Bob was a proud homeowner. A card-holding member of the landed gentry. He had a spanking new, system-constructed, personally designed home. And he knew how the game was played. It's not enough to have nice things, you have to shove them in everybody's face so that they know you have nice things.

Bob stormed into the tent. "Shut up and follow me. I have something to show you."

"Robert!"

"Come on. Come on."

"What is it? I won't go. Tell me what it is first."

Bob grinned and put his finger over his lips. "It's a secret."

"Robert! I-I-I, you are just as bad as the rest of them."

"My god, what are you babbling on about now, just follow me."

Bob reached over to pull her out the tent with him, but she slapped away his hand.

"I have no inclination of seeing your 'secret'"

"What? Why? You'll love it. I promise you."

Bob stepped towards her; she stepped back. She glared at him with folded arms.

"Robert, really. Is this what it has come to? Is this your true face? You expect me to follow you out into the dark woods to see your 'secret.'"

Had Bob's face always been this red? Definitely a sunburn. A quick-flash, indoor sunburn.

"Dammit Sophie. It's sunny outside and the forest is miles away. You ruined it. You bloody ruined it. All I wanted to do was surprise you and you ruined it. Fine. A house. I built us all a house. Please Princess Sophie come outside and see our new home."

"A house? For me? Oh Robert, you really are a noble heart."

"Well, well, wait a second. No, not quite a house for you. More a house for me. I mean, it's my house, but you can crash and all."

"Robert, my very own house."

"I feel like this conversation isn't going how I wanted."

Sophie pushed impolitely past Bob in her hurry to see her new home. Bob shook his head, made eye contact with George and mouthed the word "ingratitude." The dog nodded sagely, before they both traipsed out after her.

"Robert, where is it?"

The hilltop looked exactly the same. Tall, green grass swaying under a blue sky.

"Aha, didn't I say? It's a secret. A secret base, you might say," Bob winked at George; George knew what was up. Good times.

"Robert, where is the house?"

"You're no fun. Look it's right here." Bob pointed to a nondescript patch of grass with a medium-sized stone.

"Robert, that is a patch of grass with a stone."

"Or is it?"

Bob smiled rakishly as he pointed the his key remote at the patch of grass. He pressed. Tada! Nothing happened. He pressed again. Tada! And no surprise, we're still here. Drops of sweat had suddenly appeared on Bob's forehead. The sun was beating mercilessly down. Bob swallowed. Was it his imagination or was he melting?

"Did I get you?" He croaked out. "That's just a patch of grass with a stone."

"Robert." Tough crowd.

"The real house is..." Bob looked over the idyllic hillside. Tall, green grass swaying under a blue sky.

"Somewhere," he muttered to himself.

Thirty seconds later Bob was on his hands and knees, crawling around the hillside, clicking his remote control at anything and everything. No house. Not even a little shed or cave complex. Lots of mud.

"Robert, I don't believe you. Is this some kind of joke? Am I supposed to laugh here? Are you enjoying this? Was this what you wanted. You wanted to grovel at my feet in the mud like some degenerate sex slave. What a disgusting man."

"Sophie please. That's not what this is."

"Tell me Robert. Tell me. What is this? What are you doing?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious? I'm looking for my house."

"Oh your house. Why didn't you say so? Have you checked your pockets? Maybe it fell out when you left the tent. Maybe somebody turned it in at the police station and you'll have to go down and claim it."

"You can be damn funny when you want to be."

Bob came up into a cross-legged position. Blind searching was getting him nowhere. Village Hidden in the Mud, indeed. Too hidden. Over-hidden. If nobody can find a thing, does the thing even exist?

At that moment, a dangerous thought entered Bob's mind. A terribly dangerous thought. Bob, now, old boy, why not just build yourself another house right now, quick, on the sly? System construction was done and over in ten seconds. He could pull it off. She'd never know. Hell, it might even be good strategy. A dummy house to conceal the existence of the true house. Hell it might even be a masterstroke. Who could conceive of someone spending 800k just to have a dummy safe house? It's genius. Quick now before she catches on. Bob opened up his interface and navigated to the settlement tab.

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There, thank the gods, was a new sub tab: structures. Inside the tab, listed prominently at the top was his new home. Truly a perk of system construction versus more mundane masonry. He could see the full layout of his new home, as well as control various domestic settings: lights, humidity, temperature, locks. And hello, there was an even an option for highlighting the structure in his field of vision. A patch of grass with a medium-sized stone lit up in yellow. The patch of grass.

The remote control had rather a limited range it seemed. More of a key card than a remote control. Bob wasn't sure what he needed it for when he could just press "open" via his system interface anyway. Obsolete-confusing-technology-redundancy-bullshit. No matter though. What's important is the story that lives on. The truth is always forgotten.

"Sophie, Sophie, Sophie," Bob said as he brushed himself off and stood proudly up to his full height. "This was all a test. A little practice exercise for you and for our new secret base. You failed by the way."

"Robert, I don't like your tone."

"Sophie you have an identify ability don't you? It wouldn't be much of a secret base if any old chump could puzzle out its location, now would it? I gave you a big hint, straight from the gate."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sophie, Sophie, Sophie."

"I don't like it when you say my name like that."

"Sophie, Sophie, Sophie, I pointed out the entrance to you. I literally pointed you at the door."

"No you didn't."

"Remember you said that, Sophie. Remember, remember, remember. Because I pointed it out to you and you stood there like a dead fish, mouth open, empty headed, glassy eyed, imagining depraved relations between yourself and me. Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. I'm disappointed. And now see and believe."

