezed out the only thing he could manage. ¡°FUFUUFFFCCK!¡± Like an upturned turtle, Russell flailed to turn over. But gravity had other ideas, pinning him deeper into the dirt. He tried to breathe, tried to suck in air, but his lungs were rebooting. Eyes bulging, helpless, he stared up at the canopy, where shadows darted between the dancing branches ¡ª critters of all sorts fleeing the flames. Beyond the leafy ceiling, the dusk sky bled through in patches, streaked with something darker, something mean. Russell could¡¯ve sworn he heard a low rumble, something too big, too angry to be any animal.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡°Tumzaaahhh,¡± Russell wheezed, his voice barely there. He groped around blindly, fumbling for Tumzy in the dirt. Tumzy, in her usual infuriating way, picked the worst possible time to shut up. Russell wasn¡¯t sure if that was some cryptic signal he was too oxygen-starved to grasp. Was he safe? Or was this it? Was the game finally over, the credits about to roll? The fire roared closer, heat pressing against his hand as he clawed at the dirt, groping for his panda pal. Embers drifted in the air around him, glowing red and slow, not in any hurry but clear with their message: we¡¯re comin, baby. Fuck that. If he was going to die, it wouldn¡¯t be on his back like some helpless idiot. Gritting his teeth, Russell forced every muscle he had to listen, rolling himself over despite the cramps screaming at him to stop. He landed on his stomach like a beached seal, wheezing and spent. Once his head stopped spinning, Tumzy came into focus. She wasn¡¯t far. With not a breath to spare, he army-crawled through the dirt and scooped her up. If he¡¯d had air in his lungs, he¡¯d have chewed her out for going silent on him now of all times. But there wasn¡¯t any air, just that familiar fire in his throat, and a straight view of the Crotch Goblin¡¯s tree dead ahead. Russell could still see him, just barely ¡ª the golden bastard, leading his army of red and orange crabs higher into the branches, disappearing into the thick, drooping leaves, each one the size of a surfboard. They spread out like a giant¡¯s umbrella, protecting the crabs from the flames below ¡ª at least for now. Maybe the Crotch Goblin really did know something that Russell didn¡¯t, just like he¡¯d suspected way back on the beach. It wasn¡¯t too late to rejoin their caravan. Hell, he could climb too. He¡¯d scaled more fences than most in his day, breaking into places or out of them, depending on how the night before had ended. He dragged himself toward the tree, not outrunning the fire anymore, just crawling alongside it as it spread. The world around him was so loud ¡ª deafening ¡ª he couldn¡¯t even hear his own coughing. The heat bore down on him, every movement harder than the last. By the time he reached the tree¡¯s massive base, the fire was licking at its doorstep. ¡°G-get¡­ up,¡± he said to himself, each word broken by spastic, shallow breaths. He tried, and tried again, but he simply couldn¡¯t. His breath still hadn¡¯t caught up with him, and the truth hit like a frying pan to the back of his head: climbing wasn¡¯t happening. His lungs were shot, his strength gone. Maybe if he had a little more POWER. Maybe if he had more NERVE. Maybe if he hadn¡¯t smoked so many damn cigarettes all his life. But he didn¡¯t. And he had. This was it. In the smoldering aftermath, the Gamemaster would find him here ¡ª Russell Murphy, the ¡°main character¡±, curled up at the base of a blackened tree, clutching the melted remains of a panda water bottle. It¡¯d make for one hell of an obituary. He slid back against the trunk, pulling Tumzy close to his chest. Together, they watched the wall of flames roll in. In what he figured would be his final act of defiance, Russell shot his arm out and raised a middle finger to the fire. ¡°Kiss¡­ my¡­ ASS!¡± he rasped, as the inferno opened its whipping arms to embrace him. Then something cold smacked his outstretched arm ¡ª a drop of water from the canopy above. Tiny, but enough to jolt him. Startled, he sucked in his first full gasp of air since hitting the dirt. Before he could process it, another drop hit. Then another. At the same time, the flames seemed to stutter, hesitating to come any closer. The rain started slow. Beneath the sanctuary of the tree¡¯s broad leaves, Russell only caught a few meager drops of what grew into a full-on deluge. Water poured through the canopy, crashing down all around him. It drummed against the leaves, Tumzy¡¯s plastic body, and the screen of his device, building into a chaotic, pounding rhythm that filled the jungle. With Tumzy on his lap, Russell sat and watched as the rain hammered down, swelling into a relentless downpour. The water attacked from the heavens above, beating the fire back until the inferno grew no further. Here and there, the flames still burned, stubborn as hell, but they were boxed in now, losing ground to the rain. Russell, legs like noodles and head pounding, leaned his back harder into the trunk. He sucked in a shallow breath, then managed a faint, shaky smile. Somehow, he was alive.
The heavy rains had come fast, did their job, and moved on, leaving nothing but a light drizzle to duke it out with the remaining flames. Before the rain disappeared completely, Russell rolled out from under the tree and let it hit him full on, washing over him like a second chance. It sank deeper than just his skin ¡ª body and soul, he felt it pull him back into action. Lying there on the soaked, smoldering jungle floor, he finally took his first full breath in what felt like hours. Then, with legs wobbling like a newborn calf, Russell got to his feet for a better look. The jungle around him was wrecked. Fires had carved wide scars through the once-dense green, leaving wide, smoldering gaps littered with the charred corpses of fallen trees. Smoke clung to the air, thick but dying. The sun was gone now, but the jungle was aglow with patches of flickering flames and glimmering embers, lit up like the world¡¯s worst red-light district. Russell leaned against a half-burned tree, chest heaving as he pieced together the last few minutes of chaos. It was mostly a blur of running, ducking, and a lot of swearing. The end result? A felony-level case of arson. He didn¡¯t know much about acreage, but if he did, he¡¯d know the amount of damage here would¡¯ve made Smokey the Bear lose his mind and start eating children. Forget lumber mills and urban sprawl; all it took was Russell, a piece of flint, and some dry leaves to show what real deforestation looked like. Jesus. ¡°Remember,¡± he muttered to Tumzy, giving her a little pat. ¡°You didn¡¯t see shit.¡± Hopefully, all of the Gamemaster¡¯s hidden cameras had melted in the fire, leaving no evidence to connect him to any of this. No videos, no proof. As for witnesses, the only one he could think of was the Crotch Goblin, not that he would be saying much. He was a crab, not a rat. He looked back on the Crotch Goblin¡¯s tree, taking it all in from a few paces back. ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± he muttered. The tree was untouched ¡ª maybe scorched here and there, but healthy as could be. The leaves had pushed the rain down around itself, sealing itself off from the burning scourge. The flames hadn¡¯t stopped at the tree, they¡¯d gone around it, burning for another twenty yards before the rains launched its counter-offensive. Russell wouldn¡¯t have made it another twenty yards. The tree had saved him. More specifically, Crotch Goblin had saved him. ¡°Thanks dude,¡± Russell called up into the tree, hoping his old rival was up there. ¡°You still tried to pinch my dick off, but this goes a long way. Just like my dick.¡± A few hours ago, when dehydration was doing the thinking for him, he¡¯d convinced himself those crabs were the key to his salvation. And they had been, just not by means of a boat. He could only hope the Crotch Goblin and his crew didn¡¯t cook inside their shells. Sure, a crab boil would¡¯ve been nice, but cooking the Crotch Goblin? No way. That wasn¡¯t how this story ended. If anything, the evidence suggested the one-clawed fucker didn¡¯t want Russell cooked either. They¡¯d settle things one day, like true warriors ¡ª probably in hell. He looked out again at the mess he¡¯d made. Steam rose in twisting coils from the soaked jungle floor, the ghosts of fallen trees drifting off to whatever passed for the jungle¡¯s afterlife. The birds were silent, the rest of the animals too, leaving an eerie quiet over the place. A smoking graveyard, littered with steaming, leafy remains. The upside to burning down half a jungle is that it was sure to get noticed. What¡¯s an arsonist if not an attention seeker? If Shoji was out there, no way he¡¯d missed this. ¡°Hellooo!¡± Russell shouted, his voice still raw. ¡°Shojiiii!¡± He called out a few more times before he noticed something moving in the charred wastes. Through the red haze of smoldering fires, a figure appeared, deep in the distance, moving slow through the wreckage, wrapped in smoke and steam. The flicker of the flames made it hard to pin down its shape, a shadowy form that refused to come into focus. But there was someone there ¡ª no doubt. Shoji. It had to be. The figure stopped, standing still among the glowing embers like it was surveying the destruction, maybe searching for something. Russell waved, his arms flailing as he called out again. ¡°Yo! Shoji! Over here!¡± No response, but the figure was looking at him ¡ª he could feel it. Russell waved harder, throwing on a big, goofy grin. If Shoji was worried that Russell held a grudge over the rock-throwing incident, he wanted to make it clear that was all water under the bridge. Bygones, and all that shit. Let¡¯s just get to that boat and get the fuck outta here. ¡°Hey, buddy!¡± Russell called, his voice turning forced and friendly, bordering on fake. The figure moved, cautious but deliberate, each step pushing through the smoke like ghastly curtains being drawn back. And with every step, Russell¡¯s grin shrank a little more, his enthusiastic wave slowing until his arm just hung there frozen in the air. Waving at this thing suddenly felt like the dumbest move he¡¯d ever made ¡ª and this was a man who just burned down half a jungle. The figure wasn¡¯t Shoji. Not even close. ¡°Buzz?¡± Russell called out, voice faltering. But he knew it wasn¡¯t Buzz either. Buzz was ¡°big¡± in the polite way ¡ª code for someone who needed to lose a few pounds. This thing was big in a way that made ¡°big¡± feel inadequate. A linebacker? A lumberjack? No. Bigger. Each step made its body sway, rocking back and forth, like it was so stacked, it could barely keep itself upright. As it broke through the last of the smoke, it stopped, standing about a basketball court away. That¡¯s when Russell got the full picture. Black hair, matted and thick, a hulking body of muscle. ¡°Oh, shit,¡± Russell breathed, clutching Tumzy tight. He was staring at a gorilla, and the gorilla was staring right back at him. Framed by the smoke and dying flames, it looked like a beast out of hell, coming to drag Russell down to the depths. And with arms like those, massive cannons hung low, pulsing with raw power, it could drag him anywhere it damn well pleased. They slammed into the embers as the beast brought itself onto all-fours. ¡°Are you a good boy?¡± Russell asked with the fear of God in his voice. The gorilla roared, then charged. CHAPTER 15: King Kong Aint got Shit on Me! Russell climbed the tree with all the grace of an Australian breakdancer. It was a dance of awkward pulls and desperate kicks, Russell cursing all the while. As shameful as his acrobatic act truly was, it was the only shot he had of escaping the full-grown gorilla. He wasn¡¯t about to outrun the hairy goliath ¡ª wasn¡¯t about to fight it, either. Remember, Russell had spent more time than he cared to admit daydreaming about monkey brawls, and what was a gorilla if not the boss level of big-ass monkeys? Those mental showdowns always ended the same way: with Russell¡¯s face ripped off. So climbing was the only real option here. He clawed his way up the Crotch Goblin¡¯s tree like his life depended on it. Which it probably did. One branch, two branch, hiking himself higher with whatever energy he¡¯d regained in the time since the rainstorm. It wasn¡¯t much. His leggings strained in protest, and his bare hands scraped against bark like a cheese grater. He wasn¡¯t going fast enough ¡ª the gorilla was closing in. ¡°Frig off!¡± he yelled, his voice cracking. ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything!¡± Russell grabbed for the next branch, his eyes darting over the blackened jungle around them. All that primo jungle real-estate, burned to ash ¡ª he had done something, and the gorilla likely knew it. It roared, deep and guttural, a sound that hit Russell right in the chest. The ground shook under its pounding footsteps, each one closer than the last. The third branch gave out with a sharp crack, dumping Russell backward like a sack of potatoes. He would¡¯ve hit the dirt if another branch hadn¡¯t jabbed him in the spine on the way down. His suspenders snagged on it, snapping him to a stop and leaving him hanging upside down, arms flailing, blood rushing to his head. It had taken him only seconds to start climbing, fuck that up, and end up hanging like a human pinata, ready and waiting for the beating of a lifetime. ¡°Shit, shit, shit!¡± he sputtered, twisting like a caught fish. Russell watched as the beast barreled closer. Every time its fists pounded against the burnt earth, a cloud of embers exploded in a fury. Those fists would be on him soon, no doubt. He threw both hands over his face, a flimsy last line of defense, then thought better of it and moved one hand to his crotch. Priorities. The gorilla stopped dead at the base of the tree, chest heaving and nostrils pumping. Russell peeked through his fingers, daring a look at the thing. There it was, three hundred and sixty pounds of muscle and rage, just close enough for him to smell the sweat and smoke on its fur. In all the scenarios he¡¯d run in his head ¡ª where he squared off against an army of apes ¡ª this was where things got ugly. Limbs flying, eyeballs plucked and slapped around like ping-pong balls ¡ª all kinds of National Geographic nightmares. But it didn¡¯t happen yet. The gorilla sniffed the air like it was searching for a clue. Its dark eyes flicked up at him, knowing, filled with something smarter than he wanted to admit. Russell clung to the branch, legs trembling in his stretched-out leggings, and felt a strange flicker of admiration. Damn thing was badass. ¡°Easy,¡± he muttered, trying to sound like he wasn¡¯t two seconds from pissing himself. ¡°We¡¯re good. Evvvvverything¡¯s good.¡± The gorilla slammed its fists against the dirt so hard Russell felt it reverberate through the tree. It thumped its chest, hard, once, like punctuation. A warning. Not full blown King-Kong shit, but enough to make a point. Then it cocked its head, and flicked its hands in a quick set of gestures ¡ª deliberate. Hell, some might even call the finger-flicks intricate, but from where Russell hung, upside-down and dizzy, it was hard to make sense of. So he stared like an idiot, his brain scrambling to catch up, and that¡¯s when the voice hit him. ¡°Not good. Not good.