The animal took thirty minutes to die. Thirty minutes folks. Thirty bloody minutes. Explain to me why a land-based animal needs to be able to hold its breath for thirty minutes straight. Your average human will pass out after three minutes. Where does this crocodile get off making him wait a whole thirty minutes?

Bob had waited though. The whole 1,800 seconds. Bob had dutifully sat at the edge of the mud pool and played deathguard to the crocodile. The most stressful moment had been when George had decided he wouldn't mind having a dip in the pond his master seemed so obsessed over. You know, just to see what's inside or some other dog nonsense. Bob had had to grab the dog by the scruff of his neck and drag him away from the edge, relying exclusively on his feet to sense and control the mud. After which instance, thankfully, George had decided he might as well just curl up beside Bob.

But now the crocodile was dead. Don't take Bob's word for it. Bob certainly hadn't. Here's the official system announcement:

> Congratulations: Level up 5 - > 6

>

>

> Major bonus to luck assigned

>

>

> Rolling for random stats...

>

> Random stats determined.

>

>

> Major bonus to dexterity assigned

>

> Minor bonus to intelligence assigned

>

> Token bonus to wisdom assigned

>

> Minor decrease to vitality assigned

A token bonus to wisdom? Would this bring him back up to "feeble"? Bob, honestly, sometimes I think you've never met the system before. As if the system would give back the very thing it had spent so long taking away. You've got a field of flowers growing in that head of yours Bob. A very pretty field, thank you very much. But sure enough:

> Stats:

>

> * Strength - below average

> * Dexterity - above average

> * Vitality - below average

> * Constitution - pitiful

> * Wisdom - worm

> * Intelligence - illuminating

> * Will - strong

> * Luck - godly

His dexterity had jumped to above average, but that was offset by his vitality falling to below average. Bob wished there was some kind of manual explaining what each of these stats did. You know some kind of system guidebook or introduction. Something to help new sentients out. It felt like it ought to exist no? Even the system couldn't really want its lab rats dying out of sheer ignorance. Oh well, maybe he'd search the shop for something later. Time to take inventory.

Let's get the bad news out of the way. Bob examined his arm. The patches had done marvels on the bite wounds. Health patches really were the combat medic's best friend. What had once been gaping holes in his flesh were now almost indistinguishable from the old skin. The only difference was an unnatural whiteness, like someone had grafted a baby's skin onto that of a fully grown adult.

But in another area, the patches had failed spectacularly. His shoulder was just as dislocated as it had been thirty minutes ago. Now Bob didn't want to be unreasonable. The little things had certainly helped some. For one, they had a mean pain-killing effect. Wasn't a dislocated shoulder supposed to be excruciatingly painful? And sure Bob had felt like that during the fight, you know, like strike me down God, grant me the gift of death, but now the discomfort was almost manageable, even though he could distinctly feel the ball of his shoulder pushing against the top of his back.

The patches had failed Bob. And when others fail, a man must step up for himself. Bob would have to take the matter into his own hands, into Bob's trusty hands. Now, if he remembered correctly, a shoulder dislocation could be fixed relatively easily. All you had to do was get the ball back in its socket. The difficulty was how. See Bob here wasn't a doctor and George here was a dog. They weren't exactly trained professionals. But there had to be some kind of do-it-yourself shoulder dislocation operation, didn't there?

Hold on, Bob raised his index finger to his lip, was that an idea Bob? Yes Bob, yes it was. And people told me reading fantasy was a waste of time. Bob had just remembered something. They had just so happened to be a scene in Jonny the Man where Jonny had dislocated his shoulder. Talk about good luck right? I guess it's a common injury among heroes. And, in the novel, Jonny had managed to get the ball back into its joint by doing some manner of secret yoga pose. What was the name again? It escapes me... wait, wait, I've got it, I think he called it "the twisted pretzel."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Bingo Jonny. Bob would just have to replicate "the twisted pretzel" and he'd be right as rain. Of course, Bob understood that Jonny the Man was a work of fiction. But all great fiction had to be rooted in universal truths right? There's no way the author, Jonny Johnson, had made the whole thing up. Impossible. Shame. Perish the thought. Humanity lacked the creativity for such a deception.

Ok, solid, a plan of action. How had the pose gone again? Bob thought he kinda remembered. First, Jonny had sat himself down on the ground with his legs extended out in front of him. Bob did likewise. Then Jonny had bent his knees up with feet flat on the floor. Bob did likewise. His knees grumbled a little. He probably should stretch more. Shouldn't we all, shouldn't we all? Guess he should thank the system for that little dexterity bump. It's almost like it knew what he was going to do before he did it.

