Shoji hurled another bamboo baton. It cut clean through the air, smacked dead center on the X Russell had scraped into the sand. Thirty yards, no problem. The little shit-flinger had an arm on him. Three other batons were clustered there, only one landing just shy of the mark.

Russell nodded, impressed despite himself. “Three out of four,” he called over. “Pretty damn good.”

Shoji stretched onto his tiptoes, took in his work, then punched the air like he’d just struck out a legend — the whole move dripping in anime-level dramatics.

“I see why throwing shit’s your go-to method of mayhem,” Russell said, collecting the batons. “Not that I endorse your brand of fuckery.”

By the time he’d walked the batons back, Shoji was still frozen in his triumphant pose. Russell shook his head. Funny little dude, but precise as hell. Something in his SPUNK score — probably UTILITY, maybe KNOW-HOW. Maybe even a combination of both. Whatever it was, it put three out of four on target.

Russell turned to the water. The sharks were still out there, circling like they owned the place. Three out of four would have to do.

He just hoped Shoji’s NERVE held up.

Russell flipped a baton into the air and caught it. “You gotta be the one to do it,” he said, looking at Shoji. “Maybe if I had my T-shirt cannon, I could pull it off. But you?” He tapped Shoji’s chest with the baton. “You’re a sniper.”

Shoji, still locked in his ridiculous pose, delivered his line like it was written for him. “I will succeed.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Russell said. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

----------------------------------------

Back down the beach, where the tide teased the sand, the two men looked upon the fruits of their morning’s labor. Russell did a mental checklist, making sure he’d covered it all.

Three things had to happen for this fucked-up plan to work.

First, Shoji needed to crank out as much fiber cordage as possible. No problem. The guy took to it like it was his life's calling, stripping the grove for anything that could be twisted and woven together. While Shoji sat threading his little heart out, Russell handled the second part — fire. Not just any fire. A controlled fire.

Last time, the fire got away from him. Russell could admit that. So this time, he did it right — dug a pit in the sand, lined it with rocks to keep the bastard from running wild. To get it going, he packed it full of bamboo from the grove, then sparked it with flint he’d chipped loose from the cliff wall. Thanks to Jerry Riggs, he was getting better at spotting the stuff. And this time, he didn’t have to zap himself like an idiot to knock it free — he used a thick bamboo pole instead.

Bamboo was turning out to be useful for damn near everything. Tinder, tools, and lately, makeshift batons for Shoji to chuck, sharpening his aim one toss at a time. But right now, it had another job — stoking back the fire that had damn near given up while they were off playing target practice.

Russell was learning a hard but necessary lesson about survival — sometimes the trick with fire isn’t stopping it from burning down a jungle, it’s keeping the damn thing alive in the first place.

The flames flickered weakly against the afternoon wind, looking about ready to give up.

“I told you to keep an eye on this,” Russell muttered, jabbing at the fire. He was talking to Tumzy who sat nearby, dead-eyed as ever, staring into the flames like she had something wise to say but couldn’t be bothered.

In her defense, she’d been busy. They’d stuffed her with rocks, tied the crabs’ leash to her like some poor girl in Midtown trying to wrangle four Great Danes at once. On top of that, she babysitting the newest arrival, a curvy-shaped bottle filled with a neon-yellow liquid. When Russell had fished it out of the surf, he’d damn near had a heart attack, thinking Catfish Piss had chased him across the world.

Thankfully, no. This was something different — and most would say worse : a banana-flavored liqueur called Drivin’ Me Nanners.

It took Russel a moment to recognize it, but they’d met before. One of the leftovers from their Hawaii stash. Even for two full-time alcoholics like him and Buzz, banana-flavored liqueur was a step too far, which was why it had survived their legendary bender untouched. Seemed fitting it had survived the storm too, washing up in the cove like it still had some unfinished business.

Russell took that as a sign. Drivin’ Me Nanners would play its part in his grand plan, and maybe, just maybe, in getting him fucked up.

They’d see how the day went.

“The wind’s strong,” he said to Shoji, watching the fire struggle. “We’re gonna have to push it out ourselves. Get it deep enough, then we run like hell. And I mean run.”

Shoji nodded. They were on the same page — getting torn up like Buzz wasn’t the move.

Russell picked up one of the burning bamboo batons he’d made, holding it between them. “Then, when we’re back on the beach, you’re gonna throw one of these, like the Olympic fuckin’ torch. That’s how we light it up.”

Shoji’s eyes flicked down to it, sitting by the tide, just an arm’s length from the fire. His fingers twitched, reaching toward the burning stick Russell held, like he was still trying to put it all together.

“Why fire?”

