Russell’s surge of recollection was fading as fast as it had come. Yeah, he’d been on a boat, and he wasn’t alone. Buzz Holiday was there, no mistaking that. But what happened after? Flashes of a storm, falling overboard, then — nothing. He probed the massive welt on the side of his head, surely the culprit for last night being a total blackout. Well, that and the booze.

Still, the boat must’ve brought him here. Wherever “here” was. If he could find it, he’d get the hell off this beach and back to civilization. Back to an army of lawyers who’d line up by the hundreds to take on whatever shoddy production “Change-Your-Life Island” turned out to be. That’s what this had to be, right? Some reality show gone way, way off the rails. And that was fine by Russell. Streaming platforms had money — stupid money — and he planned to carve himself a big slice with a fat-ass lawsuit.

He just needed to find that boat.

Russell looked down one end of the beach, then the other. White sand stretched on forever, curving around bends and vanishing into jungle shadows to destinations unseen. He didn’t have a clue which way to go. The jungle? Best forget it. Too dark, too thick. And, as his UTILITY score clearly showed, he wasn’t great with keeping his bearings. Not to mention the rock-throwing man — or monkey, or whatever — waiting to make his life worse.

The beach felt safer. Keep the water on one side, the trees on the other, start walking. Hard to get turned around that way. Hopefully. The sun scorched his skin redder by the minute, but that was Future Russell’s problem. Right now, what he needed was a direction.

He scratched his aching jaw, wincing as the movement reminded him just how damn dry his throat was. His skin was tight and prickling, hot to the touch. And the hangover? Oh, it was still there, riding him hard. Normally, a day like this would’ve had Russell glued to the couch, cradled around a gallon jug of water. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but salt. Damn, I need water.

He looked up, squinting at the sun. Russell didn’t know shit about survival, but his grandpa always said the sun set in the west. That burning ball of yellow hung high, cooking him alive, but if he had to guess, it seemed to lean ever so slightly toward the beach ahead of him. Or maybe out to sea, but definitely in that direction.

Close enough. West…ish.

Indecision wasn’t Russell’s style. He liked to think of himself as a man of action, even if those actions were dumb as hell most of the time. People called him impulsive, a “wildcard.” Usually, it was the last thing they said before firing him. But to Russell, doing something — anything — was always better than standing still.

West-ish it was.

He hiked up his leggings and put one foot in front of the other, trudging through the sand like a man with an unshakable plan. He was sure his chosen direction would eventually lead to a boat. And that boat? It would take his ass far, far away from this beautiful hellhole.

But then he saw them.

A legion of tiny legs, claws clicking together in near-harmonious rhythm — the same crabs he’d gone to war with not long ago. Russell froze, watching them scuttle together in unison, a gang of red and orange moving as one across the sand. The closer they came, the more he wondered: was this round two? Some kind of crab vendetta?

“Easy, fellas,” Russell muttered, his hands curling into fists. He hadn’t exactly mastered a defensive maneuver against these fiends, but punching always got results. Sometimes jail, but always results.

The crustacean convoy marched past without so much as a sideways glance, a few even skittering between Russell’s fuzzy purple legs without pausing for a pinch. They had, as it seemed, somewhere to be. Bigger fish to fry. No grudges, no bad blood — for now, anyway. As they pushed towards the water’s edge, Russell wondered if they were headed for a reef to lick their wounds, or maybe—

“Get outta town,” Russell said, surprised, as the leader appeared. Rising up from the surf like some tiny, golden messiah — the Crotch Goblin. The crab may have lost a claw, but it had not lost its step. Valiantly, the crotch-coveting fuck stepped forth, not to join the gang, but to lead it. He assumed the vanguard position, his single gilded claw held high like a battle standard, and steered his pack away from the incoming waves, heading further down the beach. Not the way Russell had chosen, mind you — the crabs were marching East-ish.

“Crotch Goblin’s gotta plan,” Russell said to himself. He wasn’t sure why, but he truly believed it. That golden devil was on to something. A destination. A place Russell didn’t know but figured he ought to. Perhaps word spread through the crab collective of a washed-ashore boat, full of tasty morsels of all sorts. Yeah, just maybe.

Russell yanked up his leggings even higher, turned on his heel, and started after them. East-ish it was.

Not but a few steps into his grand journey, Russell spotted something in the sand. He scooped it up without a second thought. The Crotch Goblin’s old claw. Why he grabbed it, he couldn’t say. Maybe he thought it’d be a gift of peace, a way to mend old wounds between man and crab. Further justifying his abysmal KNOW-HOW score, maybe he thought crabs could simply re-attach their claws, no problem.