¡± It wasn¡¯t the gorilla¡¯s voice. Not really. It was clipped, spliced, the tones all wrong ¡ª one word high-pitched and cheerful, the next flat and everyday. Russell froze. Broken as it sounded, he recognized it. He¡¯d heard that voice half a dozen times today, nagging and chirping at him since the moment he woke up. It was the voice from his wrist device. Except this time, it wasn¡¯t coming from his wrist. It was coming from the gorilla¡¯s. As the gorilla continued to make quick gestures with its hands, Russell studied its arm. There strapped to one of its hairy appendages was a device. The thing had seen better days, screen cracked and flickering, but it seemed to serve the beast just fine ¡ª as of all things, a jerry-rigged communication device. As the gorilla performed sign language, barring its teeth at Russell all the while, the device translated the signals to speak for the beast. ¡°Holy shit,¡± Russell said. ¡°You can talk. You¡¯re a talking god-damn gorilla.¡± The gorilla snarled in response, then gave Russell a shove, sending him swinging like a child¡¯s swing. He flailed, throwing his hands out in feeble defense of himself. ¡°No, no! No pushing! Be a good boy!¡± ¡°Jungle burning. Not good. Human get punished,¡± the gorilla signed, and the voice followed right after. The more Russell listened, the clearer it got ¡ª everything the gorilla ¡°said¡± was cobbled together from the device¡¯s library of pre-recorded lines. ¡°Yeah, I know ¡ª jungle was burning!¡± Russell said, his voice jumping a notch. ¡°And I really hope they catch the guy that did it!¡± The beast came closer, rising onto its hind legs until its head was higher than Russell¡¯s. He cringed, bracing for the pounding of a lifetime, but when the gorilla¡¯s massive arms came up, they didn¡¯t come for him. They reached past him. Russell risked a look and saw what had caught its attention. Tumzy. God damn Tumzy. She dangled from a higher branch by her little lanyard, snagged in the chaos of Russell¡¯s fall. Hanging there like some warped ornament on a Christmas tree. The gorilla reached up and plucked her free, gentle as could be. Its whole demeanor shifted. The growling stopped. It hooted softly, low and comforting, anger draining away like it had never been there. ¡°That¡¯s my friend,¡± Russell said, his voice shaky but hopeful. Jungle cred ¡ª he¡¯d take it if he could get it. The gorilla lowered Tumzy carefully, cradling her as it passed Russell¡¯s eyeline, her painted eyes locked on his, unblinking and judgmental, all the way down. The beast crooned softly, nuzzling the water bottle like it was a cub. ¡°Me protect animal. Me protect jungle. Human not allowed. Punished,¡± the gorilla signed, its hands moving with deliberate intent. Russell¡¯s lizard brain fired up, his survival instincts weaving a story faster than he could think it through. ¡°Right, totally,¡± he said, nodding like a fool. ¡°Humans suck. But me? I¡¯m not human. I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m an animal. Look.¡± He held up his arm and rubbed it down the singed, matted fur of his mascot leggings. ¡°See? Animal. So, uh, don¡¯t beat the shit out of me.¡± The gorilla didn¡¯t look convinced. Its dark eyes narrowed, studying him. Then it reached out, grabbed a handful of his furry pants, and rubbed the fabric between its fingers like it was checking the label. Its brow furrowed, the gears turning. Then came the hand signals, flung like accusations.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°You animal? The jungle only for animal.¡± Even upside down, Russell could see the problem. To the gorilla, he must¡¯ve looked like some freak hybrid ¡ª a mythical mix of man and beast. And maybe, just maybe, the same freak who¡¯d torched its home, the one in need of ¡°punishment¡±. Fuck that. ¡°I am,¡± he said, puffing out his chest like he meant it. ¡°I am animal.¡± He curled his hand into a claw, swiping at the air with a half-hearted growl. ¡°Rawr.¡± It wasn¡¯t exactly a lie. Russell had spent more nights outside than he could count, including the time he woke up in a St. Bernard costume outside a mid-regional dog show, with a dog catcher trying to leash him. By modern society¡¯s standards, yeah, he was an animal. But the gorilla wasn¡¯t buying it. Its expression stayed cold, that simmering anger starting to bubble back to the surface, thickening the air around them. Russell felt the desperation clawing at him. Like any decent con man, he knew one thing ¡ª he needed a little validation to seal the deal. ¡°Don¡¯t believe me? T-Tumzy there¡¯ll tell you ¡ª I¡¯m the friendliest of the jungle critters. A true friend of nature, through and through. Right, Tumzy?¡± They both turned to look at the water bottle. Russell gave it the kind of look you¡¯d give a buddy at a poker table, the unspoken plea to play along, back up the bluff. But Tumzy, being a water bottle (and an asshole), stayed silent as the grave. Russell¡¯s face went red. ¡°You fucking dick!¡± he yelled, unable to stop himself. The gorilla shrieked and smacked him again, a massive backhand that sent him swinging harder. His suspenders groaned under the strain, and for a horrifying second, he thought they might snap. Instead, this second assault sent all of Russell¡¯s collected gear spilling out of his leggings ¡ª everything he¡¯d scavenged, everything he¡¯d hoarded, scattered like offerings to the gorilla god: A pair of party shades, a golden crab claw, and a stick grenade. Replica, of course. The gorilla sniffed at the scattered items, poking through them with a massive finger. It picked up the stick grenade, brought it to its nose, then swung it toward Russell, knocking him in the face a couple of times like it was asking, What the hell¡¯s this for? ¡°No, no, it¡¯s okay,¡± Russell stammered, trying to keep his tone light. He could recover from this, from Tumzy¡¯s betrayal. ¡°I¡¯m a raccoon! Raccoons collect stuff. Trash! I was cleaning up the jungle.¡± He waved his hands around as he spoke, throwing in his own improvised sign language to sell the act. ¡°Then ¡ª big fire! Whoosh!¡± He flared his hands like flames, then put them to his cheeks in a mock Home Alone expression. ¡°I ran. Fast as I could. Got caught. Oh no!¡± The gorilla tilted its head, watching him with wary eyes. For all its size and the coiled danger in its movements, there was something almost gentle in the way it stood, rising to its full height to inspect him again. The thing had to be six-foot tall. ¡°You animal. I protect animal,¡± it said, finally. If the translation was capable of creating proper tones, Russell was sure that last sentence would have been lathered in doubt. But it didn¡¯t matter now, the ape had bought his bullshit. ¡°That¡¯s great!¡± Russell said, barely able to believe his ruse had worked. If this was proof of his SWAGGER, then maybe it wouldn¡¯t be a useless stat like he originally thought. Confidence swelled in him, enough to take a shot at something bolder. ¡°So¡­ you help me too? Help me down?¡± The gorilla looked at Tumzy, then back at Russell. What a pair they made. But animals? Yeah, maybe in their own weird ways. With a cautious snort, the gorilla set Tumzy down on the ground, then rose back to Russell. It gave him a long look, sizing him up like a carpenter eyeballing a broken piece of furniture. Figuring out how to remove Russell from the tree, that seemed to push the limits of the gorilla¡¯s UTILITY ¡ª if it had such a stat. Smart as it was, its problem-solving boiled down to brute force. Like any good beast, it played to its STRENGTH, and it clearly had more of that than it knew what to do with. It grabbed Russell by the arm and yanked hard, no finesse in the move, just raw power. ¡°Wait, wait, wait¡ª¡± Russell bleated, but it was too late. His worst nightmare kicked in as one of the suspenders snapped. His body peeled halfway out of the leggings, sliding loose like a ruptured boil. One half of him came free, the other half stayed caught, leaving him hanging by the lone suspender. A funny sight, if not for the consequences it unleashed. And that consequence unleashed? Well, it was Russell¡¯s dick. Russell¡¯s exposed body sagged just enough to flash the gorilla square in the face ¡ª his junk, front and center. Instantly, the air shifted again. Whatever caretaker vibes the gorilla had been giving off evaporated in a heartbeat. Shocked by the sight, it jolted back and dropped to all fours, letting out a furious bellow. It signed, pointed ¡ª right at Russell¡¯s exposed crotch. ¡°Penis,¡± the device bleated. ¡°Human penis.¡± Russell didn¡¯t need the gorilla¡¯s spliced voice to tell him it was pissed. The air was already thick with its fury. He wasn¡¯t an animal anymore ¡ª not in its eyes. Not after that. All thanks to his goddamn human penis. That thing was always more trouble than it was worth. The gorilla raised both arms, ready to bring them down on Russell like twin wrecking balls. ¡°Fuck!¡± Russell screamed, bracing for the impact. But before the blow landed, a rock shot into the scene, hitting the ground just short of the gorilla. The beast froze, startled, its head snapping around like a dog hearing a noise it couldn¡¯t place. Then came another rock, this one landing closer. The gorilla roared into the smoke-filled jungle, banging its chest, demanding the rock-thrower step up and show themselves. Rock-thrower. Oh, god, Russell thought. My hero hath returned. If Russell was right about what was happening, he¡¯d need to sell it, dip into that SWAGGER of his once more. He picked a random spot in the distance, jabbed a finger toward it, and made his best terrified face. ¡°Ah!¡± he yelled. ¡°Over there! Dirty human!¡± The gorilla paused, then followed Russell¡¯s finger, eyes narrowing as it locked onto the spot. Without hesitation, it thundered off in that direction, bashing through scorched logs and sending embers flying. A one-beast tank, ready to crush whatever human was hiding. ¡°Human no hiding!¡± the device screamed as the gorilla charged. ¡°Me rip you! Me hurt you!¡± But there wasn¡¯t anyone over there. Russell knew it. The rock-thrower wasn¡¯t far at all. As soon as the gorilla thundered off, Russell felt a pair of small hands on his back, working to free him from the costume that had him tangled up in the tree. ¡°Shoji,¡± Russell whispered, his voice barely above a breath, turning to see if it was really him. It was. By God, it was. The Japanese man, late twenties maybe, with spiked black hair, a mud-caked face, and eyes that said he¡¯d seen worse than this. Shoji ¡ª the first face Russell had laid eyes on when he woke up in this nightmare. The answer to his prayers. Shoji spoke fast, the words tumbling out in Japanese. Russell didn¡¯t understand a lick of it, but he didn¡¯t need to. Unlike the gorilla, Shoji¡¯s tone had an edge ¡ª sharp, urgent. We gotta go. Together, they yanked Russell free from the last suspender. His bruised, battered body hit the ground with a bone-rattling oof. He scrambled to his feet, blinking down at Shoji, all five feet and some change of him. Just like back on the beach, Shoji was stark naked ¡ª and now so was Russell. As a matter of fact, Russell was now more naked than Shoji. The little rock-thrower had a string of hand-made rope tied around his waist, with two small plastic bags dangling from it ¡ª the kind you¡¯d use to pick up dog shit. Russell, meanwhile, had nothing but his birthday suit. He glanced down at himself, remembering his scattered gear, and snatched up the two closest things: Tumzy and the grenade. ¡°Must run. Run fast!¡± Shoji said, his English clumsy but clear. But Russell had to wonder if it¡¯d even be worth it. He pointed over Shoji¡¯s shoulder, eyes wide. The gorilla had turned, snarling at the sight of them, fevered by their deception. Where it hadn¡¯t gone full King Kong before, it did now. It beat its chest with a fury that shook the air, every pound screaming murder. It wasn¡¯t just angry anymore. It was out for blood. ¡°It¡¯s coming back!¡± Russell screamed as the gorilla barreled toward them. Shoji looked up, sharing in Russell¡¯s panic, but not for long. In the middle of all the chaos, he closed his eyes and let out a long, measured breath. Any trace of dismay disappeared as he found some kind of inner peace. When he spoke, his voice was steady but sharp, like some Dragon Ball Z character giving a monologue before the big fight. ¡°Kemukujara no raibaru¡­¡± The gorilla thundered closer. Russell gawked at Shoji, dumbfounded. ¡°Anata no nebaridzuyo-sa o sonkei shimasu.¡± Another step, closer still. Shoji didn¡¯t flinch. His hand reached down to one of the plastic dog-shit bags tied around his waist. ¡°What the hell are you doing, man?¡± Russell said, frightened, ready to leave his savior behind. Shoji screamed the rest of his monologue as he ripped the bag open, his fingers closing around its contents. Russell could only pray it wasn¡¯t actual dog shit. ¡°Shikashi, anata wa jibunjishin''no yashin ni m¨­moku ni natte imasu!¡± ¡°Shit!¡± Russell yelped as the gorilla lunged. Shoji moved with the unexpected grace of a samurai and the unnecessary flair of an anime villain. With a sharp twist, he flung a handful of the bag¡¯s contents straight into the gorilla¡¯s face. The effect was immediate. The dust burst into a gritty, tan cloud, and the gorilla staggered back, roaring in agony. It thrashed wildly, swiping at its face, desperate to claw the stuff out of its eyes. Russell stared in awe. ¡°Holy shit, man. Did you just pocket-sand a gorilla?¡± Shoji didn¡¯t bother answering. He reached for the second shit-bag at his waist, scooping out another handful of dust. ¡°Help run,¡± he said, and before Russell could react, Shoji dusted him right in his face. ¡°No, don¡¯t¡ª¡± Russell managed, but it was already done. The dust had entered his eyes, his nose. It burned familiar. Like the gorilla, the effect hit instantly. Only, this dust was different, sourced from a different shit-bag. Where the gorilla had reeled in pain, Russell felt his brain light up like a switchboard. Every muscle snapped to attention, every receptor kicked into overdrive. His focus narrowed to a razor¡¯s edge, and he felt like he could bench-press a patient from My 600 Pound Life. Best yet, he felt like he could run for miles. And over the next twenty minutes, that¡¯s exactly what they did. The two naked fugitives tore through the jungle, Tumzy swinging around Russell¡¯s neck, the grenade rattling inside her. Bare feet pounding the dirt, they left the scorched wasteland behind, breaking into the untouched green where the fires hadn¡¯t reached. Over time, the gorilla¡¯s screams faded, swallowed by the trees, a bad memory and the kind of story no one back home would ever believe. When Russell was sure they¡¯d put enough space between them and their would-be destroyer, he grabbed Shoji by the shoulder, pulling him to a stop. They had things to talk about, and Shoji¡¯s relentless Naruto run was starting to piss him off. ¡°Shoji,¡± Russell said, panting as he steadied himself. ¡°I need you to take me to the boat.¡± ¡°Boat?¡± Shoji said, frowning like he didn¡¯t understand, but Russell wasn¡¯t about to waste time. He knew he¡¯d just hooked his White Whale. He wiped his face, smearing some of the dust Shoji had blasted him with. He didn¡¯t need to look to know what it was. There was only one thing on this island that could light someone up like a meth-fueled firecracker. Spazz Powder. He held his purple-stained palm up to Shoji, his voice sharp and clear. ¡°Boat, motherfucker. Take me.¡± CHAPTER 16: Boofing Drugs with the God of Thunder 24 HOURS AGO Another brutal wave sucker-punched the yacht, sending Russell flying out of the bathroom and into the hallway face-first. He skidded to a stop, half-naked, mascot leggings hiked around his thighs. The piss he hadn¡¯t finished was now decorating his costume and the hallway floor. ¡°I pissed myself!