Russell got what he was asking. Fire was survival. Fire was warmth, food, light. But this? This wasn’t about that.

“Scare shark?” Shoji pressed.

“Yes. To scare shark. Away from the boat,” Russell said. “Plus, can’t have a Viking funeral without fire, dude.”

Shoji still looked unsure, so Russell laid it out plain. “It’s symbolic,” he said, slow and deliberate. “A way to show… honor.”

The baton was burning down fast, flames licking at his fingertips. He’d spent time snapping the bamboo batons to the same length, same weight — getting Shoji used to the feel, the heft. So when it really mattered, when it had to count, his hands wouldn’t second-guess what they were holding. Russell chucked the burning stick into the shallows and looked past the rippling water.

“Honor.” Shoji repeated.

Russell nodded, kept his mouth shut. Could’ve said more, probably should’ve, but didn’t.

Honor. What he had planned wasn’t exactly that. Not for Buzz. Not for Shoji. He wasn’t lying to the guy, not really — just not giving him the full picture. Shoji would have to deal with it. They’d work through it later, after it was done.

Russell grabbed the bottle of Drivin’ Me Nanners and tossed it to Shoji. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

They both turned their attention to the thing by the tide, the immortal “it” they’d been talking around. The product of their combined effort. The abomination. The third and most important thing on Russell’s checklist.

It was a raft, if you could call it that. Too small for a whole man, but just right for what was left of one. And it looked like hell — figuratively, literally, every which way.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The base was a cabinet door, one of the fancy ones from the yacht’s galley. Russell recognized it the second he pulled it from the sand because at some point during their bender, either he or Buzz had put a foot through it. They’d spent an entire afternoon arguing over which one of them had done it, too drunk to remember, too stubborn to let it go.

Morbid curiosity — or maybe just a final “I fuckin’ told you so” — led Russell to shove Buzz’s foot through the same splintered hole. And wouldn’t you know it? Perfect fit. Ha! The drunk bastard had done it. Caught red-footed. But a day too late for Russell to rub his nose in it.

What started as a joke turned into function. The hole needed sealing, and Buzz, in his own way, was still pulling his weight. Russell wedged the leg in tight until the fat calf plugged the gap. The sole of Buzz’s foot stuck straight up at the sky like some kind of macabre mast.

It was fucked. But that was the way things went around here.

The hole might’ve been plugged, but the thing still needed help staying afloat. So Russell grabbed whatever plastic trash had washed ashore — water bottles, mostly — and lashed them to the sides like makeshift pontoons. They’d keep the raft from sinking, sure, but more importantly, they’d keep Buzz’s foot from getting chewed up too soon.

He’d thought about strapping Tumzy on there too — she’d make one hell of a floater — but in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The final touch on the S.S. Dead Leg was vital: a fuck-ton of Spazz packets. Russell had gathered every last one he could scoop from the tide, packing them around Buzz’s leg like some twisted Midsommar tribute. He’d sworn off the stuff, but here he was, knee-deep in it again. At least this time, it had a purpose. The packets cushioned the raft, but more importantly, they’d make a hell of a landing pad when Shoji’s flaming baton hit its mark.

Because if there was one thing he and Buzz had learned in their time aboard the yacht — experimenting with new and fiend-shit ways to ingest Spazz — it was this:

The stuff burned hotter than hell.

Russell lifted the raft and waded in. Shoji was already in the shallows, banana booze in one hand, bamboo pole in the other, standing watch like some samurai guarding sacred ground. He pointed to a spot where the water barely reached their shins. Here.

Russell set the raft down, careful and slow, like he was laying an old king into his throne. He half expected it to sink right then and there, but to his relief, Buzz stayed afloat. His foot stuck up at the sky, stripped of his worldly possessions — no sandal, no ankle monitor. That last part had been a bitch to get off, but Buzz had done most of the work himself, probably hacking at it in some booze-starved panic, way back when. That man was determined as hell when he wanted to be.

If Russell had even half that kind of drunk-man conviction, maybe he’d have figured out how to get the damn device off his wrist by now. And if he’d had a lick of Buzz’s sense, Russell would’ve known he could’ve made a much better raft out of his new favorite material — bamboo. But Russell wasn’t Buzz. He was just trying to do right by him, in his own way.

Shoji came closer, and the two nearly-naked idiots gave each other a slow nod, satisfied that their funerary creation wasn’t sinking. But as much relief as Russell felt, seeing it float also meant they were actually going through with this. And that took its own toll.

It meant it was time to say goodbye to Buzz Holiday.

Out of the corner of his eye, Russell saw Shoji bow his head, quiet and solemn. Respect. So Russell clasped his wrists — or as best as the damn device would let him — and took a moment. He cleared his throat, and looked down at what was left of his friend.

