Bob had no idea what the next challenge was going to be. Maybe it would be combat based. Maybe a test of endurance. Maybe a challenge for the wits. And Bob had no idea where the next challenge would take place. Maybe in a desert. Maybe on a mountain top. Maybe in a five star hotel.

Of course, he had preferences. He wasn't indifferent. If the system had a suggestion box, he'd go ahead and write down: "what about a quiet game of go-fish in the penthouse suite?" Everyone can surely agree that would push a man to the limits of his intellect and daring. Go Fish!

Bob didn't know what was coming, but he knew what he needed. You only have to get caught out naked in the rain once. All the rest of your life you'll carry the scars. Goal number one, the key to both his future physical and emotional comfort was, drum-roll, clothing.

A man couldn’t feel quite easy in his mind unless he had something to protect his manhood from the mischances of fortune. It's instinctual. A man just feels vulnerable, exposed. He looks around his shoulder a little more. Everything has that added tint of danger. Not to mention the fact that he was cold, wet and miserable.

Where could Bob acquire himself some new clothing? Bob's eyes fell on the fallen beast and lit up with a glimmer of greed and envy. "What a fine fur cloak you have. It looks mighty warm if you don’t mind my saying. May I touch it? Oh, why, how soft and silky, just divine. And well… I expect you shan’t be needing it any longer. You don't mind, do you? The spoils of war, you say. Most philosophical. Well then," Bob mentally rolled up his sleeves, "don't mind if I do. "

Bob tracked down his hunting knife. He might have been grinning predatorily to himself, but thankfully no one was around to see. He gave the weapon a cursory wipe on some leaves (it was going to get dirty again) and knelt down over the body. That was where he stopped.

Now, as chance would have it, Bob was neither butcher, nor hunter, cook nor generally skilled at detailed work. He’d never even seen a boar’s corpse before, let alone watched someone skin one. He almost wished he’d been a little more voracious in his youtube diet. In summary, it would be fair to say that Bob had zero relevant experience for the task he was about to attempt. But then, he figured, how hard it could it be?

He rolled the boar over (not without significant huffing and puffing—it was a fat monster). Then he mounted himself up onto the beast's belly. He clasped the knife in both hands like some ritual priest about to prepare a sacrifice. The knife stabbed down and slid smoothly into the animal's body. The sensation that pulsed back up through his hands and arms almost had him throwing up on the spot. The whole process seemed appallingly gruesome. He was desecrating the poor creature.

Bob did his best to stick it out, to act unconcerned, to embody the rugged outdoors man, but the blade had gone in a little too deep and when blood and guts started to float up out of the wound and puddle around his feet, it was too much. He threw up everywhere. The dozen or so apples he managed to put away all came up in a half-digested mush. Blood and mud and sick. What do you know? Turns out sick floats on mud. Must have a lower density. Truly the world is full of mysteries.

Bob gave himself a five minute break. Washing himself off (in the mud) as best as he could. It gave him time to think about his process. And he thought he knew where he’d gone wrong. The mistake was starting with the stomach. Don’t know why he’d thought that was a good idea. No, the back was the way.

He huddled over the animal and rolled it back over. This time he made sure to cut a good deal shallower. He managed to sheer off a little square of flesh and hair. Bob examined his handiwork and was only a midlly discouraged to discover that the reverse side of his cloth patch was dripping wet with blood. Either way he hung it over a low branch to dry and returned to the good work.

Unfortunately, things went downhill from there. That one square had taken him 15 minutes and cost him a heavy psychological toll that he’d probably be paying back most of his adult years. On his next attempt the knife caught in something and he made an awful mess wrenching the damn thing out.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

It was to the point that he was having difficulty finding a clean patch of skin to carve. Truth be told, Bob was losing hope. Why was this so hard? He scratched his head. You’d think a college-educated, 21st century human would be able to figure out how to skin a dead animal. And you’d be wrong.

Bob stepped back and surveyed the object that had once been a boar. It had certainly seen better days. So had Bob for that matter. No, no, he'd have to give the whole thing up. A great shame, Bob thought, because he’d rather fancied draping the boar skin around his neck, in what might be called Herculean fashion. But it wasn’t to be. When the animal kingdom fails, a man must turn to the plant kingdom. He’d just quickly weave together something from the leaves.

Five minutes were enough to enlighten him. Five minutes to know body and soul the utter futility of the endeavor. Where on earth did Adam and Eve learn their vine-craft? This stuff was completely unworkable. The leaves just crumbled into dust and fell to the ground when he tried to weave them together. He didn’t enjoy feeling like he was inferior to the first man. Shouldn’t humanity have progressed some over the last couple millennium?

Blast and damnation, Bob needed to recalibrate his expectations. What did he really need? A dinner jacket with tie and dress trousers? One thing only was absolutely indispensable: a loincloth. And see he had his little patch of boar skin, just the right size, which thank the gods had mostly dried (though without losing its wet, organic feeling that made him shudder at the touch). Bob reckoned they must leave these skins to dry for a week or so and not 45 minutes, but who had the time for that?

Progress. Now all he needed was a way of fixing the cloth in place. That should be dead simple, right? He eyed the piles of crumbled grasses and leaves at his feet. Yes he was not about to braid himself together a rope. Clothes really were needlessly complicated weren't they? Every step of the way, he found himself stymied by technological impossibles. He scratched the old noggin. Might as well go full tribal at this point.

He found himself a long, supple branch and snapped it off. The length was well judged and the branch bent nicely around his waist. Yes, this’ll do the trick. He made two small holes with the tip of his knife in his home-cut leather. Through these he slid both ends of the branch and then stepped inside the creation. The last thing was to tie it off.

All done. True craftsmanship this. He waited a couple moments. Any second now. Come on, come on. Where was it? Bob folded his arms. No system ping? No congratulatory achievement on creating this glorious piece of kit from locally-sourced materials? The universe appeared unimpressed. You can’t please everyone.

What mattered was that the garment fulfilled its intended purpose and this it did splendidly, well, mostly, as long as he could keep his adversaries directly in front of him and didn’t move around too much. The cloth was prone to flap up and down or to get shifted around. It also didn't hold up well against a strong breeze. If he was honest with himself, it was significantly less comfortable than being naked. Not to mention it had taken him over an hour of hard, sweaty work. Meh, it was better than nothing. Barely.

He looked over at the glowing path leading to the next challenge. The glow was steadily increasing in intensity. It was definitely not Bob’s imagination. The universe was getting impatient. And here Bob had been wanting to sit down and have a little rest. But he didn’t know what would happen if he got left behind in this forest. And he did not particularly want to find out.

He slid his hunting knife into his makeshift belt and then quickly slid it out again. That seemed like the wrong place for a blade. He’d stumble, nick himself and bleed to death on the ground after three steps. No, he’d keep the knife in his hand where he could keep an eye on it. Thank you very much.

He did, however, gather up as many apples as he could carry. They were tasty and nutritious and things just didn’t seem as bleak while he was eating them. With great regret, he left behind the paperback. It hurt him deeply. But the thing wasn’t even readable and he couldn’t let himself be bogged down by objects of purely sentimental value. Things were serious and Bob needed to man up.

Off we go. He hobbled forward. Except, strangely, his ankle didn't hurt that much. Actually it felt perfectly fine. It was unbelievable. To fall from that height and be practically uninjured. Truly, he was one lucky son of gun.

And so with a stack of apples balanced precariously in his arms and the knife in his right hand, he shuffled off. The path quickly brought him to an open doorway. A portal to some black, empty space. Nothing good was waiting for him on the other side, that much he was sure of. All the same, with a deep sigh, Bob stepped through.