Or maybe — and this seemed more likely — his brain was starting to melt from dehydration, with logic dripping out of him like the sweat he didn’t have left. But now he had the claw, golden as the sun above.

“Alright then,” Russell said, stuffing the claw into his mascot leggings for safekeeping. “Here we go.”

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

Even as the sun dragged itself west, the heat didn’t let up. In the hour or so Russell had been trailing the brigade of crabs, he’d become a walking piece of jerky. His lips were cracking, his mouth was as dry as cotton balls, and the headache pounding in his skull had reached mythical levels.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

The device on his arm, for all of its bullshit, had done him one favor: made him feel like he had the NERVE to power through any bullshit thrown his way. But even that little spark of twisted confidence was flickering now. He needed water. Bad.

And yet, believing there was a pot of gold at the end of the crab-colored rainbow, he kept trudging along behind the crabs and their leader. And they showed no signs of slowing down.

Along the way, more crabs had joined the caravan. There had to be at least thirty of them now, all scuttling along about ten yards ahead, claws clicking as they marched. One solid organism, shifting across the sand. Russell didn’t know much about nature, but he had to admit, witnessing this shit was pretty rad. And yet, he was still very angry.

Never losing pace, Russell turned his head towards the jungle.

“You seeing this?” he shouted, motioning towards the crab caravan. “You’ve got a god damn natural phenomenon on your front steps — it’s a CRAB PARADE, for cryin’ out loud! But nooo, you’re not gonna make a show about that. You’re making a whole different kind of show, about kidnapped people, and sunburns!”

Russell took a breath, formulating his final blow.

“What? You, uh, you run out of fancy-sounding British dudes for your voiceovers?”

Nailed it.

Of course, just like the four other times during his trek in which he’d shouted malice into the trees, there was no response. The jungle, as a whole, had become the “bad guy” in Russell’s mind. The territory a hundred hidden cameras, microphones, and let’s not forget, the rock-throwing monkey-man. Somewhere deep in the green, there was a control center, probably disguised as a fake mountain or something equally ridiculous, where the Gamemaster was watching it all. With no one else to blame, Russell picked the trees themselves as his enemy, talking all the shit he could. It wasn’t helping.

He turned his attention back to the Crotch Goblin. The crab skimmed across the wet sand like it didn’t have a care in the world — except those loyal crabs who followed its lead. Meanwhile, Russell — 220 pounds of dehydrated regret — sank into the sand with every step. It was like dragging his feet through wet cement, and those ridiculous mascot leggings weren’t doing him any favors. The way they fit — or rather, didn’t fit — turned his otherwise normal stride into a goofy waddle. It was hard to talk shit with a goofy waddle, even to a bunch of trees.

Under his breath, Russell attempted his best impression of a British nature documentarian.

"Having thoroughly humiliated a hungover fool in a spectacular display of claw-to-hand combat, the victorious crustaceans now embark on their grand pilgrimage to a newly-beached sea craft, where female crabs await to give lap dances to the returning warriors. Remarkable, truly."

It’s stupid things like this that kept Russell distracted during his long haul across the sands — that, and yelling at trees. But it wasn’t all dicking around. He also put in some screen time with the device. He’d hoped there was something he hadn’t found yet — an SOS button or some emergency feature that would airdrop him some water. Wrong on both accounts. Clearly, there were more menus he could eventually access, more features to unlock, but they were off-limits for the time being. The perks of being a LVL 1 chump, he figured. Still, there was one menu he could access.

The LOG tab kept a written transcript of everything the device had said. So far, the only entry was “WELCOME (LEVEL 1)”, which didn’t do him much good, but it was something. If anything, the Gamemaster was shooting themselves in the foot, keeping a written record of their unlawful shenanigans. Russell made a mental note to request a copy for his lawyer. But if they wouldn’t give him that, he was damn sure going to make Buzz read through the LOG to corroborate this madness.

Buzz. The thought of his missing buddy hit Russell like a gut-punch. Was he out there somewhere, caught up in this same freakshow? Was he strapped with one of these devices too? Man, he hoped not, but they’d both agree Buzz was better suited for this circus. Talk about a guy who knew a thing or two about starting fresh and reinventing a “whole new you!” The old man would die for a second chance — a real one — even if it came wrapped in a ridiculous reality show.