“Buzz,” he started. “You made the Gunk Buddy a household name, and you drove a car through a Blockbuster Video. The world will never forget you.”

Shoji glanced over, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. Russell cleared his throat again, tried to dig a little deeper, find something from the last two weeks that wasn’t just drunken madness.

“A few days ago, you listened to Kickstart My Heart twenty-eight times in a row. I thought that was pretty awesome.”

He shook his head. Jesus, what a shit-show these last weeks had been. Best time of his life. The tears were coming now. He swallowed them down.

“You’re the reason I’m here,” Russell went on. “But you’re also the reason I knew I could go anywhere.” His throat tightened. “I’ll fuckin’ miss you, dude.”

Shoji muttered something in Japanese and bowed again, giving Russell a second to wipe his eyes, get his shit together. He took it. Bottled the emotions up like a good American man, then grabbed the banana liqueur from Shoji’s hand and cracked it open.

“One last drink for ya,” he said, pouring a long, heavy stream over Buzz’s leg. “Far from your favorite, but it’s all I got.”

Then he tossed the bottle back to shore and gave Shoji a nod.

Together, they pushed the raft out, past their shins, past their knees, keeping Buzz steady as they entered the territory of the finned demons beyond. At hip-deep, Russell grabbed the bamboo pole from Shoji’s hand. “Go back!” he said. “And get ready.”

Shoji shook his head, standing firm, but Russell gave him a light shove. “It’s alright. I got this. Get ready.”

This time, Shoji listened. He backed off, leaving Russell to finish the job on his own. He didn’t have far to go, thank God. The fins were there, cutting through the water like blades, big bastards, way too close for comfort. Hungover days spent watching Shark Week had taught Russell exactly how fast they could move. If they decided to turn his way, that was it. He’d be nothing but a blooper reel in this fuckin’ game.

Russell steadied the raft with the pole, dug in, and gave it one hard push. That was all Buzz needed. Just a little help past the breakers, out into open water. Out into the hereafter.

Russell let go, watching the raft drift. Slow at first, then caught by the tide, slipping away into the darker blue.

“Goodbye, Buzz,” he said. He stood there, watching him go, maybe for too long. Long enough that Shoji’s shouts yanked him back to reality.

“Back, back!” Shoji yelled from the ankle-deep.

Russell blinked. The fins weren’t circling anymore. They’d turned. Angling toward the raft.

Toward him.

“Oh, fuck.”

Russell didn’t think, he just ran, best as he could through dick-high water. High-stepping, arms pumping, legs burning. He didn’t look back, didn’t want to. If he was dead, he was dead. Just keep moving until it happens.

Then his feet hit sand, and he collapsed onto the shore, gasping. Shoji yanked him upright, and they both watched as the sharks honed in on the raft.

Russell grinned, breathless. So far, so good.

But they didn’t have long. The clock was ticking.

He turned to the fire, took one of the bamboo batons, and dipped it into the flames. It caught quick, burning hot and fast. Russell shoved it at Shoji.

"You got this," he said, stepping back to give the shit-flinger some room. Shoji nodded like he believed it, then squared up. The sharks were circling now, tightening around Buzz’s raft like they were waiting for the dinner bell.

“Hai!” Shoji shouted, winding back and letting the flaming baton fly.

They watched it sail, Russell willing it forward, willing it to hit.

Well, it didn’t.

It dropped short — way short — plopping into the water like a turd in a punch bowl. The sharks didn’t even flinch.

Russell exhaled slow. Alright. That’s alright.

He tore another length of bamboo from the pile and dipped it into the fire. Next to him, Tumzy sat watching. Russell didn’t have to look at her to hear it. Maybe it was real, maybe it was just in his head.

"This no gonna work..."

“Shut up, you,” he muttered through clenched teeth, ripping the fresh torch from the flames.

He shoved it into Shoji’s hands. “Come on, buddy. We practiced.”

Shoji took it, but maybe that last miss rattled him, maybe panic set in, because this time he barely wound up before letting it fly.

The fire-stick smacked against one of the raft’s plastic pontoons, bounced off harmlessly, and dropped straight into a shark’s face.

That sure as hell got its attention.

The beast thrashed, snapping at the burning stick like it had been personally insulted, then whipped back toward the raft, pissed off and hungrier than ever. The second shark took the cue, tearing into the wood and plastic, looking for something real to sink its teeth into.

"Kuso! Bakayarō!" Shoji groaned, arms over his head, drowning in his own shame. Russell just stood there, jaw tight, watching the whole thing unravel.

Two throws. Two misses. The raft wouldn’t last another thirty seconds.

So Russell made the call. Fuck it. We’ll do it live.