¡± he hollered, sprawled out, clutching his bottle of vodka like it was the last thing holding him together. It had already been one hell of a night, but from the looks of it, things were just getting started. The storm outside was raising hell, the lord of the ocean himself hammering on the hull, demanding to be let in. Russell and Buzz were throwing the kind of party you only throw when the world¡¯s ending, so it shouldn¡¯t have been a shock when they plowed straight into the mother of all typhoons. Storm-of-the-century? Could be. But that didn¡¯t stop them from cranking the rock music and riding it out while Buzz manned the helm, aiming for the nearest port. No matter how loud they turned up the tunes, though, it wasn¡¯t enough to drown out the old sea god pounding on their door. ¡°Buzz!¡± Russell yelled, his tongue too big for his mouth. ¡°Buzz! I got piss on Blitz!¡± ¡°Get in here, goddammit!¡± Buzz¡¯s voice boomed from somewhere down the galley, fighting to be heard over the yacht¡¯s ship-wide sound system blasting 80s rock at full fucking throttle. Russell knew his captain was calling, but standing wasn¡¯t a skill he seemed to possess anymore. Crawling felt like a safer bet. The yacht pitched hard, and Russell grunted like a wounded animal, slapping the floor to keep from sliding. He managed to get upright for a grand total of two seconds before the sea smacked the boat again, knocking him right back on his ass. It wasn¡¯t a fair fight ¡ª he was going toe-to-toe with fucking Poseidon. ¡°Fuck you, you trident-swinging bitch!¡± he yelled, swinging a fist at nothing as he clawed his way forward. Russell finally managed to crawl into the galley, looking up at what it had become. The place was wrecked ¡ª but not because of the storm. Weeks of hard living had turned the living space from a shrine to Spazz Energy into a temple of debauchery. The merch that once hung proudly had been torn down and repurposed as makeshift rags or impromptu blankets, while the walls were redecorated with spray-painted dicks and other crude creations of their caveman brains. The upholstery was a Jackson Pollock of spills, stains, and mysteries best left to a black light. In short, it was fucked. A shipment of empty liquor bottles rolled back and forth across the floor, clinking softly as the yacht tried its best to ride the waves. To Russell¡¯s vodka-soaked brain, the floor looked alive, writhing and slithering toward him like it wanted to swallow him whole. ¡°Buzz, help me!¡± he shouted, covering his head as the bottles descended. Buzz looked up from the galley table, spooked by the creature crawling on the floor. From the look on his twitching face, he didn¡¯t even remember calling for Russell at all. The bear-of-a-man had been nose-deep in a collection of maps and charts, while also nose-deep in the many mountains of Spazz that were piled around him. He was dual-wielding rolled-up hundred-dollar bills, one in each hand, their tips stained purple. And his eyes ¡ª Jesus. They were peeled so wide they nearly took over his whole face, and somehow his pupils were even bigger. Sat next to him was the blow-up doll ¡ª Rub N¡¯ Tug Rhonda, they¡¯d called her ¡ª grinning with that vacant O-shaped mouth of hers. Russell stared, his drunken mind painting Buzz as the Scarface of Spazz. It fit. God help him, it fit. ¡°Russell!¡± Buzz yelled, cracking an unhinged smile as he realized the thing on the floor was his friend. ¡°I think we¡¯re fucked, bud!¡± He jammed a bill into his nostril for another nosedive of Spazz, then chased it down with a swig of rum, the kind of chug that said he¡¯d long since stopped tasting it. ¡°It¡¯s nothin!¡± Russell screamed. ¡°Just fuckin¡¯ rain! Chart a course, or some shit!¡± With that, Russell had expended the most of his maritime vocabulary and shifted gears, singing into the vodka bottle like it was a microphone. Eddie Van Halen was shredding through the speakers, the riffs cranked so loud it felt like Russell had front-row seats to the apocalypse. He soaked it all in, flat on his belly, a drunken rock star in the middle of a mega-storm. ¡°Would if I could, good man!¡± Buzz shouted, rolling with the nonsense. He used his rolled-up bills to pound out an air-drum solo, slapping at the piles of Spazz like they were little cymbals. He was high as a kite and happier than he had any right to be. ¡°It¡¯s just that I ain¡¯t got a clue where we are. Fucked all the way, baby!¡± ¡°Wha?¡± Russell said, lowering his glass microphone. Didn¡¯t know where we are? As the boat bucked harder, Russell crawled through the galley like a drunk playing Frogger, dodging the rolling bottles and slipping on garbage, before finally reaching the table. He managed to pull himself up halfway, his head flopping onto the tabletop like a dead fish. ¡°Take a look for yourself,¡± Buzz said, first sliding a rolled-up bill toward Russell like a priest offering communion. They called it ¡°getting your mind right.¡± One good line of Spazz down the sniffer could clear the fog, no matter how drunk you were. It wouldn¡¯t make you a genius, but it could make terrible ideas seem like they had potential. Russell didn¡¯t hesitate, snorting a line faster than Buzz could cut the next one. With his mind ¡°right,¡± Russell sat up, blinking at the maps Buzz had laid out. Grids, currents, coordinates ¡ª it might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics. For Russell, no amount of purple powder was going to help him make sense of nautical navigation. ¡°So, what the fuck?¡± he asked, looking up, clueless. Buzz just shook his head, disappointed. He glanced at Rub N¡¯ Tug Rhonda as if to say, Can you believe this guy? ¡°Well?¡± Buzz began. ¡°Wasn¡¯t you ever in the Boy Scouts?¡± Russell thought over the question. His dad had made him join, hoping it would adjust some of Russell¡¯s behavioral problems, sand down some of those rough adolescent edges. It did not. ¡°I got kicked out for stealing a jet ski.¡± Russell said. Buzz snorted. He threw one of his big paws over the charts. ¡°Take my word for it. We¡¯re off course something awful. We ain¡¯t just fucked ¡ª we¡¯re on the far-side of fucked!¡± Fueled by a nose-full of Spazz, Russell felt a wave of anger come over him. This was bullshit. An hour ago, Buzz said they¡¯d be drinking Mai Tais in some cabana in no time, surrounded by bikini-clad women who¡¯d do just about anything for a purple-stained hundred. ¡°What the hell, Buzz?¡± Russell snapped. ¡°You said you knew how to read this shit!¡± Buzz shot him a glare and twisted the volume knob, dialing down Van Halen to a manageable roar. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be slummin¡¯ it like Leif Suck-My-Erikson if we still had the damn navigational system, Russ!¡± They stared at each other, the kind of stare where both men rehashed the last few weeks in an instant. Right after Hawaii, when the booze came aboard, things devolved quick. Buzz had watched Russell romancing a different bottle every night, having himself a grand old time, and Buzz simply cracked. He said the words you don¡¯t come back from: ¡°Just one won¡¯t hurt me.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Russell had tried to keep Buzz on the wagon, but there¡¯s only so much one man can do. Buzz didn¡¯t just fall off ¡ª he dove headfirst and lit the whole wagon on fire behind him. From there, chaos was inevitable. Drinking games to kill time morphed into all-night, booze-soaked bacchanals. They¡¯d pound liquor like it was tap water, dream up grand plans they¡¯d never follow through on, dance like idiots, fight over nothing, then hug it out before starting all over again. And somewhere in that loop, something always got broken. The navigational system was one of the first things to go, smashed to pieces during a drunken fight in the helm over who got to play the love interest in a Spazz video skit with Rub N¡¯ Tug Rhonda. Buzz had claimed he was the obvious choice ¡ª more charming, more believable. Russell wasn¡¯t big on mutiny, but the vodka had him feeling like Adonis himself, and Buzz was gonna have to fight him for the honor of swooning the blow-up doll. The system didn¡¯t survive their scuffle. Since then, Buzz had been steering them by old sea charts, powered by the kind of delusional self-confidence that was his superpower ¡ª except when it came to cross-country sailing. They¡¯d been off course for days, drifting deeper into the unknown. Neither of them had to say it out loud ¡ª they both carried the blame, fuck-loads of it. Buzz, playing the bigger man, regrew his smile and tapped his bottle of rum against Russell¡¯s vodka, a silent truce that said, let¡¯s keep on truckin¡¯. ¡°So what are we gonna do?¡± Russell said, gripping the edge of the table as another wave hammered the boat. The lights flickered, both of them freezing, thinking God Himself was about to weigh in. When the lights steadied and nothing happened, Buzz turned back, grinning like the lack of divine judgment was proof he was onto something. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what we¡¯re gonna do, buddy,¡± he said. Without taking his massive eyeballs off of Russell, he dug around in the cushions and overturned bottles, finally pulling out the video camera. He slammed it on the table with a solid thunk. ¡°We¡¯re gonna make a video.¡± The thing looked like it had survived a war campaign, but it still worked. Still, Russell frowned, staring at his own fish-eye reflection in the lens. ¡°What? Why? Why, man?¡± ¡°What¡¯dya mean, why? Because then we can send it to the Spazz suits and they¡¯ll come save our asses! It¡¯s perfect!¡± Buzz was already on the move, caught up in his own momentum, but Russell wasn¡¯t about to let it slide. ¡°We haven¡¯t sent them anything in weeks, Buzz! Best case, they think we¡¯re dead. Worst case, they figure out we¡¯re alive and completely screwed off with their boat. They¡¯re gonna be pissed. We could probably go to jail!¡± Buzz stopped just long enough to flash that unhinged grin of his. ¡°Oh, buddy,¡± he said, almost laughing. ¡°We¡¯re definitely going to jail. That¡¯s why we¡¯re gonna hit ¡®em with something they won¡¯t see coming. The best goddamn video they¡¯ve ever laid eyes on.¡± Buzz swept his arms out wide, gesturing to the cathedral of depravity they¡¯d created in the galley. ¡°We¡¯re gonna show them the true power of Spazz ¡ª exactly like they¡¯ve been dreaming about. Those lunatics didn¡¯t make some lame-ass study buddy. This shit is the best ride of my life! Weeks of non-stop partying, every day a bottle down the hatch, and I could still run a damn marathon. Buddy, I think they cracked the code on human evolution. And we¡¯re gonna prove it.¡± Buzz was breathing hard now, practically vibrating with excitement, every word winding him tighter. ¡°And then,¡± he said, like an afterthought, ¡°we ask ¡®em to come get our asses.¡± With the booze and the camera still in hand, he hit Russell with his signature double-thumbs-up. The final blow was dealt. A long time ago, Russell had decided he was in this with Buzz until the end, whatever that end may be. And right now, the end was looking pretty grim. But loyalty meant something to Russell. Who knows ¡ª maybe jail time would do him some good. Sand away those rough edges like his dad always wanted. Either way, the Spazz was telling him to do some crazy shit, and this sounded like it fit the bill. He tipped back the bottle, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth. ¡°What do you need from me?¡± Buzz¡¯s grin stretched wider, the look of a man watching his master plan come together. ¡°Get Blitz ready for a show,¡± he said, pointing upstairs toward the top deck. ¡°And meet me up top in two minutes.¡± He started climbing the stairs, then stopped, turning back like he¡¯d forgotten one small detail. ¡°And put your dick away.¡± Russell looked down, disappointed to see he¡¯d been hanging out this whole time. ¡°Aw, shit!¡±
The top deck was a living nightmare. Wind howled like a pack of wolves, rain came down in sheets, and thunder cracked like a bar brawl in the sky. Lightning stewed in dark clouds, each flash revealing mountains of angry water all around them, ready to bury them. ¡°We¡¯ll make it work!¡± Buzz yelled over the storm. Russell, hunched over the side of the yacht, was busy unloading days of bad decisions into the ocean, racoon claws gripped to the railing for dear life. He¡¯d shoved the Blitz headpiece up above his own, trying to keep it clean as he hurled. Besides the mascot leggings, the head and those doofy-looking paws were the only parts of the costume he¡¯d managed to grab in the scramble. Rain pelted his exposed chest. ¡°I need the rest of the get-up!¡± Russell shouted back, wiping his mouth with the back of his raccoon paw. ¡°I look like an asshole!¡± Buzz didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°You always have! Let¡¯s get this show on the road!¡± He stuffed a wad of Spazz into his gums like it was chaw, then got the camera rolling. He raised it, pointed it at Russell. ¡°Alright, Blitz! Tell the good people how you¡¯re feeling!¡± Russell heaved again, spilling more of his poisoned guts over the side, but somehow managed to flash a furry thumbs-up toward Buzz. ¡°Million bucks!¡± he croaked. ¡°Spazz is the shit!¡± Buzz lowered the camera, shaking his head all spastic-like. ¡°Buddy, you gotta sell it! Tell ¡®em all the amazing shit you¡¯ve done on Spazz!¡± Lightning clouds once more lit up the sky, and for a moment, the sail loomed above them like a mighty redwood. Russell¡¯s eyes widened as he took it all in. Lit up in the flash, the sail''s slogan burned neon: SPAZZ: JOLT YOUR INSIDES. It seared across the night, etching itself permanently into Russell¡¯s brain. As fucked up as he was, he had to admit, he was starting to appreciate the power of in-your-face marketing. Then again, maybe that was just the Spazz talking. ¡°Russ!¡± Buzz shouted, twirling his finger, indicating the camera was filming. Russell tugged the raccoon head down over his own, trying to channel the slick salesman vibe Buzz had drilled into him. ¡°Thanks to Spazz, there¡¯s nothing I can¡¯t fuckin¡¯ do!¡± he drunkenly declared, voice full of fake pep. ¡°Good, real good,¡± Buzz said, chewing the inside of his gums. ¡°Keep it going.¡± Russell struck a ridiculous pose, jazz hands and all. ¡°With Spazz, I can party all night, like all the cool kids! Forget those other drugs ¡ª cool kids do Spazz!¡± Buzz grinned. ¡°That¡¯s it, baby! Appeal to the youth. Now tell ¡®em how you can boof it! Club kids love boofin¡¯ shit.¡± Russell hesitated but forced another thumbs-up at the camera. ¡°Spazz! You can boof it!¡± Another of Poseidon¡¯s violent waves slammed onto the deck, nearly tossing Russell overboard. He clung to the railing, coughing up seawater through his mascot head. ¡°Russ, you okay?¡± Buzz yelled, steadying himself against the rocking deck. ¡°We gotta finish this thing! Don¡¯t forget to tell ¡®em we need someone to come save our asses!¡± Russell hauled himself upright, soaked, swaying, and numb. Maybe it was the power of seeing Spazz¡¯s slogan branded into the sky, or maybe he¡¯d hit the eye of his own personal drug-fueled storm, but for the first time in weeks, his head felt clear. ¡°Maybe I should¡¯ve stayed in the Boy Scouts,¡± he blurted out. Then, quieter, ¡°Buzz, my dad¡­ he thinks I¡¯m a disappointment, man.¡± Buzz blinked, caught off guard, but recovered fast. He raised the camera like it was all part of the plan. ¡°Yeah, okay. The family angle, that could work! Tell ¡®em you miss ¡®em. Give ¡®em a reason to come get us.¡± Russell kept shouting over the storm, his voice raw and wild. ¡°It¡¯s not just him ¡ª everyone thinks I¡¯m a big goddamn failure. A dropout, a quitter, a drunk!¡± He jammed the vodka bottle into Blitz¡¯s open mouth, chugging the last of it with a vengeance, then hurled the bottle into the raging sea. ¡°But I¡¯m not a failure!