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 — 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 — 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 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 — and most of his foot — 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 — 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 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — his foot was still covered in shit, and he was chasing after a naked man — 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 — 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 — 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:
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
* 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
* 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 — unless he figured out how to weaponize her obnoxious one-liners — 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 — cold metal, rusted in spots — 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 — 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 — 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 — and he was damn sure they were — 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 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.”