Shoji peeked through his fingers as Russell moved quick. He pulled a third chunk of bamboo from behind his back, but before he stuck it in the fire, he doused it in Drivin’ Me Nanners. The thing went up fast, flames leaping high, burning hot and mean. Shoji watched as Russell gave it a tap, like he was christening a ship.

“This is the one, Shoji,” Russell said. “It fuckin’ has to be.”

He crouched, peeled back one of Shoji’s hands, and shoved the burning thing into his grip. Same weight, same feel. Shoji didn’t even look at it.

“Do it,” Russell said, knocking him on the shoulder.

There was a hissing in the air, but not from Russell. He just kept his eyes locked on Shoji, steady, reassuring.

“Don’t get fired,” he said finally.

Shoji didn’t understand the words, not really, but somehow, it was exactly what he needed to hear.

Don’t get fired. Yeah, okay.

Shoji sucked in a deep breath, then stood. Without taking his eyes off the raft, he set his stance and pulled back.

"Ware wa Tanuki no ōgon no ude nari!"

He let it fly, hurling high towards the raft. Then Shoji’s eyes went wide — not from anticipation. From realization. He saw it now, the thing he’d thrown.

It sure as shit wasn’t no piece of bamboo.

The flaming grenade hissed through the air, and with it, Russell revealed the fourth part of his plan — the part he hadn’t shared with Shoji, the part that wasn’t necessarily about getting to the boat.

Because, the fourth part was about revenge.

The sharks had taken Buzz. They weren’t getting scared off. They weren’t getting a warning shot.

Those bitches were gonna die.

Shoji turned, eyes blazing, and shoved Russell — hard — shouting something furious in Japanese. Russell let it happen, stumbling forward into the water. He didn’t fight back, didn’t argue.

He just planted his hands on his knees, breath held, eyes locked on the grenade like it was a racehorse he’d bet his rent on.

Come on. Please. Please.

The flaming grenade smacked the sole of Buzz’s foot with a bounce, popped back into the air for one tense moment, then dropped right back down — settling square atop its calloused pedestal. A perfect throw.

The booze-soaked casing sent flames licking down Buzz’s leg, crawling toward the Spazz packets below. Then — whoosh. The whole thing went up in a magnificent bloom of purple fire.

Shoji waded into the water, still fuming but maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful. Russell threw an arm around him, gripping tight.

“Holy shit,” Russell said, grinning.

They both stood there, breathless, waiting, watching the raft oh-so eagerly.

As the grenade hissed overhead, the sharks stayed locked in, tearing at the plastic, snapping at the wood, too far gone to care about the flames — the smell of burning flesh sending them further into a frenzy. They ripped and pulled, gnashing closer, hungrier. They were out for blood, and they’d have it.

Then, all at once, the raft was gone.

The explosion ripped through the shallows, a firework of Spazz, plastic, and meat. The force knocked Shoji flat on his ass, but Russell took it to the chest, eyes locked ahead. A mushroom cloud of purple and pink mist rose over the wreckage, and Russell walked toward it, into it, head high, like a man stepping through the gates of Valhalla.

Debris bobbed around him — splintered wood, plastic bottles, the last flickering purple flames licking at the driftwood. The air smelled of gunpowder, banana, and victory.

He didn’t need to go far to see it: The sharks were fucked up. One was even belly-up, what was left of it. Not even much belly left to speak of.

The other one was still moving, still trying to piece together what the hell just happened. It thrashed near the surface, shaking its head like it could knock something back into place — only to realize that something wasn’t there anymore. A whole chunk of its face was gone. One eye blown clean out, half its jaw stripped to the bone — a mess of raw red and Spazz-stained purple.

The shark turned its one good eye on Russell. They locked eyes for a second, maybe two. The big, broken bastard was thinking, or maybe burning Russell’s face into its memory. Then it retreated, dove deep, and slipped past the wreckage, past the yacht, disappearing into open water.

That was it. Fight was over.

Russell scanned for anything left of Buzz. But there was only vapor. The king was gone, and his usurpers wiped out.

And in his place, Buzz left Russell one last favor.

A clear path. To the yacht. To the game. To whatever the hell came next.

Russell turned toward shore, looking up at the jungle. He threw his arms out wide, like a rockstar soaking in the silence before the encore. This was for the Gamemaster.

You want me to play? I’ll play.

Shoji was still on his ass in the ankle-deep, watching the pink mist settle around him, too stunned to move. Russell gave him a wave forward.

“Come on,” he said. “Boats waiting.”

Then, both of their devices went off, a flurry of BA-DINGS! But Russell didn’t need to check it.

That, right there? That was a Viking funeral. And it was about as BADASS as you could get.