¡± he screamed. ¡°I¡¯m good at a lot of stuff ¡ª just like you said, Buzz! And I¡¯m real good at slinging Spazz. SO LOOK AT ME NOW, DAD!¡± He lurched forward, pushing past Buzz and the camera, his steps as unsteady as the deck beneath him. Straight for the mast he went, rain slicking the metal rungs, lightning clouds flashing above like a bad omen. Buzz kept him in the frame, tracking his every move, still trying to salvage the wreck of a pitch. ¡°Russell, buddy,¡± he called, ¡°what the hell are you doing?¡± Russell didn¡¯t answer. He grabbed hold of the mast¡¯s rungs and started to climb, wind howling in his ears. The steps were slick, but he didn¡¯t slow down. He just kept climbing, higher and higher, like he had a date with destiny at the top. Buzz kept the camera rolling, but the higher Russell went, the more his bravado slipped. ¡°You sure you¡¯re good, buddy? Be safe and all that shit!¡± ¡°Just keep filming!¡± Russell shouted, his voice muffled by the raccoon head. Whatever plan he had, it was waiting for him at the top, and he wasn¡¯t about to quit now. The Spazz was firing on all cylinders, pushing him up the mast like it was nothing. When he finally reached the top, mast swaying in the storm, Russell looked down at Buzz. He jabbed a finger straight at the camera, rain dripping off the raccoon¡¯s snout. ¡°I¡¯m Russell motherfucking Murphy, and there ain¡¯t nothing I can¡¯t do!¡± With a bit of wind-up flare, he turned his point towards the sail, towards the massive slogan plastered onto the fabric. ¡°Spazz, jolt your motherfucking insides!¡± Russell perched himself on the top rungs of the mast, letting go to strike a series of Ironman poses and Herculean flexes. He didn¡¯t have the muscle to sell it, not even close, but you had to admire the sheer balls of the performance. Courageous? Sure. Drug-induced? Absolutely. Buzz couldn¡¯t help but grin behind the camera. The kid had it. Always did. And maybe he was starting to see himself the way Buzz always saw him. In that moment, Buzz indeed felt a ¡°jolt to his insides¡±, not the Spazz kind, but something sharper ¡ª like the ghost of clarity from his long-gone sober days. He¡¯d screwed up their entire voyage, no question, and dragged Russell down with him. There was no way they weren¡¯t in a world of trouble with the suits back home, but he¡¯d take the fall. All of it. When the smoke cleared, Russell would move on to bigger things. Hell, maybe even great things. And Buzz? He¡¯d haul his ass back to recovery. That is, if they made it out alive. Buzz let out a roar from below. ¡°Yee-haw! That¡¯s right, baby! Forget Blitz ¡ª Russell Murphy is the biggest badass I¡¯ve ever met. And if you wanna party like him, our last known coordinates are¡ª¡± ¡°Buzz!¡± Russell shouted. His high perch gave him a wicked view of something Buzz could not yet see ¡ª something that even his Spazz-addled brain told him was bad news. A wave was coming, biggest he¡¯d ever seen. But Buzz didn¡¯t look. Still too busy telling the camera their last-known position. ¡°Buzz!¡± Russell yelled again, pointing now, but by the time Buzz caught on, it was already over. The wave hit hard and mean, like Posideon¡¯s dick flopped onto the top deck. Water slapped the splintering planks, knocking deck chairs into the sea, crashing through with a sound that could split your soul. Buzz went flying, somersaulting ass-over-teakettle into the galley, screaming Russell¡¯s name on his way down. Russell didn¡¯t get off easy, either. The wave slammed him into the mast with the kind of force that could fold a car. The only thing between his skull and certain death was the stupid raccoon head, which took the brunt of it. Blitz¡¯s face crumpled like a beer can, and Russell was left clinging to both consciousness and the mast as the yacht leaned hard to port, dangling him out over the raging, black waters. ¡°I¡¯m coming, Buzz!¡± he yelled, spitting blood, but the wind stole his words and threw them out to sea. Through the busted eye of the raccoon head, Russell caught a glimpse of the sky shifting, twisting, mutating. Lightning cracked the tempest wide open, a thundering roar tore through the void. Poseidon¡¯s brother, it seemed, had joined the fun. ¡°I¡¯m too drunk for this shit!¡± Russell shouted to the sky, but Zeus came down anyway, finger-fucking the yacht with a mighty bolt to the mast. The whole yacht groaned, shuddering as the surge ripped through it, and Russell finally experienced a trademark jolt to his own insides, blessed upon him by the God of Lightning himself. In a blinding explosion, he felt himself blown free ¡ª out of the furry gloves, out of Blitz, and straight into the black. He hit the waves like a stone, the sound of Buzz¡¯s voice disappearing with him. And that was it. The last thing Russell Murphy remembered before he woke up on the island. CHAPTER 17: Crab Legs and Banana Hammocks Under the fresh glow of the moonlight, Russell stood there, buck-naked and spirit-broken, staring out at the wrecked yacht. ¡°Shit.¡± That just about covered it. The yacht, once the sleekest craft Russell had ever seen, was a husk now, half-sunk with its keel buried in the shallows of a remote cove. The hull had been ripped open on one side, exposing splintered wood and twisted metal. Its sail hung in scorched, neon tatters. Forty yards out, just about, through tit-high water, maybe higher. ¡°Shit,¡± Shoji said, echoing Russell like they were taking turns with the obvious. He shifted his gaze from the boat to Russell, waiting, like maybe he¡¯d have some grand idea, or maybe Shoji was just trying to figure out what was going on. Through the long trek out of the jungle and down into the tucked-away cove where the boat lay beached, Russell still couldn¡¯t tell how much Shoji was picking up when he talked. Half of it, if he was being generous. Maybe less. Either way, Russell didn¡¯t have a next step, not yet. All day, his grand design had been: GET TO THE FUCKING BOAT. And now here it was, in all of its shipwrecked glory. And where the fuck was Buzz? ¡°Buzz!¡± Russell shouted towards the yacht, his words echoing off the cliffs of the cove. After a few moments, he shouted again. Nothing, no movement from inside the boat. Russell could only hope Buzz had made it out of that storm, saved by the coast guard or something. Anywhere but here. The cove was a mess, the beach littered with splinters, merch, equipment, and a whole lot of Spazz packets, sealed tight and bobbing in the late-night tide like radioactive jellyfish. One had washed up at Russell¡¯s feet. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. Perfect condition. Of course. The storm took the boat but left the junk. Figures. He tossed the packet to Shoji, who caught it with the reflexes of a guy used to dodging flying objects. ¡°More magic powder for the little naked wizard,¡± Russell muttered, hoping that would be the last packet of Spazz he ever touched for the rest of his life ¡ª however short that may be. He stared out past the wreckage, beyond the cove, where more of those giant rock islands rose like crooked fingers clawing at the moon. What had seemed almost mystical earlier now felt like massive, moss-topped bars of his island prison, blocking any soul from leaving the island. Or coming, for that matter. There wasn¡¯t going to be any help sailing over the horizon. Russell was going to have to leave this shithole through his own means ¡ª he¡¯d have to survive, just like the Gamemaster had told him. So that¡¯s just what he was going to do. That was the new plan. ¡°You staying or going?¡± he asked Shoji. The guy tilted his head, doglike, as if trying to puzzle it out. Russell didn¡¯t bother clarifying. Instead, he stepped into the water, the cold a shock against his legs. He¡¯d taken maybe two steps when Shoji grabbed his arm. ¡°No, no,¡± the smaller man said, voice soft but firm. Russell glanced down at the hand on his arm, then up at Shoji, his eyes narrowing. He pulled free with a sharp tug and a warning glare. The kind of look that said, Do that again, and I might not be so polite. Not that Russell had any politeness left in him. He was sunburned, cut up, and running on nothing but rage and a little bit of Spazz. He waded another step into the water. Shoji followed, grabbing him again, more insistent this time. ¡°No, no, no! Same!¡± Russell snapped. ¡°Fuck off!¡± His voice echoing louder now. ¡°You hear me! I don¡¯t know you. You¡¯re just another actor like those fuckin¡¯ idiots on the other side of the island. Well, consider your role fulfilled ¡ª you showed me just how fucked I really am. Go run back to the Gamemaster now, tell ¡®em this: I. AM. DONE. PLAYING. THE. GAME.¡± When Shoji didn¡¯t budge, Russell threw his hands up, then lunged at him like he was chasing pigeons off a park bench. ¡°Go on, get!¡± he shouted. Shoji flinched, backing up just enough to let Russell feel like he¡¯d won. Satisfied, Russell turned back to the water. He waded out, further into the shallows, dead set on reaching the yacht. The Spazz Shoji had hit him with was still buzzing through his veins, filling his head with just enough bad confidence to follow through on a worse idea. He¡¯d climb aboard, find an emergency raft, or a busted plank ¡ª shit, even a pool noodle would do. Then he¡¯d paddle himself out of this mess, even if it killed him. Which, let¡¯s face it, it probably would. But that was still better than the knot twisting in his gut since the gorilla incident, a nagging thought he couldn¡¯t shake: maybe he wasn¡¯t the main character after all. The Spazz had also cranked up his paranoia, but this time, it felt like it might be onto something. Maybe this place wasn¡¯t just some twisted game you could walk away from. Maybe the only way out was to play. The thought settled in his stomach like ice, colder than the water lapping at his ankles. He tried to shake it off and kept moving, the yacht looming closer with every step. He made it about five more steps before a naked Japanese man was on his back like a monkey, screaming some sort of war cry. Shoji clamped his arms around Russell¡¯s head, legs locked tight around his torso, dragging him down into the shallows. ¡°Bah!¡± Russell spluttered, flailing in the ankle-deep water, trying to shake the guy off. They tumbled together, a wet, thrashing knot of limbs. When Russell finally pried him loose, he stumbled to his feet, soaked and furious, fists up and ready to start a¡¯whalloping. But Shoji didn¡¯t seem interested in fighting anymore ¡ª it was never even his intent. He held up a hand, calm and steady, and pointed out toward the water. ¡°Same,¡± Shoji said again. The word didn¡¯t mean a damn thing to Russell. Not ¡°same¡±, but ¡°sah-may¡±, broken into two syllables. What the hell was he saying? He finally followed Shoji¡¯s point, further out to the shallows he¡¯d so blindly been tromping into. He turned to the moonlit waves and saw them ¡ª two dark fins slicing slow circles between the beach and the wrecked yacht. Big bastards, by the look of them. Guard dogs of the not-so-deep.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Shit,¡± Russell muttered, slapping the water in frustration but careful not to make too much noise. No sense giving the sharks any reason to turn his way. ¡°Shit,¡± Shoji repeated, as if it were the most profound thing he¡¯d ever heard. Russell shot him a look. He didn¡¯t know what to think about the guy and sure as hell didn¡¯t trust him. Mari ¡ª the spear-swinging lunatic ¡ª had called Shoji a liar, among other colorful names. Conrad had gone straight for his throat the second he saw him. Whatever bad blood was between them, Russell had no idea. Hell, he didn¡¯t even know why Shoji¡¯s grand introduction to him had involved chucking rocks at his head. The dude was a mystery. But for now, Shoji had kept him from becoming shark bait, and that counted for something. Russell let out a long breath and stood, water dripping off his device in slow, miserable streams. Fatigue was setting in, more than just on a physical level. He walked back toward the beach like a kid who¡¯d just found out the Disneyland trip was a lie. Kicking through wreckage and washed-up trash, he eyed the cove. It was quiet, walled in by a horseshoe of cliffs that kept the worst of the outside world out ¡ª the only way in was a long hill up to the jungle. Decent enough place to hole up, for now, as long as the gorilla didn¡¯t come sniffing after them. Then something in the surf bumped against his toes ¡ª a plastic-wrapped cylinder sitting among the Spazz packets littering the sand. He recognized it right away, one of the tightly-wrapped projectiles designed for his t-shirt gun ¡ª a name that really didn¡¯t do the awesome device justice. You could launch damn near anything out of it, if the thing was wrapped tight enough. Sweatpants, swim trunks, any kind of Spazz-branded crap ¡ª Russell had sent it all flying. He grabbed the package and ripped it open, hoping for a winner. But today wasn''t a day for wins. The stretchy, skimpy material was bright yellow, streaked with purple lightning bolts right where the goods would be crammed. The word SPAZZ was slapped bold across the ass. This wasn''t a swimsuit, it was a swim brief. The kind the world knew better as a banana hammock. ¡°Sure, why not,¡± he muttered, too worn out to care. What was a little more humiliation at this point? Something else rustled in the plastic. He felt around, pulled it out ¡ª it was another pair, this one purple with yellow lightning bolts. Without even glancing at Shoji, he tossed them over. ¡°I¡¯m sick of purple,¡± Russell said. They slipped into their banana hammocks in silence, no comments, no jokes. Once he¡¯d accepted that his briefs were just a size too small and there was no changing that, Russell climbed a little farther up the beach, away from the waves, and let himself drop into the sand. He curled up like the day had gut-punched him ¡ª because it had, over and over again. It was the kind of day that made him wish he¡¯d never shaken hands with Buzz Holiday back on that dock all those weeks ago ¡ª maybe never even shaken hands with him at all. No, he didn¡¯t mean that. He¡¯d find Buzz and they¡¯d both get the fuck out of here. Tomorrow. He removed Tumzy from his neck and placed her next to him at the sand, angling her in a way that she¡¯d have a nice view of the night sky. The sand shifted nearby, and he knew without looking that Shoji had flopped down beside him. They lay there in silence for a minute, all three of them staring up at the moon. Shoji hummed something soft, a tune Russell didn¡¯t recognize. It was nice, calming. Russell figured he owed the guy something, more than just some purple underwear. Not much more, but something. ¡°You¡¯re a better actor than those other two,¡± he said, pausing for a moment. ¡°That anime shit you pulled on the gorilla, that was pretty badass.¡± It took Shoji a second to translate in his mind, but his next words were chosen with care. ¡°Jungle guardian, I respect,¡± Shoji responded. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± Russell said, voice flat, ¡°we¡¯ll search the beach for anything we can use.¡± He kept talking, more to himself than to Shoji. ¡°Then we¡¯re gonna find my friend and get out of here.¡± Shoji nodded, and though Russell couldn¡¯t see it, the gesture carried a quiet sympathy ¡ª a small courtesy to Russell¡¯s doomed determination. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°Okay.¡± That was good enough for Russell. He shut his eyes. Usually with Spazz in his bloodstream, he¡¯d be up for hours, but not after today. He sat there for only seconds before sleep snatched him away. Nearly-naked, on a beach, under the stars. Next to a plastic water bottle with a grenade in it, and another nearly-naked guy he barely knew.
