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Three-Word Story
Jan. 19th, 2005 11:13 pmA little background. DeboraK proposed this story concept on a bulletin board that a bunch of us Ex-Buffalos hang out on (everyone on the board, mostly, used to work for Flying Buffalo, Inc., the publishers of Tunnels & Trolls, Nuclear War, Grimtooth's Traps and the fine line of Blade and Catalyst products, etc.) You create the story by posting three words and you cannot reply to your own post. We always end up with Cthulhu references and at least one or two about Charlton Heston dropping people at 200 yards with a sniper rifle. With some very minor editing, here's the first part of our story so far that DeboraK has been so kind as to assemble....
Deep in the heart of darkest Detroit, Ranjit checked his Glock 20. Her blouse slipped, revealing perfect twin tattoos of Chinese jade warriors. Ranjit quickly removed his silencer from his hot pink holster and shoved it onto the Glock and brandished it drunkenly.
“I warned that whore – not her sister – but what the hell am I saying? It’s all good!”
Ranjit aimed his car on the Stream of Consciousness Freeway, recently renamed “Space For Rent.” He ignored the flashing blue lights aiming for him.
He liked green, and that was why her tattoos were wanted by Nyarlathotep and the NRA.
The police sniper aimed his directional microphone at WXYZ’s news reporter. Suddenly the helicopter flew away when the fuel bingo’d, causing a waffle-like substance to adhere to . . .
[click]
Horace Fitzjohn Smythe had an itch he couldn’t scratch that told him “no, No NO!”
“Yes, Yes YES!”
[click]
. . . to Einstein’s law, resulting in quantum quantum flux capacitors . . .
[click]
. . . of unabashed duality of his split personality or single-minded doggedness that caused Freud’s . . .
Meanwhile in Gotham, Calendar Man sighed, switching channels again. “Broadcast tv sucks big red lollipops, the slimy kind."
[click]
Wait! The Bat Signal is broken. Why . . .”
[click]
. . . haiku the demise of old odes . . .
[click]
“To the Batpoles!”
Adam West tightened Burt Ward’s bondage ropes then tightened the Catwoman’s Cat which mewed pitifully.
[click]
Meanwhile in Kampuchea, Ranjit and Jade and Yao Ming entered the Temple University Geology Lab while Charlton Heston faded into oblivion his chameleon suit.
“Detroit to Kampuchea,” he muttered, “I’ll smack ya ass!”
The idol would, made of gold, be very expensive . . .
Deep in the heart of darkest Detroit, Ranjit checked his Glock 20. Her blouse slipped, revealing perfect twin tattoos of Chinese jade warriors. Ranjit quickly removed his silencer from his hot pink holster and shoved it onto the Glock and brandished it drunkenly.
“I warned that whore – not her sister – but what the hell am I saying? It’s all good!”
Ranjit aimed his car on the Stream of Consciousness Freeway, recently renamed “Space For Rent.” He ignored the flashing blue lights aiming for him.
He liked green, and that was why her tattoos were wanted by Nyarlathotep and the NRA.
The police sniper aimed his directional microphone at WXYZ’s news reporter. Suddenly the helicopter flew away when the fuel bingo’d, causing a waffle-like substance to adhere to . . .
[click]
Horace Fitzjohn Smythe had an itch he couldn’t scratch that told him “no, No NO!”
“Yes, Yes YES!”
[click]
. . . to Einstein’s law, resulting in quantum quantum flux capacitors . . .
[click]
. . . of unabashed duality of his split personality or single-minded doggedness that caused Freud’s . . .
Meanwhile in Gotham, Calendar Man sighed, switching channels again. “Broadcast tv sucks big red lollipops, the slimy kind."
[click]
Wait! The Bat Signal is broken. Why . . .”
[click]
. . . haiku the demise of old odes . . .
[click]
“To the Batpoles!”
Adam West tightened Burt Ward’s bondage ropes then tightened the Catwoman’s Cat which mewed pitifully.
[click]
Meanwhile in Kampuchea, Ranjit and Jade and Yao Ming entered the Temple University Geology Lab while Charlton Heston faded into oblivion his chameleon suit.
“Detroit to Kampuchea,” he muttered, “I’ll smack ya ass!”
The idol would, made of gold, be very expensive . . .