Russell was pulled away from his thoughts when he saw the Crotch Goblin changing course, skittering away from the shoreline toward the jungle. His troops fell in line after him, like air hockey pucks, weightlessly sliding up the beach.

“What’s up, fellas?” Russell said. His cracked lips stung just forming the words.

Still looking for his pot of gold, Russell figured he’d follow them into the jungle, evil as the place was, but something further down the beach stopped him cold. A cardboard cube bobbing in the surf, nudged towards the shore with every passing wave. Every so often, the tide flipped it onto another side, a slow, tantalizing tumble that said come and get me, baby.

Russell’s eyes were locked on the thing. The box practically demanded his attention. What the hell was it? What was inside? Could it be water?

“Hey guys, check this out,” he started, then caught himself. Talking to crabs now. Jesus Christ, Russell, get it together. He glanced back at the caravan, watching as it vanished through the treeline.

“Shit.” He was about to lose them. But the box. The box. The box was too appetizing. If he turned on the gas, not that he had any left, he could grab it and still rejoin the crabs. But he’d have to run.

Russell took off as fast as he could, which wasn’t fast at all. The sand swallowed every footfall, burning extra energy just to get free. His vision narrowed, dehydration tunneling his focus until the box was the only thing that existed. The crabs, the jungle, even the stupid leggings — all gone. Just him and the box.

He snatched it up just as his knees gave out, the effort sending him sprawling into the surf. The waves hit him hard, cold and relentless, but he clutched the box like it was the Holy Grail. Rolling onto his ass, he shook his head to clear the stars forming in the periphery of his vision. His head was felt like a balloon. A few deep breaths and a self-inflicted slap to the face pulled him back from the brink.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He couldn’t go much longer. This box better be the jackpot.

He held it up for inspection — a package about the size of a tea kettle, light as a feather. Too light. Shit. Anything worth a damn usually isn’t light. He gave it a shake. Something inside jostled around.

The soggy cardboard was plastered with a colorful logo that stopped Russell in his tracks. He squinted, then blinked, thinking maybe his eyesight was shot. Nope. The logo was what he thought it was: a smiling cartoon pile of shit, with little arrows shooting out like it was sending its shit all across the world.

“Unbelievable,” Russell said, rubbing his eyes and looking again. No mistake. A happy pile of shit.

Below the logo, a slogan that Russell had to read aloud to believe: “DUDU: Cheap stuff, cheap price…”

Russell sighed. It certainly didn’t feel like Christmas morning. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. He tore the package open, the soaked cardboard peeling apart like wet tissue paper, and dumped the contents into the sand.

PLOP.

What stared back at him was worse than he expected. A pink plastic panda bear with painted-on eyes, nose, and a sharp-toothed grin. It wore a French beret and across its bloated belly were the words: “DRINKING UP, WATER SLUT!”

Russell blinked. His brain struggled to process. The words didn’t make sense — hell, the thing didn’t make sense. Now he was really beginning to wonder if his eyes were shot. Or worse, was he having a stroke or something? Again, no. The panda was real, and so were the nonsense words across its belly.

He turned the thing over in his hands, inspecting it. Hollow. He put his hands on the beret, and with a twist, it started to unscrew. As it came loose, a tinny speaker hidden in the hat crackled to life. The voice that followed sounded like a Care Bear trying to do the job of a drill sergeant.

“Tumzy love you, DRINK NOW!”

The message was sweet and playful on the surface, but with an edge of aggression that made Russell frown. He leaned back, squinting at the ridiculous toy. “Tumzy? The fuck?”

This was what he’d wasted the last bit of his strength chasing — a stupid kid’s toy that barked orders at him. Like the voice from his device wasn’t annoying enough. Between the two of them, it felt like the island wasn’t just trying to kill him — it was trying to piss him off while it did it.

He almost tossed the panda back into the ocean, returning it to the blue hell from whence it came. But then he looked inside. Hollow, sure, but more than a toy. He could see that now.

“Oh, shit,” Russell said, realizing what it was.

“That a water bottle?”

The question caught him off guard, but he answered instinctively.

"Yeah, man," Russell said, eyes fixed on the ridiculous water bottle, his grin growing to match the panda’s. It was the first time he’d smiled all day, but it didn’t last long.

Because the voice that had just asked him a question, it wasn’t some silly-sounding recording. It hadn’t come from his wrist, or the thing in his hands. It was a human voice. And it had come from right behind him.