Bob pressed his mental unlock button. There was a slight clicking sound. In the middle of the patch of grass, hidden under the shadow of a stone, a little black spot appeared. It was the handle to a disguised trapdoor. Bob had really outdone himself this time. Both figuratively and literally. Bob knelt down, wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled the trap door open.

"I present to you. Our new home."

Even Sophie wasn't able to entirely repress a little squeak of excitement. Bob drank in the sound like it was the nectar of the gods. One point to Robert Brown. Before them, a staircase extended down into the hillside.

"Come inside. Come inside."

Bob herded his companions onto the stairs and Bob pulled the trapdoor closed behind them. For a moment, they were standing in the darkness and then with a low thrum, paired lights on each stair started to flicker on, one set after another, gradually illuminating the path down.

Sophie let about a small gasp, but quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to play it off as a cough. It was no cough. Bob smiled to himself. It felt like you walking into a starship. The walls were sleek, sharp lines, covered in a futuristic metallic covering. The steps seemed to float down, hovering out into the blackness. The trapdoor behind them had sealed up without leaving even a crack.

What? A man can't live all practical all the time. Sometimes he has to enjoy himself a little. And did you notice? Electricity. System electricity. Like most system things it ran on money. There had been a detailed explanation in his architecture tab that Bob had started to skim and then decided skimming was too much work and had just skipped entirely.

The stair sloped down to a short catwalk ending in automatic doors. Bob led the way. "Welcome to Casa Brown." The doors hissed open. Bob looked through into a causal living room with two comfortable couches set around a coffee table. He'd picked out the rug special. The rug really makes the living room don't you think? It sets the color mood and gives that warm, fluffy feeling to the space. For his underground base, he gone for a blue, abstract pattern, sort of repeated swirls and dots; how can you describe art? Anyway it looked good.

In front of the doors was a black welcome mat that blended into the floor. On the right wall was a concealed shoe box. Bob didn't wear shoes any more. As a mud magician, he required natural footwear, toes in the mud. But Bob wasn't prejudiced. Let the shoed masses come and put their shoes in the shoe box. He wiped his feet on the mat. It didn't do any good. Mud was baked around his toes, solidified in his toe hair. Very well. I command you. Bob concentrated on the mud and pulled.

He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself calling out. His eyes might have gone watery. Sophie couldn't hear his heartbeat could she? The mud had come off, sure, the mud and a good chunk of his toe hair. He looked down at his poor toe. Was that blood? Mud bullet, mudfall, mudpoon, mud dart, beyond all such trivial magic is the grand and noble skill of mud-cleaning. It remained firmly beyond his skill. Thankfully he wasn't alone.

"Harry would you do the honors?"

Nothing happened of course. There might have been a little sway and mumble from the cloak through it was probably Bob's overactive imagination. Harry was a piece of mud cloth. And no matter how much Bob liked to pretend, Harry should be able not understand English. No, Bob controlled Harry through detailed mental instructions. Bob controlled Harry according to the ancient laws of magic.

Bob imagined himself as the cloak. Harry swept down, wrapped around Bob's feet and wiped away the mud. The mud came off easy, suspiciously easy as though the cloak were somehow absorbing the mud into himself. But success, Bob's feet were squeaky clean. Did that mean Harry was now muddy? Could a mud cloak be muddy? Anyway here was an easy and efficient way to get rid of mud. Bob let Harry do a quick sweep of his whole body. He felt like a new man at the end of it.

Bob eyed the dog next. The little mud monster. "George, it has to be done. It's a brand new home. I'm not letting you in like that."

The dog whined and backed away. Harry loomed over him and then fell down like a black nightmare. The dog quickly relaxed. The process was more ticklish than painful and it was over in twenty seconds.

"Sophie," Bob turned the woman. The woman he had mercilessly buried alive in a mud pit. She'd obviously made some attempts to clean herself, but mud sticks to a person, body and soul. Her attempts had been less than successful. "What do you say to a little mud shower?"

"I would rather die here and now"

"Come on. Even the dog managed it."

"Robert, let me make sure I quite grasp what you are suggesting. Tell me, can you feel anything through that cloak?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean it's muted, but I do get some level of sensory feedback. Why?"

"So you might even call a third hand?"

"Maybe. I do sometimes call it my mud-arm. Sure. A third hand, why not?"

"I see. So, Robert, you are telling me is that you want to rub your third hand all over my naked body to clean me?"

"What, I never, no. I never said that, Sophie."

"Robert, I despise you." She spat on the floor.

"Hey, we're inside. You spat on the floor of my home."

Bob bend down and wiped up the spit. He glared at the woman.

"Fine. Bad idea. Didn't think through the implications. Ok, well at least let me do your feet then. Otherwise you'll get mud all of the place."

"Robert, you foot-fetish maniac."

Bob sunk his head in his arms. One point to Sophie Blanchet. Guess they were even now.

"Fine, just come in as you are then. But take your shoes off. And go straight to the bathroom to take a shower. First door on the left. Don't worry it locks and there are towels in the cupboard."

"I don't have anything to change into."

"You really drive in the screw. Pick something out in the shop then and I'll buy it for you."

She immediately listed off four or five items. Had she... She must have... Have he been played? Why did he feel like he'd been played? Like he was dead fish, caught on the hook, being slowly pulled up towards the surface.

Bob stopped fighting the inevitable. He meekly purchased everything she wanted and shipped her off to the bathroom while he crumbled down onto the sofa, shell-shocked. George curled up at his feet on the nice rug and Bob automatically started stroking the dog's head.

"George, you remember when it was just the two of us. Those, those were the glory days."