Russell woke to the sound of someone yelling, fists clenched, ready to swing at whoever or whatever wanted a piece, but there wasn''t a soul in sight. The sun was up, giving new definition to the madness of the cove. Out on the water, seagulls circled the wrecked yacht, diving at fish picking through the debris. Russell squinted as a bold seagull dove, wings spread wide ¡ª then the water exploded. One of the sharks shot up, snatching the bird mid-plunge. It let out one last squawk before being dragged into the shallows. The other shark lunged in, and the two beasts wrestled over the screaming prize. ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± Russell shouted, flinching as the brutal scene unfolded before he¡¯d even wiped the sleep from his eyes. For a second, he wondered if he was dreaming in the worst of ways. Then the ache in his body chimed in, a sharp reminder he was wide awake. Every joint, every muscle, every useless corner of his anatomy screamed in protest. Shoji shouted again, his voice sharper this time, and Russell¡¯s head snapped in his direction. Down the beach, Shoji was among the washed-up wreckage, uncaring to the carnage out at waist-deep. He stood over an upturned beach chair from the yacht, the cushion dangling in one hand while he pointed eagerly at something beneath it. Russell didn¡¯t think. He just ran. His legs ached, the sand slowed him down, and his yellow underoos squeaked with every high-speed movement of his ass-cheeks. But none of that mattered. Maybe Shoji had found something useful. A phone, a radio, a raft, a message from Buzz. He didn¡¯t care what. It was hope, and Russell needed it. ¡°What is it?¡± he asked, breathless as he skidded to a stop. But he didn¡¯t need an answer. One look told him enough. Under the beach chair, a cluster of crabs was busy nibbling on a hunk of meat. It was a human leg. Russell¡¯s gut reaction was pure cynicism, the same brand he¡¯d leaned on when he found that skeleton back in the cave. Back then, it was just ¡°a detailed prop,¡± part of the set dressing for the Gamemaster¡¯s production. This leg? Same deal. It had to be. It fucking had to be. He glared at Shoji, his tone sharp. ¡°So, you just happen to stumble on this while I¡¯m out cold, huh? Tell me the truth, little man. Did you plant this here? Huh? Did you?¡± Shoji blinked, wide-eyed, clearly caught off guard. He looked like he was trying to find the right words but couldn¡¯t pin them down, or maybe just didn¡¯t know how to say them in English. Most people would¡¯ve reacted to a severed human leg with horror. Russell? He was too busy clinging to his denial like it was a life raft, still believing none of this was real, despite all the evidence that had been slapping him in the face for the last 24 hours. Denial, folks. It¡¯s one hell of a drug. And when you ride it long enough, you end up flinging crabs off a severed leg to see if it¡¯s the genuine article. Which is exactly what Russell started doing. He grabbed the first crab his hand landed on and chucked it down the beach. ¡°No!¡± Shoji shouted, chasing after the crab like it was a runaway pet. Weird, sure, but Shoji had been nothing but weird. Russell didn¡¯t have the patience to figure him out right now. He needed to see that leg. He needed answers. He flung another crab, then another, each one skittering away as Shoji scrambled to catch them like an infielder chasing ground balls. Russell barely noticed. With every crab he cleared, the scene came into sharper focus. And with it, a growing sense of dread tightening like a noose around his neck. The leg had been bitten off at the knee, torn apart by something big, the jagged edges a mess of shredded muscle and bone. The calf was thick like a turkey-leg, maybe from a bodybuilder or a Santa-shaped guy who¡¯d spent his life lugging around his own bulk. Hairy and pale, the thing was dead as could be, the skin pulled tight, rigor locking the foot straight up towards the morning sky. Strapped to that foot was a sandal so stupid, it would only be worn by divorced dads hitting the town. And just above the sandal, of all things, an ankle monitor clung tight, the kind slapped on by a judge for people who drink and drive, then keep at it like they¡¯ll eventually get it mastered. The whole sight just raised more questions for Russell. Still painfully desperate for answers, Russell grabbed the leg by its sandal and flipped it over. What he saw made him stumble back, landing hard in the sand, his banana almost busting out from its hammock. ¡°Fuck!¡± he shouted, loud enough to break Shoji¡¯s focus from his crab roundup. Shoji turned, crabs climbing all over him, and came running over. He leaned in for a closer look at the back of the calf, at the thing Russell had revealed. It was a tattoo. Faded but clear enough. A man giving a signature two-thumbs-up, grinning like he owned the world. Russell only knew of one guy with the ego, the balls, and the booze-fueled stupidity to tattoo his own face on his leg ¡ª and it was the same face staring back at him now. This wasn¡¯t just any leg. It was Buzz Holiday¡¯s. CHAPTER 18: Seeing the Bigger Picture, and it Sucks Buzz Holiday was dead. Shark food, from the looks of it. Russell stared at what was left of him: A calf and a trotter, crammed into a sandal. As much as he¡¯d hoped the severed leg wasn¡¯t Buzz''s, there wasn¡¯t a chance in hell that it wasn¡¯t. No, the tattoo had roused a memory, back aboard the yacht, a week ago or so. One of those nights where the liquor poured heavy, and the stories got louder and dumber, each trying to one-up the other with their worst life decisions. They could¡¯ve filled a book. Buzz, already half in the bag, had smacked his leg on the table like he was laying down a winning hand ¡ª or a winning foot, in this case. It became quickly apparent that Buzz wasn¡¯t embarrassed about the tattoo at all, and just looking for a reason to show it off, hearken back to a better time in his life. ¡°Got it after I¡¯d signed a nation-wide infomercial deal for the Gunk Buddy,¡± he¡¯d said, grinning like a proud fool. The tattoo was stupid. Buzz was stupid. And now, Buzz was gone. Russell exhaled slow. He¡¯d been staring at the thing for minutes. It was time to accept what was right in front of him, and on a larger level, what was all around him. Finally, he turned his gaze to Shoji. He was perched cross-legged on the deck chair cushion a few feet away, just kind of waiting there ¡ª except he wasn¡¯t alone. The four big, blue crabs twitched and jerked around him, each one tied by a claw to a leash Shoji had rigged out of the handmade rope ¡ª the one that previously held his magic dog-shit bags. Shoji didn¡¯t seem to mind the wait. He sat there calm, silent, giving Russell his space. Like he knew what Russell was really looking at ¡ª not just a leg, but a piece of someone he used to know. The tears weren¡¯t loud, just there, unavoidable. They¡¯d been welling up for a while. Russell wiped his face and shook his head, like he could shake it all off. Buzz deserved better. Hell, they all did. But what they deserved and what they got were miles apart. Russell cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and walked over to Shoji. He stopped just short of stepping into the crabs'' clamping range, looking down at Shoji like a man laying cards on the table. ¡°So, this is real. The island. The game. We have to play.¡± Shoji didn¡¯t jump to answer. His gaze wandered ¡ª first to the jungle, then to the device on his wrist. He let out a slow, deliberate breath and nodded once. ¡°And I¡¯m not the only one playing, right? You¡¯re not some actor in all this?¡± Russell pointed at Shoji, like that might clear up the haze. Shoji tilted his head, chewing on the question like it had too many layers to unpack. He frowned, looked like he might say something, but then shook his head. ¡°Everyone can be hero,¡± Shoji said, holding up his device. It wasn¡¯t much of an answer, but it was enough. Rock-throwing asshole or not, Shoji wasn¡¯t set dressing. He wasn¡¯t there to steer the plot along or toss Russell a lifeline. He was just another poor bastard with a bad deal, trying to make sense of the rules before they buried him. Russell let that settle. For the first time since he woke up on the island, his brain wasn¡¯t swimming in Spazz or pounding from a hangover (though, there was still some of that). A sharp clarity rose over him. He thought about everything that had happened: dehydration, tidal pool psychos, wildfires, a gorilla with a grudge. None of it was planned, and nobody had a script. It was all chaos, and he either survived it through some strength in his SPUNK score, or pure damn luck. There were no "main characters¡± ¡ª just a bunch of players strapped with devices, tossed into a game they couldn¡¯t quit. Russell had been wandering through the mess like it was someone else¡¯s problem, waiting to wake up. But looking at Shoji now, and remembering dear ¡®ol Buzz, he saw the truth. If this was a game, and they had to play, then he better start playing. ¡°Alright,¡± he said, the word carrying the weight of finality. He turned, took the few steps back to Buzz¡¯s leg, and yanked at his briefs to fix a wedgie riding high. Then, without a second thought, he grabbed the leg by the sole of the sandal and lifted it out of the sand. He glanced over his shoulder at Shoji. ¡°I need your help with something,¡± he said. Without another word, he started off back down the beach, the leg dangling from his hand. Shoji sat there a second, processing the weirdness of it all. Then he stood, grabbed his cushion, slung the crab leash over his shoulder, and followed, the little crustaceans clicking and clacking behind him. As Russell trudged down the beach, a cheerful BA-DING! bounced across the steady rhythm of the surf. He¡¯d heard that same sound yesterday, though it hadn¡¯t registered much in his dehydrated haze. Shoji¡¯s ears perked up, and he let out a noise of his own ¡ª a sharp, eager yip ¡ª and jabbed a finger at Russell¡¯s wrist. Russell glanced down. At least it was good news.
PERK ACQUIRED!
BIG PICTURE KIND OF GUY You¡¯ve finally accepted the challenge. Now try looking forward for a change. EFFECT: Unlocks the MAP feature.
The notification disappeared, and a new tab joined the rest: MAP. Russell stopped, hoisted Buzz¡¯s leg over his shoulder like a sack of posthumous potatoes, and tapped the screen. For a second, nothing. Just a black grid staring back at him. Russell frowned, figuring it was broken. Then, like a painter dragging the first stroke across a blank canvas, color started to bleed in. Slowly at first, then faster, all traveling across the same paint-stroke. Blue for the water, tan and white for the sand, green for the trees. Geography filling in from a top-down view, vivid and sharp. A beach with those giant¡¯s-fingers islands in the distance, a tidal pool backed against a cliff. Then the paint-stroke snaked through the jungle, most of it lush and green, except for a wide streak of smoldering gray ¡ª Russell¡¯s handiwork. And finally, the paint-stroke came to an end in a little crescent of sand tucked into a cove. It wasn¡¯t a complete map ¡ª not yet. It only showed where Russell had been. And the message was clear: You wanna know the rest? Go find it yourself.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Shoji leaned in, his eyes lighting up when he saw the screen. ¡°Map?¡± he asked, almost giddy. He patted Russell on the shoulder and held up his own device, showing his version of the MAP, a different paint-stroke of his own journey. His smile stretched wide as he nodded, the possibilities buzzing in his odd-little head. Russell didn¡¯t need an explanation to get it. Between the two of them, they had a bigger picture ¡ª the more they explored, the more they¡¯d uncover. But Shoji¡¯s excitement ran deeper. Russell could see it in the way he handled his device, like it was more than just a tool. It was validation. The map wasn¡¯t just a perk, it was a badge. You didn¡¯t get one unless you were in the game for real. If Russell had access to the MAP, that meant he was playing too, well and truly. They were stuck in this thing together. For now, anyway. Russell smirked. He let the screen go dark. The map would come in handy, but he had bigger fish to fry. ¡°Come on,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯ve got work to do.¡±
The cove was mostly beach, curving in a lazy half-moon under the cliffs ¡ª just as his newfound map had depicted. But down at the base of the hill that led back into the jungle, there was a small grove. A scrappy patch of palms and ferns, small-fries compared to the giants higher up, maybe fifty trees at most. The nice thing? You could see from one side to the other. No endless green to wade through, no hairy bastard lurking in the shadows. The grove wasn¡¯t much, but it had shade, the only real shade in the cove besides the cliffs, depending on the time of day. That made it the perfect spot for Russell and Shoji to park themselves for a pow-wow. Russell tossed down Tumzy and Buzz¡¯s leg at the base of a palm before collapsing into the same patch of shade. His sunburn was screaming, but it was the last thing on his mind. He gave the grove a quick once-over, his eyes skimming for hidden cameras. He hadn¡¯t seen a single one yet, not even the gleam of a lens, but the Gamemaster had to be watching somehow. Maybe the map came from some big-ass satellite that could zoom in close enough to count the zits on his ass. Either way, didn¡¯t matter. If they were watching, let ¡¯em. ¡°We still need to get to the boat,¡± Russell said, clicking his device to life. Shoji settled in across from him, corralling the crabs. ¡°Boat broken. Very broken,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°Yeah, boat is fucked, very fucked,¡± Russell replied, waving him off. ¡°But it¡¯s still loaded with stuff we need. Food. Water.¡± He pulled up his INVENTORY tab. The gorilla incident had lightened his load ¡ª literally ¡ª but he needed to take stock of what he had left.
Spazz Swimming Briefs Type: Apparel Effects:
  • Maximum Mobility (minimal coverage)
Description: A blindingly bright pair of swimming briefs, better known as a banana hammock. Designed for performance and humiliation.
