Jenga's a tricky game. You've got to have a grasp on several high-level architectural concepts: load and centre of gravity, leverage and the distribution of forces. Bob studied the board with an intensive, creative focus. He'd liked to think of himself as a sculptor trying to see the statue hidden with the stone. An ordinary man just sees a lump of a rock. The sculptor, the sculptor sees his masterpiece.

Now an ordinary man, peering out of the bunker window, might just have seen beetles. The funnel was crammed to overflowing with beetles, from one side to the other, from floor to ceiling, on every diagonal axis; the funnel's point was a jungle of black horns, most trapped against different parts of the walls, but some still half-heartedly seeking the narrow entrance slit. Bob was a sculptor. He saw the terrible potential, the hidden beauty. If he just could lay his mud-finger on the right spot...

Bob sat with the mud. He let the mud-sensations sweep over him. He deliberated. He pondered. He measured. Sculpture really all comes down to that first tap of the chisel. There. He'd found it. He tapped the mud. It was a subtle action, a prod, a little nudge.

At one particular spot, halfway down the tunnel and slightly to the left, the mud just gave way. Only a touch, mind, just enough for one beetle to slip a step. One tiny slip, and the beetle on its back fell sideways, which pushed the supporting beetle off to the right, his horn knocking into another beetle. That beetle lost his balance, throwing off the beetles on his back and tripping forward into yet another beetle. In three seconds, the grand tower of the beetles was reduced to a dust of writhing, bloody corpses.

Bob relaxed in his chair. "I completely understand the appeal of good fortifications. It really takes the tension out of fighting. Gives the phrase armchair general a completely new spin."

The beetle contingent in the funnel was destroyed. The higher creatures had fallen onto the horns of the lower creatures, the lower creatures were crushed under the falling bodies of the higher creatures. Everybody flailed desperately, slashing their horns into anybody nearby and the scrum struggled backwards and forwards, murdering any wounded lying on the ground. Yellow beetle blood was splashed across every inch of the funnel. Gulp, gulp, gulp, the funnel swallows down your tribute. Oh yes, the funnel was the greatest military invention since greek fire, there could be no doubt of that.

It was a glorious victory, but Bob knew it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, Bob was going to have come up with a more direct way of dealing with these unwelcome trespassers. The animals had proved themselves amazingly adaptive. It wouldn't be too long before they figured out how to navigate the funnel. He really needed a medium-range weapon, a spear or bow, something he could use from within the safety of the bunker, ideally while sitting down.

If he'd had the system knife, problem solved. His mud-scythe had shown itself more than capable of bringing down streams of enemy fighters. But he didn't have the knife. The great wave had knocked it out of his hand. Who would've thought the day would come when I'd miss that thing? Bob remembered his roots, stuck up a tree, with Grumpy-nose staked out under him. He'd come a long way, hadn't he?

He didn't have the knife, so he needed a substitute. He wasn't picky. He didn't need Andúril (flame of the west). Just something sharp and pointy that he could use as the tip of his scythe. Was there any obsidian lying around? He felt around the mud bunker with his mud sense. It's really pleasant to be able to look for a thing without having to get out of your chair. No obsidian here, no sharp rocks either. Most disappointing. And he was supposed to be the lucky one? Where on earth could he find himself a sharp, pointed thing?

Bob rested his chin on his elbow and gazed blankly out into the funnel as he tried to think of something he could use. Most of the assault force was dead or dying. All of them were injured. And those with any strength left were dragging themselves towards the exit. What would they report to their leaders?

The beetle commander asks the survivor, "What happened to your division?"

"Friendly fire."

"What do you mean, friendly fire? You sustained 95% losses."

"Yes, captain, all friendly fire."

"What? You mean the enemy didn't even attack?"

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"No, sir."

"What? You!" Beet-red in the face, "I'm having you court-martialed."

Those horns really were a double-edged blade in enclosed spaces.

Bob snapped his fingers. Sometimes the answer's right in front of you. "George," the dog had been drifting off into a nap; Bob shook him awake with his foot.

"George, you collected up all those corpses didn't you?"

George nodded sleepily.

"What about that last one I killed on the plain. The one who was trapped by his horn?"

George nodded sleepily.

"Perfect. Perfect," Bob tented his fingers and smiled creepily, "give me the horn." Pop, the horn appeared on the ground.

