Written in fabulous E.B. Garamond

Chunks Loading, please wait.

Great, he thought, another loading screen. I thought I had got past the last one!

After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally there. With a soft plop, he fell the last foot onto the ground. On the side of a cliff. Isn't that just fucking wonderful? he asked himself. Immediately he knew the answer to the question—of course not!

And why would it be too much to ask for to get a starter kit? It's not like he knows how exactly he's going to get the wood he needs. But no, he's just dropped in here after a long wait—(excruciating, he would call it!)—without so much as instructions!

"YOU HEAR ME, UNIVERSE?! THIS BLOWS!" he bellowed, booming across the forest. Clucking followed, responding with a resounding SHUT UP from the chickens below. Not literally, that would be strange, but that's how he imagined they would talk had they the chance to. Luckily, or at least luckily for him, they didn't, which should go without saying, but he's seen stranger in his years.

He climbed the cliff, taking precarious jumps that not even Bubsy Bobcat would take for fear of falling. "Augh!" he yelled, "Why does this hill have to be this steep? I can't even get a decent run in!"

Finally, with much trouble from the gravel peppered liberally across the steep expanses, he made it up to the top.

The view was fantastic. He didn't see too many views in his New York apartment, but now that he has, he can't say he expected much better. Of course, even now he's a little disappointed. He heard views could take his breath away, but this really didn't. You know, besides gasping after having a panic attack. That's not what they meant, though. He must be, what, 400 feet above sea level? He could see for maybe a third of a mile, and it's mostly desert and a sparsely populated, yet mountainous plain.

He, after assessing the situation, laid eyes on some rather attractive cows, of which he couldn't decide the type of attraction. He was hungry, that was likely it.

Punching the face of the cow in, both the cow and his hand became rather bloodied, tinting the cow itself red. He repeated until the cow was finally dead, and lugged it over his back. It slowed him down, but he had to make sure he could move it and this was his only option.

As he dragged along the mangled bovine, he felt a slippery surface under his boot. As it turned out, he was walking on gravel at the edge of a cliff.

The cliff didn't do him any favours. In fact, the cliff, for what it's worth, had no strong feelings for him either way as it was, as first assessed, a cliff and therefore could not think on its own. It, following that logic, could not wish to keep him safe from harm. See above for why. Thusly, he had to keep himself out of danger's way.

Knock-knock, it's reality. He felt his feet slip, and, his weight accentuated with the tonne-weight Norwegian red cow, he plummets. The other cows watch, and had they the ability to speak, would have easily said nothing because he just killed a member of their own group.

He, however, did have the ability to speak, and quite an ability it is. As he plummeted the height, he had enough time to say his last words, a list of profanity so overwhelming that even I am of no mind to reproduce it here, and even if I were, it would simply drag on. In his mind, however, as he was spewing profanity like your local politician spews lies, he was wondering if he left the tea on.

As his face hit the exposed stone below, his skull cracked, his face smushed, and blood leaked out everywhere as his flesh ripped in a seam down the middle of what was once his face. In his haze, he didn't realise he was dying. Actually, hold on, that's a lie. He realised it fully. He had one simple thought before he left the realm of the living.

Man, I really should have drank more tea.