The metal ring slides perfectly onto the hook screwed into archway. Your friends go wild, cheering and laughing in support of your skill, but you remain quiet.
That sort of behavior is unbecoming of the Ring Master.
You walk quietly into the bathroom and don your robe, then return to the kitchen. You move one of the plain ladderback chairs surrounding the kitchen table directly in front of the hook, then quietly take a seat.
Several of your friends give you puzzled looks.
“Uh, hey man, can you move so we can keep playing?” asks Tim.
“You must pass a test before you can attempt the trial of the ring,” you respond calmly.
“What the fuck?” Tim chuckles. “What are you playing at, man?”
“I play at nothing, apprentice,” you say, straight-faced. “I am deadly serious. The Ring Master is not fickle with the dissemination of his hard-won discipline. You will pass the test and be on your way to the Mastery of the Ring, or you will fail and return home in shame.”
“Dude, get out of the fucking way.”
“When you can pluck this beer from my palm,” you say, producing a can of beer from under your robe, “you may proceed to the next level of training.”
Tim walks over to you and grabs the can with little effort.
“You have done well, apprentice,” you say, nodding sternly.
“Ugh, man, was that in your underwear or something?” Tim asks with a face full of disgust.
“It was very cold. Suffering is the price the Ring Master pays for his title.”