Off-brand "Tumzy" Water Bottle Type: Utility Effects:
  • Hydration Storage (1 Gallon)
Description: A suspiciously pink panda water bottle with a beret cap and just enough ¡°creative liberties¡± to dodge copyright lawyers. Equal parts adorable and obnoxious.
Grenade Type: Weapon Effects:
  • Area Damage (because it¡¯s a fucking grenade)
Description: A vintage stick grenade, minimal rusting on the metal casing. Handle with care or GO BOOM.
Severed Leg Type: Weapon/Consumable Effects:
  • Improvised Weapon (if you''re desperate enough to swing it)
  • Improvised Consumable (if you¡¯re desperate enough to eat it)
  • Emotional Trauma (no matter how you use it)
Description: A severed leg wearing a sandal. We won¡¯t ask any questions about where you got it. Just, be cool, man.
There it was. A good start, sure, but Russell was going to need more for what he had planned. He swiped over to the SPUNK tab, his eyes landing on the progress bar. Somewhere between torching acres of pristine jungle and trying to outsmart a talking ape, he¡¯d racked up a decent pile of BADASS. The bar was nearly full. Level 3 was right there, waiting. With the shit he was about to pull, he¡¯d get there and then some. He tilted the device toward Shoji, letting him see. ¡°What¡¯s your level?¡± Russell asked. Shoji clicked his device and held it out. No surprise, the whole thing was in Japanese. But the second Russell looked at it, the screen flipped to English like it had read his mind. He glanced down at his own device and saw it had switched to Japanese for Shoji¡¯s sake. ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± Russell muttered. ¡°Ain¡¯t that some we¡¯re-always-watching-you shit.¡± Maybe the Gamemaster didn¡¯t need hidden cameras or high-flying satellites. Not when the things strapped to their wrists were doing the watching. If Russell didn¡¯t know he needed the damn thing ¡ª and that it would zap him again if he tried ¡ª he¡¯d have smashed it to pieces already. But he was in this now, full force. For a minute, they poked at each other¡¯s screens, like two dogs sniffing each other¡¯s ass, getting to know each other. On Shoji¡¯s avatar, he looked as rough as Russell had on day one ¡ª a tired, worn-down version of the confident, if cryptic, guy sitting next to him now.
Shoji Hoshino SWAGGER: 3 POWER: 3 UTILITY: 7 NERVE: 5 KNOW-HOW: 6 LEVEL 4
Next to his level was a halfway-full progress bar. Two levels ahead, and then some. Shoji had been here longer, but not by much. Interesting. Russell skipped past Shoji¡¯s INVENTORY ¡ª it didn¡¯t take a genius to see the only junk he was smuggling in that banana hammock was his own. Instead, Russell went for his PERKS tab. Shoji had BIG PICTURE KIND OF GUY, same as Russell, and another perk he¡¯d unlocked with points: ROCKIN¡¯ OUT, the one that dumped a pile of rocks in your lap and called it a day. Russell frowned, looking up at him. ¡°You spent a point on rocks, dude? The whole island is rocks. Wait ¡ª were those the same ones you were chucking at me yesterday?¡± Shoji didn¡¯t answer, too busy staring at Russell¡¯s own PERK tab, his eyes fixed on the oddball gift of HOARSE WHISPERER like it was some ancient riddle. Russell rolled his eyes and pushed on, opening Shoji¡¯s CRAFTING tab. That¡¯s where things got interesting. They both had CRUDE FIRE STARTER, a solid Level 2 pick, but Shoji had something else ¡ª something Russell didn¡¯t yet have access to.
FIBER CORDAGE DESCRIPTION: Simple rope for tying and lashing. Like Woody Harrelson and terrible smoothies, it¡¯s entirely plant-based. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 3, UTILITY 2
Russell thought about watching the FIBER CORDAGE video but decided against it. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for Jerry Rigg¡¯s face or his chipper, lovesick bullshit. And he didn¡¯t need to watch it anyway ¡ª not when the final product was right there: the cord tied to the crabs, busy picking at Buzz¡¯s leg like it was their reclaimed lunch. ¡°Fuck off,¡± Russell said, swatting at them. The big blue idiots scattered, but Shoji¡¯s cord snapped them back together, flipping a couple onto their backs. Their legs twitched and skittered as they fought the twisted dog-walking setup they couldn¡¯t escape. Russell frowned, grabbed the cord, and hoisted it until the crabs dangled. The rope was made from leaves and plant stalks, but it was tougher than it looked. Not something you¡¯d bet your life on over a cliff, but plenty strong for the half-baked idea taking shape in his head. ¡°Shoji,¡± Russell said, bouncing the cord for emphasis, the crabs knocking into each other like living castanets. ¡°You made this?¡± Shoji nodded. Russell waved a hand around the grove. ¡°Can you make more?¡± Shoji blinked and gave a little shrug. No big deal. ¡°I¡¯ve got an idea to get to the boat,¡± Russell said, pointing out towards the yacht. ¡°But I need your help. We¡¯re gonna need a lot more rope.¡± Shoji, ever the minimalist, gave another nod. But then he ventured, ¡°What is plan?¡± Russell stood, grabbed Buzz¡¯s leg, and tucked it into the crook of a tree branch, well out of reach of the crabs. He turned back to Shoji, knowing full well what he was about to say wouldn¡¯t make a lick of sense ¡ª not because of the language barrier, but because it was just plain nuts. Still, he said it anyway, letting the words carry the madness forward. ¡°We¡¯re gonna throw a funeral. Viking style.¡± CHAPTER 19: Pouring One Out for the Dead Homies Shoji hurled another bamboo baton. It cut clean through the air, smacked dead center on the X Russell had scraped into the sand. Thirty yards, no problem. The little shit-flinger had an arm on him. Three other batons were clustered there, only one landing just shy of the mark. Russell nodded, impressed despite himself. ¡°Three out of four,¡± he called over. ¡°Pretty damn good.¡± Shoji stretched onto his tiptoes, took in his work, then punched the air like he¡¯d just struck out a legend ¡ª the whole move dripping in anime-level dramatics. ¡°I see why throwing shit¡¯s your go-to method of mayhem,¡± Russell said, collecting the batons. ¡°Not that I endorse your brand of fuckery.¡± By the time he¡¯d walked the batons back, Shoji was still frozen in his triumphant pose. Russell shook his head. Funny little dude, but precise as hell. Something in his SPUNK score ¡ª probably UTILITY, maybe KNOW-HOW. Maybe even a combination of both. Whatever it was, it put three out of four on target. Russell turned to the water. The sharks were still out there, circling like they owned the place. Three out of four would have to do. He just hoped Shoji¡¯s NERVE held up. Russell flipped a baton into the air and caught it. ¡°You gotta be the one to do it,¡± he said, looking at Shoji. ¡°Maybe if I had my T-shirt cannon, I could pull it off. But you?¡± He tapped Shoji¡¯s chest with the baton. ¡°You¡¯re a sniper.¡± Shoji, still locked in his ridiculous pose, delivered his line like it was written for him. ¡°I will succeed.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I like to hear,¡± Russell said. ¡°Let¡¯s go over it one more time.¡±
Back down the beach, where the tide teased the sand, the two men looked upon the fruits of their morning¡¯s labor. Russell did a mental checklist, making sure he¡¯d covered it all. Three things had to happen for this fucked-up plan to work. First, Shoji needed to crank out as much fiber cordage as possible. No problem. The guy took to it like it was his life''s calling, stripping the grove for anything that could be twisted and woven together. While Shoji sat threading his little heart out, Russell handled the second part ¡ª fire. Not just any fire. A controlled fire. Last time, the fire got away from him. Russell could admit that. So this time, he did it right ¡ª dug a pit in the sand, lined it with rocks to keep the bastard from running wild. To get it going, he packed it full of bamboo from the grove, then sparked it with flint he¡¯d chipped loose from the cliff wall. Thanks to Jerry Riggs, he was getting better at spotting the stuff. And this time, he didn¡¯t have to zap himself like an idiot to knock it free ¡ª he used a thick bamboo pole instead. Bamboo was turning out to be useful for damn near everything. Tinder, tools, and lately, makeshift batons for Shoji to chuck, sharpening his aim one toss at a time. But right now, it had another job ¡ª stoking back the fire that had damn near given up while they were off playing target practice. Russell was learning a hard but necessary lesson about survival ¡ª sometimes the trick with fire isn¡¯t stopping it from burning down a jungle, it¡¯s keeping the damn thing alive in the first place. The flames flickered weakly against the afternoon wind, looking about ready to give up. ¡°I told you to keep an eye on this,¡± Russell muttered, jabbing at the fire. He was talking to Tumzy who sat nearby, dead-eyed as ever, staring into the flames like she had something wise to say but couldn¡¯t be bothered. In her defense, she¡¯d been busy. They¡¯d stuffed her with rocks, tied the crabs¡¯ leash to her like some poor girl in Midtown trying to wrangle four Great Danes at once. On top of that, she babysitting the newest arrival, a curvy-shaped bottle filled with a neon-yellow liquid. When Russell had fished it out of the surf, he¡¯d damn near had a heart attack, thinking Catfish Piss had chased him across the world. Thankfully, no. This was something different ¡ª and most would say worse : a banana-flavored liqueur called Drivin¡¯ Me Nanners. It took Russel a moment to recognize it, but they¡¯d met before. One of the leftovers from their Hawaii stash. Even for two full-time alcoholics like him and Buzz, banana-flavored liqueur was a step too far, which was why it had survived their legendary bender untouched. Seemed fitting it had survived the storm too, washing up in the cove like it still had some unfinished business. Russell took that as a sign. Drivin¡¯ Me Nanners would play its part in his grand plan, and maybe, just maybe, in getting him fucked up. They¡¯d see how the day went. ¡°The wind¡¯s strong,¡± he said to Shoji, watching the fire struggle. ¡°We¡¯re gonna have to push it out ourselves. Get it deep enough, then we run like hell. And I mean run.¡± Shoji nodded. They were on the same page ¡ª getting torn up like Buzz wasn¡¯t the move. Russell picked up one of the burning bamboo batons he¡¯d made, holding it between them. ¡°Then, when we¡¯re back on the beach, you¡¯re gonna throw one of these, like the Olympic fuckin¡¯ torch. That¡¯s how we light it up.¡± Shoji¡¯s eyes flicked down to it, sitting by the tide, just an arm¡¯s length from the fire. His fingers twitched, reaching toward the burning stick Russell held, like he was still trying to put it all together. ¡°Why fire?¡± Russell got what he was asking. Fire was survival. Fire was warmth, food, light. But this? This wasn¡¯t about that. ¡°Scare shark?¡± Shoji pressed. ¡°Yes. To scare shark. Away from the boat,¡± Russell said. ¡°Plus, can¡¯t have a Viking funeral without fire, dude.¡± Shoji still looked unsure, so Russell laid it out plain. ¡°It¡¯s symbolic,¡± he said, slow and deliberate. ¡°A way to show¡­ honor.¡± The baton was burning down fast, flames licking at his fingertips. He¡¯d spent time snapping the bamboo batons to the same length, same weight ¡ª getting Shoji used to the feel, the heft. So when it really mattered, when it had to count, his hands wouldn¡¯t second-guess what they were holding. Russell chucked the burning stick into the shallows and looked past the rippling water. ¡°Honor.¡± Shoji repeated. Russell nodded, kept his mouth shut. Could¡¯ve said more, probably should¡¯ve, but didn¡¯t. Honor. What he had planned wasn¡¯t exactly that. Not for Buzz. Not for Shoji. He wasn¡¯t lying to the guy, not really ¡ª just not giving him the full picture. Shoji would have to deal with it. They¡¯d work through it later, after it was done. Russell grabbed the bottle of Drivin¡¯ Me Nanners and tossed it to Shoji. ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡± They both turned their attention to the thing by the tide, the immortal ¡°it¡± they¡¯d been talking around. The product of their combined effort. The abomination. The third and most important thing on Russell¡¯s checklist. It was a raft, if you could call it that. Too small for a whole man, but just right for what was left of one. And it looked like hell ¡ª figuratively, literally, every which way.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The base was a cabinet door, one of the fancy ones from the yacht¡¯s galley. Russell recognized it the second he pulled it from the sand because at some point during their bender, either he or Buzz had put a foot through it. They¡¯d spent an entire afternoon arguing over which one of them had done it, too drunk to remember, too stubborn to let it go. Morbid curiosity ¡ª or maybe just a final ¡°I fuckin¡¯ told you so¡± ¡ª led Russell to shove Buzz¡¯s foot through the same splintered hole. And wouldn¡¯t you know it? Perfect fit. Ha! The drunk bastard had done it. Caught red-footed. But a day too late for Russell to rub his nose in it. What started as a joke turned into function. The hole needed sealing, and Buzz, in his own way, was still pulling his weight. Russell wedged the leg in tight until the fat calf plugged the gap. The sole of Buzz¡¯s foot stuck straight up at the sky like some kind of macabre mast. It was fucked. But that was the way things went around here. The hole might¡¯ve been plugged, but the thing still needed help staying afloat. So Russell grabbed whatever plastic trash had washed ashore ¡ª water bottles, mostly ¡ª and lashed them to the sides like makeshift pontoons. They¡¯d keep the raft from sinking, sure, but more importantly, they¡¯d keep Buzz¡¯s foot from getting chewed up too soon. He¡¯d thought about strapping Tumzy on there too ¡ª she¡¯d make one hell of a floater ¡ª but in the end, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to do it. The final touch on the S.S. Dead Leg was vital: a fuck-ton of Spazz packets. Russell had gathered every last one he could scoop from the tide, packing them around Buzz¡¯s leg like some twisted Midsommar tribute. He¡¯d sworn off the stuff, but here he was, knee-deep in it again. At least this time, it had a purpose. The packets cushioned the raft, but more importantly, they¡¯d make a hell of a landing pad when Shoji¡¯s flaming baton hit its mark. Because if there was one thing he and Buzz had learned in their time aboard the yacht ¡ª experimenting with new and fiend-shit ways to ingest Spazz ¡ª it was this: The stuff burned hotter than hell. Russell lifted the raft and waded in. Shoji was already in the shallows, banana booze in one hand, bamboo pole in the other, standing watch like some samurai guarding sacred ground. He pointed to a spot where the water barely reached their shins. Here. Russell set the raft down, careful and slow, like he was laying an old king into his throne. He half expected it to sink right then and there, but to his relief, Buzz stayed afloat. His foot stuck up at the sky, stripped of his worldly possessions ¡ª no sandal, no ankle monitor. That last part had been a bitch to get off, but Buzz had done most of the work himself, probably hacking at it in some booze-starved panic, way back when. That man was determined as hell when he wanted to be. If Russell had even half that kind of drunk-man conviction, maybe he¡¯d have figured out how to get the damn device off his wrist by now. And if he¡¯d had a lick of Buzz¡¯s sense, Russell would¡¯ve known he could¡¯ve made a much better raft out of his new favorite material ¡ª bamboo. But Russell wasn¡¯t Buzz. He was just trying to do right by him, in his own way. Shoji came closer, and the two nearly-naked idiots gave each other a slow nod, satisfied that their funerary creation wasn¡¯t sinking. But as much relief as Russell felt, seeing it float also meant they were actually going through with this. And that took its own toll. It meant it was time to say goodbye to Buzz Holiday. Out of the corner of his eye, Russell saw Shoji bow his head, quiet and solemn. Respect. So Russell clasped his wrists ¡ª or as best as the damn device would let him ¡ª and took a moment. He cleared his throat, and looked down at what was left of his friend. ¡°Buzz,¡± he started. ¡°You made the Gunk Buddy a household name, and you drove a car through a Blockbuster Video. The world will never forget you.