Today, I decided to dig myself a quarry.
“Why not?” I thought. After all, quarries are a relatively quick and easy way to rack up tons of materials. So, I found a remote grassy knoll and quickly set to defiling it with a massive crater. Natural beauty, indeed.
I was a little disappointed I hadn’t run into many caves while digging. Finding caves, for some of us, is half the fun. What can I say? I love exploring. My adventure movie quickly became a survival thriller when I fell into a pitch-black cave. With four torches.
“OH MAN OH GOD OH MAN OH GOD OH MAN OH GOD!” I squealed like a 14-year-old girl as not one, but two creepers blindsided me, leaving me horribly mangled at the bottom of a crater. I built a roof over myself and cried there, using the last of my torches to provide me with light as zombies prowled overhead.
Luckily, I was on multiplayer, so I called one of my bros in—he took a cab, of course—to bail me out.
“WELCOME TO THE PARTY, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Clifton greeted as he dove into the undead horde, cutting each enemy down with his glorious diamond sword. Also, diamond armor.
“OH MY HERO,” I swooned.
“You know how we do,” Clifton explained. I did know how we do. “Bros 4 life.”
“yeah dude,” I contributed.
“This cave is pretty huge, little ham. What say we explore it a little?”
“ALL RIGHT YEAH BIG HAM!” I shouted with mirth, forgetting why I’d gotten rocked so hard by creepers (and pretty much everything else) just then: As protection, I had a single iron sword at half durability, no torches and a leather hat. That, and I’m profoundly retarded. (That’s a thing. Look it up.)
“HOOYEAH!” Clifton thundered as he killed another zombie. JUST THEN, another pair of creepers came out of nowhere.
“CLIFTON NOOOOOOOO!” I shouted, but I was too late. The blast sent him off a ledge. He was dead before he hit the bottom. “NOOOOOoooooooo…”
I broke into hysterics and dug myself another hole. But this hole was a tunnel to freedom, dug with my bare fists. I emerged in the bottom of my quarry. It was raining. I raised my fists to the air and yelled into the sky something incoherent that probably seemed really profound at the time.
I carried my sorry self out of the quarry and across the countryside, sustaining myself with bread and raw meat. I mourned the loss of my comrade. That’s when my survival thriller became a revenge drama.
I took to my workshop, breaking open my massive stores of iron. (Seriously, it was like that one scene in The Matrix. Iron out the anus.) I fashioned myself a suit of armor and two swords. Hundreds of torches, dozens of arrows for my trusty bow. I grabbed all the mushroom stew and porkchops I could carry. Oh, yeah, and sunglasses.
I was ready. I rode at dawn.
There was a zombie welcoming committee (they could only send one guy, though) right in that first chamber. Needless to say, I went all John Rambo on that punk. I took the feathers off his corpse and I was all like, “Drop something manly next time I kill you. Oh wait.”
“WHOAH HEY REMEMBER ME!” a creeper greeted as I pulled out my bow and put one between its eyes.
“YOU WON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING!” I retorted, remaining absolutely calm. “BECAUSE YOU’LL BE DEAD!”
“Augh! I am slain!” the creeper observed. I guess it was a fan of Shakespeare.
“Oh hell to the mothafuckin’ yes,” I said as it dropped gunpowder. Captchalogued that nonsense so hard you wouldn’t believe. There’s nothing more satisfying than weaponizing the remains of your enemies.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. It was quiet for now, so I decided I’d better do a victory dance and set up a base of operations. I built a little house and lit it up like Christmas. Christmas made of horrible, bloody vengeance.
I ran into several more zombies. But there was no sign of the creepers. They must have known I was coming and retreated to their creeper stronghold. That was fine. I had all the time in the world. …Well, maybe not all of it, but definitely all the time in this particular afternoon.
Venturing deeper into the foul depths, I found the body of my fallen comrade, still clutching his diamond sword. It was as if he was holding it out to me, to aid me in the trials to come.
“I won’t let you down, old friend,” I said, accepting the blade and pointing it toward the gloomy tunnel ahead. I shed a single manly tear, which had stubble and smoked a cigar. “I’ll make these monsters pay!”
To be continued?