Now we get into the meat of the stretch. Jonny had sort of swung his right leg over his left and tucked the foot inside his left knee. And then somehow he'd mirrored the action with his left foot. Bob tried to imagine the position. Ah those must be the wings of the pretzel. Very good, very good. Lastly Jonny had twisted his spine away from the dislocated shoulder (ah the pretzel twist) and, holding this position, he'd sort of twitched his shoulder up and the ball had popped back into its socket. Sounded simple enough.

Yes and no. Bob crossed his right leg over the left, so far so good. That was when the enterprise started to derail. Bob didn't really understand how he was supposed to tuck his foot inside his left knee. His right knee and hip loudly protested his valiant attempts to force the pose. He kept at it, but flexibility doesn't really bend to stubbornness. His body absolutely refused to facilitate the necessary movement.

Well maybe I'll skip the tucking part, how important can it really be. On to the next step. With his right leg over his left, he tried to put his left leg over his right. "George, I think I've discovered a paradox." Putting his left leg over his right naturally meant that his right leg was no longer over his left. The profound truth was simply that only one leg could be on top at one time. Bob shook his head in awe. The great truths are all around us aren't they? We only have to stop and see.

Well I guess that's why the twisted pretzel is a secret pose. It must be super high-level and require years of hard training. Bob would do what he could. In other words, with right leg over left, he pointed his left foot towards the left side, or was the right side, it's all very confusing and complicated. Anyway, he pointed the left foot back, you know, to suggest the winged structure of a pretzel. Perfect.

Now he was ready for the twist. Bob twisted his spine to the right. F-ing hell. That hurt like the end of days. Was he doing this right? Bob didn't remember Jonny complaining about any pain. Guess that's why they call him Jonny the Man, eh? Chin up Bob. It's nearly over.

Ok now for the coup de grace. Bob tried to spasm his right shoulder up and slingshot the ball back into its socket. The manoeuvre stung like the devil. You're allowed to swear loudly while doing yoga right? The manoeuvre stung like the devil but the ball joint didn't even tremble. Doubts rose up through the pain: was this a real pose? Was this what yoga was like? Twisting yourself into unnatural forms while enduring unspeakable suffering. Bob really hadn't given those middle-aged ladies enough credit. This sport required nerves of steel. Bob thought he'd prefer American football.

Well Bob you've come this far. Don't give up on me now. Bob imagined Yamada-sensei standing over him, arms folded, looking contemptuously down at his student. Is this all of you've got? I'm going back to my cave. Just you watch, Yamada-sensei, just you watch. Bob gave a heroic effort, twitching his whole right shoulder up, and... aww, agony and damnation, the ball had slipped down another half-inch. He looked at his own arm; it hung out awkwardly, connecting to his upper back a full inch lower than it ought to be. Was that really his arm?

Bob was having serious reservations on the veracity of this "twisted pretzel" pose. Bloody artistic liberties. Don't you realize little children are going to take it all at face value. Jonny Johnson, you're a murderer. A cold-hearted, children-bashing murderer. Calm down, Bob; Jonny Johnson just doing his best. And maybe you're just doing the pose wrong. Like hell I'm doing the pose wrong. It's a fake pose. There is no shoulder dislocation pose. Do secret poses even exist? I'm starting to think yoga's all a conspiracy. It's some kind of religious cult, centered around worshipping yoga mats.

Just in case, just to prove that he was a reasonable and rational individual, Bob went through the steps again, carefully ticking them off against what Jonny had done. Oh my god. He had screwed it up. He was supposed to twist his spine away from the injured shoulder and not towards it. Bob you idiot. That's so embarrassing. Sorry Jonny. My bad, my bad. I apologize from the deepest part of my heart to all devoted yogis and to the sacred, secret pose of the twisted pretzel.

Ok this time for sure. This time for all the marbles. Bob triple-checked he was in the right position. First, the pretzel wings: right leg over left, left foot tilted backwards. Tick. Then the pretzel twist, his spine contorted around to the left. Tick. And now for the shoulder spasm. Bob hated this part the most. It's really rather difficult to intentionally cause yourself pain. Your body and mind just balk at the prospect. Bob spasmed his shoulder up. A moment of white agony and then, and then... relief, blissful relief; the ball was back in its socket. Thank you, Jonny the Man. Thank you, literature. Thank you, twisted pretzel. Good books aren't just entertainment. They teach you how to live.

Bob slapped on a health patch or two to speed up recovery, but he was already feeling much better. Most problems in life are quite easily solved if you can just keep calm. Bob hoped he could role model this behavior for the younger generations. You know, for the good of humanity. Crisis averted. Time for the next adventure.

"Stop right there, Bob. Stop right there. Just before you get carried away on a wave of unwarranted confidence and crash down into another life and death situation, how about you sit down and make sure you've properly digested the lessons of the encounter."

"Yes, better self."