¡± Shoji glanced over, like he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d heard that right. Russell cleared his throat again, tried to dig a little deeper, find something from the last two weeks that wasn¡¯t just drunken madness. ¡°A few days ago, you listened to Kickstart My Heart twenty-eight times in a row. I thought that was pretty awesome.¡± He shook his head. Jesus, what a shit-show these last weeks had been. Best time of his life. The tears were coming now. He swallowed them down. ¡°You¡¯re the reason I¡¯m here,¡± Russell went on. ¡°But you¡¯re also the reason I knew I could go anywhere.¡± His throat tightened. ¡°I¡¯ll fuckin¡¯ miss you, dude.¡± Shoji muttered something in Japanese and bowed again, giving Russell a second to wipe his eyes, get his shit together. He took it. Bottled the emotions up like a good American man, then grabbed the banana liqueur from Shoji¡¯s hand and cracked it open. ¡°One last drink for ya,¡± he said, pouring a long, heavy stream over Buzz¡¯s leg. ¡°Far from your favorite, but it¡¯s all I got.¡± Then he tossed the bottle back to shore and gave Shoji a nod. Together, they pushed the raft out, past their shins, past their knees, keeping Buzz steady as they entered the territory of the finned demons beyond. At hip-deep, Russell grabbed the bamboo pole from Shoji¡¯s hand. ¡°Go back!¡± he said. ¡°And get ready.¡± Shoji shook his head, standing firm, but Russell gave him a light shove. ¡°It¡¯s alright. I got this. Get ready.¡± This time, Shoji listened. He backed off, leaving Russell to finish the job on his own. He didn¡¯t have far to go, thank God. The fins were there, cutting through the water like blades, big bastards, way too close for comfort. Hungover days spent watching Shark Week had taught Russell exactly how fast they could move. If they decided to turn his way, that was it. He¡¯d be nothing but a blooper reel in this fuckin¡¯ game. Russell steadied the raft with the pole, dug in, and gave it one hard push. That was all Buzz needed. Just a little help past the breakers, out into open water. Out into the hereafter. Russell let go, watching the raft drift. Slow at first, then caught by the tide, slipping away into the darker blue. ¡°Goodbye, Buzz,¡± he said. He stood there, watching him go, maybe for too long. Long enough that Shoji¡¯s shouts yanked him back to reality. ¡°Back, back!¡± Shoji yelled from the ankle-deep. Russell blinked. The fins weren¡¯t circling anymore. They¡¯d turned. Angling toward the raft. Toward him. ¡°Oh, fuck.¡± Russell didn¡¯t think, he just ran, best as he could through dick-high water. High-stepping, arms pumping, legs burning. He didn¡¯t look back, didn¡¯t want to. If he was dead, he was dead. Just keep moving until it happens. Then his feet hit sand, and he collapsed onto the shore, gasping. Shoji yanked him upright, and they both watched as the sharks honed in on the raft. Russell grinned, breathless. So far, so good. But they didn¡¯t have long. The clock was ticking. He turned to the fire, took one of the bamboo batons, and dipped it into the flames. It caught quick, burning hot and fast. Russell shoved it at Shoji. "You got this," he said, stepping back to give the shit-flinger some room. Shoji nodded like he believed it, then squared up. The sharks were circling now, tightening around Buzz¡¯s raft like they were waiting for the dinner bell. ¡°Hai!¡± Shoji shouted, winding back and letting the flaming baton fly. They watched it sail, Russell willing it forward, willing it to hit. Well, it didn¡¯t. It dropped short ¡ª way short ¡ª plopping into the water like a turd in a punch bowl. The sharks didn¡¯t even flinch. Russell exhaled slow. Alright. That¡¯s alright. He tore another length of bamboo from the pile and dipped it into the fire. Next to him, Tumzy sat watching. Russell didn¡¯t have to look at her to hear it. Maybe it was real, maybe it was just in his head. "This no gonna work..." ¡°Shut up, you,¡± he muttered through clenched teeth, ripping the fresh torch from the flames. He shoved it into Shoji¡¯s hands. ¡°Come on, buddy. We practiced.¡± Shoji took it, but maybe that last miss rattled him, maybe panic set in, because this time he barely wound up before letting it fly. The fire-stick smacked against one of the raft¡¯s plastic pontoons, bounced off harmlessly, and dropped straight into a shark¡¯s face. That sure as hell got its attention. The beast thrashed, snapping at the burning stick like it had been personally insulted, then whipped back toward the raft, pissed off and hungrier than ever. The second shark took the cue, tearing into the wood and plastic, looking for something real to sink its teeth into. "Kuso! Bakayar¨­!" Shoji groaned, arms over his head, drowning in his own shame. Russell just stood there, jaw tight, watching the whole thing unravel. Two throws. Two misses. The raft wouldn¡¯t last another thirty seconds. So Russell made the call. Fuck it. We¡¯ll do it live. Shoji peeked through his fingers as Russell moved quick. He pulled a third chunk of bamboo from behind his back, but before he stuck it in the fire, he doused it in Drivin¡¯ Me Nanners. The thing went up fast, flames leaping high, burning hot and mean. Shoji watched as Russell gave it a tap, like he was christening a ship. ¡°This is the one, Shoji,¡± Russell said. ¡°It fuckin¡¯ has to be.¡± He crouched, peeled back one of Shoji¡¯s hands, and shoved the burning thing into his grip. Same weight, same feel. Shoji didn¡¯t even look at it. ¡°Do it,¡± Russell said, knocking him on the shoulder. There was a hissing in the air, but not from Russell. He just kept his eyes locked on Shoji, steady, reassuring. ¡°Don¡¯t get fired,¡± he said finally. Shoji didn¡¯t understand the words, not really, but somehow, it was exactly what he needed to hear. Don¡¯t get fired. Yeah, okay. Shoji sucked in a deep breath, then stood. Without taking his eyes off the raft, he set his stance and pulled back. "Ware wa Tanuki no ¨­gon no ude nari!" He let it fly, hurling high towards the raft. Then Shoji¡¯s eyes went wide ¡ª not from anticipation. From realization. He saw it now, the thing he¡¯d thrown. It sure as shit wasn¡¯t no piece of bamboo. The flaming grenade hissed through the air, and with it, Russell revealed the fourth part of his plan ¡ª the part he hadn¡¯t shared with Shoji, the part that wasn¡¯t necessarily about getting to the boat. Because, the fourth part was about revenge. The sharks had taken Buzz. They weren¡¯t getting scared off. They weren¡¯t getting a warning shot. Those bitches were gonna die. Shoji turned, eyes blazing, and shoved Russell ¡ª hard ¡ª shouting something furious in Japanese. Russell let it happen, stumbling forward into the water. He didn¡¯t fight back, didn¡¯t argue. He just planted his hands on his knees, breath held, eyes locked on the grenade like it was a racehorse he¡¯d bet his rent on. Come on. Please. Please. The flaming grenade smacked the sole of Buzz¡¯s foot with a bounce, popped back into the air for one tense moment, then dropped right back down ¡ª settling square atop its calloused pedestal. A perfect throw. The booze-soaked casing sent flames licking down Buzz¡¯s leg, crawling toward the Spazz packets below. Then ¡ª whoosh. The whole thing went up in a magnificent bloom of purple fire. Shoji waded into the water, still fuming but maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful. Russell threw an arm around him, gripping tight. ¡°Holy shit,¡± Russell said, grinning. They both stood there, breathless, waiting, watching the raft oh-so eagerly. As the grenade hissed overhead, the sharks stayed locked in, tearing at the plastic, snapping at the wood, too far gone to care about the flames ¡ª the smell of burning flesh sending them further into a frenzy. They ripped and pulled, gnashing closer, hungrier. They were out for blood, and they¡¯d have it. Then, all at once, the raft was gone. The explosion ripped through the shallows, a firework of Spazz, plastic, and meat. The force knocked Shoji flat on his ass, but Russell took it to the chest, eyes locked ahead. A mushroom cloud of purple and pink mist rose over the wreckage, and Russell walked toward it, into it, head high, like a man stepping through the gates of Valhalla. Debris bobbed around him ¡ª splintered wood, plastic bottles, the last flickering purple flames licking at the driftwood. The air smelled of gunpowder, banana, and victory. He didn¡¯t need to go far to see it: The sharks were fucked up. One was even belly-up, what was left of it. Not even much belly left to speak of. The other one was still moving, still trying to piece together what the hell just happened. It thrashed near the surface, shaking its head like it could knock something back into place ¡ª only to realize that something wasn¡¯t there anymore. A whole chunk of its face was gone. One eye blown clean out, half its jaw stripped to the bone ¡ª a mess of raw red and Spazz-stained purple. The shark turned its one good eye on Russell. They locked eyes for a second, maybe two. The big, broken bastard was thinking, or maybe burning Russell¡¯s face into its memory. Then it retreated, dove deep, and slipped past the wreckage, past the yacht, disappearing into open water. That was it. Fight was over. Russell scanned for anything left of Buzz. But there was only vapor. The king was gone, and his usurpers wiped out. And in his place, Buzz left Russell one last favor. A clear path. To the yacht. To the game. To whatever the hell came next. Russell turned toward shore, looking up at the jungle. He threw his arms out wide, like a rockstar soaking in the silence before the encore. This was for the Gamemaster. You want me to play? I¡¯ll play. Shoji was still on his ass in the ankle-deep, watching the pink mist settle around him, too stunned to move. Russell gave him a wave forward. ¡°Come on,¡± he said. ¡°Boats waiting.¡± Then, both of their devices went off, a flurry of BA-DINGS! But Russell didn¡¯t need to check it. That, right there? That was a Viking funeral. And it was about as BADASS as you could get. CHAPTER 20: Rub N Tug Rhonda is a Woman of the Sea The galley was tilted damn near 45 degrees, but Shoji didn¡¯t seem to mind. He sat at the galley¡¯s table, diagonal as it was, working his way through a sleeve of toaster pastries he¡¯d dug out of one of the cabinets that hadn¡¯t been turned into driftwood. His eyes moved over the wreckage, taking in the layers of destruction with the curiosity of a man checking out a crime scene he had no stake in. The boat looked like it had lived three different lives, all ending in disaster. First, it was sleek, modern ¡ª polished steel, minimalist furniture. The kind of setup where rich assholes drank top-shelf whiskey and pretended to know things about wine. Then it had crashed through some dimensional rift and landed in a Mad Max fever dream ¡ª anarchy scrawled on every surface, furniture smashed, dicks spray-painted on the walls. Finally, it had delved into an Atlantean realm that left it covered in seaweed, crusted in salt, and flooded by an inch of standing water. Now it was back in the real world, traumatized by its dimensional journey, and barely holding together. Shoji admired the whole mess with mild amusement, nodding like he was at an art gallery. Then he took another bite of pastry. Sweet, crumbly, perfect. How long had it been since he¡¯d had anything so damn tasty? Six days? A week? However long it was, too long. He broke off a piece and offered it to the battered blow-up doll wedged into the booth beside him. The poor plastic lady had seen better days ¡ª her wide-eyed, open-mouth look gave the impression she¡¯d been riding shotgun the whole time as the yacht slipped between realities, and hadn¡¯t stopped screaming since. Shoji chuckled and popped the pastry into his own mouth instead. ¡°Of fuckin¡¯ course,¡± Russell¡¯s voice drifted in from somewhere down the hall. Shoji hadn¡¯t spent much time with him ¡ª Russell, yeah, that was his name, right? They never did proper introductions. What Shoji had picked up was that Russell mainly spoke in curses, like it was his native tongue. Shoji shrugged. It was natural to be pissed, given their circumstances. Then his jaw tightened into a scowl ¡ª the circumstances didn¡¯t excuse what Russell did. Russell stumbled in from one of the half-submerged rooms, wearing an oversized floral button-up that clashed like hell with the general air of doom in the galley. ¡°Poseidon couldn¡¯t have picked a better place to shove his dick into this boat,¡± Russell said, shaking his head. ¡°That hole in the side? Yeah, that¡¯s my room. All my shit, gone.¡± He chewed on the thought. ¡°Not that I had all that much.¡± Russell tossed Shoji a bundle of cloth. ¡°Buzz¡¯s room wasn¡¯t as bad. Grabbed what I could.¡± Shoji shook it out. A t-shirt, three sizes too big, screaming ¡°BIG FUDGE¡¯S BBQ¡± across the picture of a cartoon pig rubbing its nipples in sexual delight. He held it up like it was some sacred artifact from a lost civilization, his expression was pretty much unreadable. Russell chuckled. ¡°Back in Hawaii, Buzz won that shirt for eating fifty ribs in one sitting. They put his picture on the wall and everything.¡± Probably should¡¯ve mentioned that in the eulogy, he thought. ¡°If you¡¯re a vegetarian, we can probably fish up some Spazz shirts floating around here somewhere. But first, you and I gotta talk.¡± The galley¡¯s L-shaped couch wrapped around the main table. Russell dropped into the short end, settling in like a guy sitting down to family dinner after just making bail. He gave the blow-up doll a nod. ¡°Rhonda.¡± Neither she nor Shoji would look at him. Shoji worked his way through the last of his toaster pastry, chewing like Russell was background noise. Russell exhaled. They needed to clear the air. ¡°Look, about the grenade. I should¡¯ve told you what I was gonna do.