Bob bent down and examined the weapon. One foot-long, jet-black, spiralled and tapering to a vicious point, it was an instrument of death. Bob nodded appreciatively. "This'll do, this'll do nicely. Come Harry."

The mud cloak melted over the horn, resolidified around the base and then floated up to Bob's waiting hand. Bob weighed the new weapon. It was a fearsome creation. That point looked like something out of a nightmare. Picture an evil unicorn if you will. He was ready now. His mud scythe was forged anew. Let every beetle quake with fear.

There was a poetic justice to it, wasn't there? It was cruel and unfair of course, but there was a poetry to all the same. To fight the enemy with his own weapon. To steal the enemy's strength and make it one's one. Yes, this was the weapon for destroying the civilization of the beetles.

Those beetles had settled on a new plan. They'd learned to respect the funnel. No more companies marching in lock-step, no more fancy phalanxes. Nope, they'd come in one at a time. And the next beetle wouldn't enter the gauntlet until the first had either triumphed or fallen. Honorable combat. Mano a mano. Or in other words, they'd decided to duel Bob to death.

Bob smiled to himself. "Did I just create an experience farm? George, did I just create an experience farm? Yes, George, yes I did. You know," taking on an air of profound contemplation, "sometimes an idea can be so brilliant, so earth-shattering, that even its inventor can't grasp the extent of its genius. And only the unfolding of time can reveal the marvels hidden within."

Bob adjusted his chair a little, sitting close enough to the gap to have a good view and easy access, but far enough that a lucky beetle wouldn't skewer him. He set up the mud-scythe so that the blade was on the beetle side of the gap.

Challenger number one treaded cautiously forward. The beetle could see the black-horn leveled at it from the gap. It wasn't stupid, but then it wasn't fast enough. "Mud stomp," Bob called out and the mud scythe stomped down in a blazing arc and smashed into the head of the beetle. Thud. The beetle had tried to parry. It didn't work. It didn't help. Sometimes everything is pointless.

Bob swallowed. His vision flickered. Was there smoke in the air? Why did he smell smoke? Cold sweat rolled down his forehead. Thud, thud, thud, that noise, that awful noise, it was just his heart, it was just his heart. Calm down Bob, calm down. He put a hand over his eyes and breathed slowly in. What had come over him? Oh he knew. He remembered. He wasn't that heartless. Those beetles out there weren't evil. He was the evil one.

Another beetle had entered the funnel and Bob dragged back the mud scythe and repositioned it. Would he do it again? Would he kill another innocent beetle? That sound had brought it all back to him. The helpless animals butchered in their homes, the children abandoned to the flames. His work. Snap out of it Bob. The new challenger approached. The beetle was skittish, uncertain, glaring at the gap with the black point. Was it fear? Was the beetle afraid of him? It should be. He was a little afraid of himself.

The challenger was close, only two feet away; he had to act now, but he hesitated. Is this the burden of the strong? That animal didn't stand a chance against him. He held its life in his palm. One sharp squeeze and its life would dissolve into the mist. When you were weak, you didn't have time to think about these things. You were desperate. You'd do anything and everything. You'd beg on your knees like Sally had, without shame, without hesitation. But the strong man has to look down, has to decide. He decided then, hadn't he? He'd killed Sally. Was he losing his nerve now?

No, it had been different. It had been her or him. Her or George. Life or death. And now? He'd attacked these beetles without provocation, without cause. He attacked them simply to murder them all. To collect specks of golden experience that would let him level up. That wasn't the same. Couldn't he get out of here somehow, without massacring them...

Maybe he could. Maybe George and he could figure something out. Run off into the grasslands. The beetles weren't so fast. The two of them were resourceful when they needed to be. Yeah he probably could. He didn't have to kill them. He could be a better man. Thud. The beetle died on the spot, looking hopelessly at the black space beyond the gap, where a man sat in a chair and watched the beetle's life puddle away.

"I decided, didn't I? I decided," Bob muttered to himself. "You don't drink the poison and then complain about the taste. But hell, it goes down bitter doesn't it? Maybe they make the strong differently and not like little old Bob."

George stirred and came over to lie his head on Bob's lap. Bob stroked the dog's head. He loved that dog smell. It was so familiar and comforting. It brought back a sweet mixture of memories, lying on the floor together or walking through the town or George sneaking into Bob's bed. He wasn't alone. And he didn't want strength for himself. He needed it for others. He sighed out a long breath and readied the guillotine for the next poor soul brave enough to march into this funnel of death.