¡± He said it like he was apologizing for taking the last beer out of the fridge ¡ª something he¡¯d done plenty of times to Wayne back home. Shoji¡¯s jaw slowed mid-chew. He shot Russell a look. Really? That¡¯s the best you got? Russell rolled his shoulders, dragged in a breath, and laid it out. ¡°If you¡¯d known what I had planned, you wouldn¡¯t have done it,¡± he said. ¡°That thing looked eighty years old. It could¡¯ve blown up in either one of our hands. I took the risk knowing full well I might lose a hand, maybe more. But I didn¡¯t want that rattling around in your head while you were trying to hit a tiny-ass target ¡ª which, by the way, you did.¡± Shoji¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. Not impressed. Not even close. He pulled out another toaster pastry, tore off a chunk, and went at it like Russell wasn¡¯t even there. The crinkle of the wrapper filled the silence, and Russell felt himself getting defensive. He jabbed a finger at Shoji. ¡°Let¡¯s not forget, you introduced yourself by chucking rocks at my head and dumping a bucket of crabs on me. One of ¡®em damn near took my dick off. So if anything, we¡¯re even.¡± Shoji kept chewing, unbothered. So Russell kept digging, over-explaining, anything except what he should actually be saying. ¡°You thought that was bad? I¡¯d been carrying that thing around all goddamn day. Beating it against rocks, a fucking gorilla thonked that grenade against my head, man! I shoulda been dead ten times over. Then, while I was taking a shit in the grove earlier, I pulled it out, started scraping off the dirt and rust ¡ª hell, I think there was actual shit on it ¡ª and I found this little twist-off cap at the bottom of the handle. Says, ¡®twist off to ignite.¡¯ And, you know, I was out for blood, so I twisted the damn thing and handed it to you. That was it, alright?¡± Shoji froze mid-chew. His eyes narrowed. ¡°You say so much. But no say sorry?¡± he snapped, his voice climbing. Russell breathed in, let it out slow. Truth was, Shoji had been solid. Whatever reason he¡¯d had for not trusting the guy ¡ª mostly the rantings of those maniacs on the other side of the island ¡ª felt a little flimsy now. Russell, who didn¡¯t trust many people in his life, was beginning to think Shoji might just be alright. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I stuck a live grenade in your hand without telling you.¡± Russell meant it. And Shoji could see it, but he wasn¡¯t quite ready to forgive. He motioned around the galley, the ruined remains of what was already a wreck long before the ship went down. ¡°Your boat?¡± he asked, eyes sharp with suspicion. Russell hesitated, then nodded. It was the kind of nod a guy gives when asked if he¡¯s ever had a DUI before. ¡°My boat,¡± Russell admitted. Shoji flicked his chewing chin at Rhonda. ¡°Your fuck doll?¡± Russell shook his head. ¡°Surprisingly not,¡± he said with a exhale of relief. ¡°Rub N¡¯ Tug Rhonda is a woman of the sea. She belongs to no man.¡± They sat there in silence for a moment, Russell waiting on Shoji¡¯s final ruling. Then, with the slightest nod, Shoji ripped off a piece of toaster pastry and handed it over. Russell took it without a word, nodding back. He thought about the last time he sat at this table ¡ª him and Buzz, at each other¡¯s throats over the broken navigational system, high as hell on Spazz and bad ideas. Maybe this table was cursed. Or maybe, it was where amends got made. Where things got set right.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Buzz was gone, and Spazz wasn¡¯t calling the shots anymore. Russell had a clear head ¡ª well, mostly. He hated to admit it, but that pink-and-purple mist left in the wake of Buzz¡¯s viking funeral, it might¡¯ve hit his bloodstream just enough to get his brain humming. Let¡¯s just hope that didn¡¯t mean what he was about to say next was a terrible idea. ¡°Shoji, you wanna go home?¡± Shoji nodded eagerly, already pulling the oversized BIG FUDGE¡¯S BBQ t-shirt over his head. ¡°Yeah, me too,¡± Russell said. ¡°And unless you know something I don¡¯t, this boat is our best bet.¡± He held his arms out to the carnage around them. ¡°But, you know¡­¡± ¡°Very broken,¡± Shoji said. ¡°Yeah, very, very broken. We¡¯ve established that. But broken shit can be fixed. Any chance you¡¯re a mechanic, Shoji?¡± Shoji chewed, considering. Then shook his head. ¡°In Japan, I work club.¡± He pumped his fists up and down like he was dancing to music unheard. ¡°In Japan, you work club,¡± Russell repeated. Shit. ¡°Well alright. In America, I work all over. But never on boats. One time, they hired me to work a summer booze cruise circuit around Lake Dobber. Fired me after the first day because I got too drunk. The irony is not lost on me.¡± Shoji stared, not sure what to do with that. Russell shook it off. ¡°Alright, doesn¡¯t take a boat mechanic to see the four big problems we got here,¡± he started, pointing down the hall toward what used to be his room. Water sloshed against the angled floor. ¡°First, there¡¯s a big fuckin¡¯ hole in the boat. Needs patching.¡± Then he flicked a hand toward the top deck. ¡°Second is the sail. Half of it¡¯s in the water, the other half¡¯s burned to hell. We need to fix it.¡± Shoji nodded, tracking so far. ¡°Third thing.¡± Russell leaned across Rhonda, twisting the volume knob on the sound system in the wall. Back and forth, back and forth. Nothing. Dead as everything else in this wreck. ¡°All the electronics are fried,¡± he said, sitting back. ¡°Now, I don¡¯t know what systems we absolutely need, or how the hell we¡¯re gonna fix ¡®em. But we¡¯re gonna have to.¡± Then he stood, straightening against the yacht¡¯s funhouse tilt. ¡°Last part, and the biggest ¡ª we¡¯re beached. This thing¡¯s dug into the sand. We need a way to get it upright and floating again.¡± He put his hands on his hips. ¡°And that¡¯s about it.¡± Which was bullshit, and he knew it. There were a dozen things he wasn¡¯t accounting for ¡ª like who the hell was actually gonna drive this thing if they ever got it working. Shoji held up his device, overwhelmed. ¡°Too much. Only Level 5!¡± Fair enough. Their little funerary stunt had launched Shoji up to Level 5, while Russell ¡ª maybe because the raft was his idea, or maybe because he stood his ground against a mad-as-hell, one-eyed shark ¡ª had hit Level 3 and was already creeping toward 4. ¡°I hear you. But we start simple. Fix what we can with what we¡¯ve got. Meanwhile, we keep leveling up, unlocking new shit, and using that shit to put the boat back together.¡± Russell held up his own device. ¡°But we gotta work together, man. Spend our points on what¡¯s best for the boat. Two devices are better than one.¡± He dropped back into his seat, activating his device. ¡°Right now, we each have a point to spend. Let¡¯s see what we got.¡± Both of them tapped into their CRAFTING tab. Russell had three new options. First and foremost ¡ª FIBER CORDAGE. Looking around at the state of the boat, he had a feeling that was about to be his best friend. But Shoji already had that schematic. Seemed like, at least for these early levels, everyone got offered the same basic stuff, the things that would keep you alive for your first days on the island. Russell sized up the other two options.
REINFORCED CLUB DESCRIPTION: A reinforced weapon for clubbing defenseless creatures so you can eat them later. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 3
PRIMITIVE AXE DESCRIPTION: A hand-carved axe for felling small trees or sleeping adversaries.
¡°Alright, now we¡¯re talking,¡± Russell said, indicating towards his screen. ¡°You¡¯ve already got the rope, so I¡¯ll get the axe, and we¡¯ll be able to cut down some trees, make some wood for repairs.¡± Russell breathed in, thinking about actually cutting down a tree. ¡°Never done that before, but I bet it won¡¯t be so hard.¡± He looked over at Shoji¡¯s options, a fresh set at Level 5. The Japanese characters changed to English the moment Russell looked over, and Shoji seemed to get a bit lost in the selection.
PRIMITIVE SLING DESCRIPTION: A hand-made sling, useful for any problems that can be solved by flinging rocks at it. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 5, UTILITY 4
RESIN PITCH DESCRIPTION: A sticky adhesive, known as ¡°nature¡¯s duct tape¡±. Comes with the added bonus of a horrible odor. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 5
BRAIDED VINE NET DESCRIPTION: A woven fiber net for fishing, trapping, carrying supplies, and catching ghosts Scooby-Doo style. REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 5, FIBER CORDAGE
Russell pointed at Shoji¡¯s screen, weighing the options. ¡°Alright, two of these could actually do us some good, Shoji,¡± he said. ¡°This resin, they call it ¡®nature¡¯s duct tape¡¯. We¡¯ve got a lot of patching to do. The vine net, that ain¡¯t bad either. But for now, I¡¯d go with¡ª¡± ¡°Ok, ok!¡± Shoji said, fueled by excitement. Before Russell could stop him, Shoji tapped PRIMITIVE SLING and confirmed the selection. The screen flashed, and right on cue, the lazy ukulele twang of Jerry Riggs¡¯ intro music filled the galley. ¡°Fuck me!¡± Russell groaned, slamming his forehead against the angled table. ¡°What the hell, man? Haven¡¯t you slung enough goddamn rocks!?¡± Shoji blinked, clueless, his good mood curdling as Jerry Riggs started in on his lesson about slings. He frowned down at the screen, then groaned, frustrated. ¡°Chikush¨­!¡± he shouted, apologetically, angrily. Russell knew a curse when he heard it. He exhaled, rubbing his face. Yeah, he saw what happened now. Must¡¯ve been a translation thing. When he glanced at Shoji¡¯s device, everything switched to English. Shoji must¡¯ve lost track, got caught up in the moment, picked the wrong schematic without realizing. A mistake, plain and simple. No use crying over spilled milk. Especially since they were already up to their ankles in it. He straightened up, waving a hand. ¡°It¡¯s alright, I didn¡¯t mean to yell. Watch your video. I¡¯m gonna go up top and learn how to make an axe.¡± Shoji hesitated, then nodded, turning his attention to the screen as Jerry Riggs continued his overly enthusiastic spiel, now dubbed in a cartoonishly bad Japanese voiceover.
The top deck felt like walking on a goddamn rooftop, every step threatening to send Russell sliding into the ocean. He grabbed onto what he could, planted himself down, and let the sun bake into his already blistering skin. It had been a productive day, but looking at the wreck around him, reality set in. They weren¡¯t ready for this. Fixing the boat wasn¡¯t a job for two guys bumbling their way through Jerry Riggs tutorials. It would take days, probably weeks. And that was if nothing else on this hellhole tried to kill them first. If they wanted a real shot, they needed more people. More hands, more schematics. And preferably, more folks who actually spoke goddamn English. Plus, who knew what else was out there? There was power in numbers. It was time for another plan. For today, he¡¯d listen to sad-sack Jerry Riggs and learn how to make an axe, then try his hand at hacking down a few palms in the cove. They¡¯d eat whatever scraps they could salvage from the wreck ¡ª mostly snacks, and maybe he¡¯d chase it all down with a few swigs of Drivin¡¯ Me Nanners. Then he¡¯d sleep off the sunburns and aches that still hadn¡¯t let up, get his body ready for a whole new round of them. Because tomorrow? Tomorrow, he¡¯d do something real stupid. He¡¯d haul his ass back through the jungle ¡ª God help him ¡ª and find those two psychos in the cave. And he¡¯d ask if they wanted to go home too. Because Shoji and him ¡ª they weren¡¯t getting off this island on their own.
High above the grove, buried in the jungle¡¯s thick mess, a green monster watched Russell through a battered pair of binoculars. From a distance, they blended into the landscape, just another part of the jungle. Up close, something else entirely ¡ª one of its deadliest predators, stitched together from moss, mud, and trash. But right now, they weren¡¯t hunting. Just watching. The figure reached up and peeled back the hood of their home-made ghillie suit, revealing a woman in her late forties. Dark skin, dark eyes, sharp as the machete hanging off her hip. She pressed the binoculars back to her face, steady, patient. Down below, the man in the oversized floral shirt and skin-tight yellow briefs stared out over the wreckage of his situation, the weight of it pressing in on him. He didn¡¯t know the she was watching. He never had. She had been tracking him since he washed up on the beach, watching the idiot in mascot leggings stumble from one disaster to the next. And somehow, against all odds, he kept moving forward. Chaos followed him ¡ª fires, explosions ¡ª but so did progress. It wasn¡¯t just luck. She knew the type. That kind of momentum meant promise. Meant possibility. Could he have what it takes? Could he be the one to take on the game? She let the binoculars drop against her chest, lost in the tangle of moss and rags of her ghillie suit, and lifted a tattered sleeve to her scarred face. Her device flickered to life. It was an older model ¡ª much older than the one strapped to Russell¡¯s wrist ¡ª but it still did the job. She swiped through the menus, past tools and options most poor fools never lived long enough to unlock. It didn¡¯t take long before she found him. Russell Murphy. His middle-finger-flipping avatar stared back at her, his SPUNK score laid out, his growing list of BADASS feats logged in cold, clinical text. At the bottom of his profile, an option blinked.
OPEN COMMUNICATION
She clicked it. A confirmation box popped up.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEND A MESSAGE?
Her finger hovered over the screen. Then, somewhere in the jungle, a roar ripped through the trees. Russell¡¯s head shot up, his eyes scanning the thicket. Right where she had been standing. But just like every other time she¡¯d been there¡ª He never saw a thing. Because she was already gone. PART 2 Starting February 10th! Welcome to PART 2: Russell Murphy¡¯s got a plan. Him and Shoji ¡ª the rock-throwing, pocket-sanding, mostly-naked man of mystery ¡ª are teaming up to survive the island¡¯s bullshit, rack up enough points, and slap that wrecked Spazz yacht back together. Then it¡¯s sayonara to the Gamemaster''s paradise from hell.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Only problem? They need manpower. Which means convincing a bunch of castaways, lunatics, and maybe a few half-feral weirdos to work together without killing each other first. So Russell puts that SWAGGER of his to work, slinging hope with a side of bullshit to anybody that''ll listen. But the deeper he delves into the island''s wilds, searching out materials, lost souls, and rumors, the more he realizes some things don¡¯t want to be found. Every good RPG has hidden treasures to uncover, secret caves behind waterfalls just begging to be explored. But no good hidden treasure is without its guardian. Russell will find out the hard way, his ass ain''t ready for a boss battle. Oh, and somewhere in between all that, he learns how to dig a proper hole to shit in. Riveting stuff.