ROUND ROBIN - STORY TIME!

Since we are a community of writers, maybe it will be a good idea to do a writing game. So, this is going to be a round robin type of story where everyone gets a chance to write a piece of the story. You have to continue from where the story left off. Everyone gets a chance to drive the story around - so, no genre, no restrictions - but of course, write it well enough so that anyone can continue. Let's see what kind of story we come up with...

To start, let me write a vague sentence

~*~*~*~*~

It was a beautiful Saturday morning.

 

Or at least, it would have been, but I was pinned down behind an overturned lorry, with only a couple rounds left.

 

They won't take me back alive! I'm never going back to that hell-hole. They'd have to skin me and drag my dead, skinless body for autopsy before I surrender. SUCK IT-- YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARDS!

 

(I realize that my last post may have polarized a lot of you, so I will continue this story in a different direction and hope someone picks it up )

I still remember what they did to me in that place: the needles, the endless tests, the nausea. What more could they possibly want from me? They already have enough pieces of me, they don't need more!

 

Yet now immobilized here I can feel the scrape of the scalpel blade on my bones, as they cut deep into my muscle tissues.

 

I was screaming, fighting back, but I know it was all in my head. I was paralyzed by the anesthesia, but I wasn't completely numb. Every slice made, every time they pulled, when they stabbed me with sharp things--I felt it. How can they not know that I was still awake?

 

A bullet smacked into the lorry, inches from my head, shocking me out of my nightmarish reverie. They were creeping closer, unsure of whether I had a weapon. I had to think of a plan for escape. And fast.

 

(WOW! Cool! 2 Story lines happening at the same time!)

"Patients sometimes get better." I am going to get better, I said, screaming frantically. If you would only stop slicing me in pieces!

"I think the diagnosis was a bit..."

"Questionable?"

I didn't even hear a diagnosis.

"Look--if he gets better, I'm right, if he dies..."

If I die, what?

"...well then you get a new car."

 

It's funny how you're pretty much dead to the world and at the same time very much alive. Not that I was laughing. Not back then or anytime soon. It was pure hell lying there on the hospital bed in a coma. I could hear, think and feel but I could not move any part of my body. I could not even blink an eye. I was alive but not quite living. Pretty much nothing but a piece of furniture for those vultures. What they proceeded to subject me through was cruelty, plain and simple. And to think that my loved ones practically gave them the permission to do whatever they wanted with body. I wanted to believe that they would not have betrayed me so if they knew what it would mean to me.

 

Footsteps, echoing through the hallway. Panicked, I look up at the window, but it is glazed and barred. Escape is impossible. The door opens, and a man comes in, wearing a lab coat, but all I can focus on is the scalpel. It must be 3 feet long!

 

My mind had difficulty processing the fact that I was actually seeing as opposed to just picturing it in my mind. Somehow I had awakened from my comatose state. It appeared that the man did not expect this either. He stopped in his tracks upon making eye contact with me.

 

More gasoline trickled from my asshole, and the bandanna whipped at my cold thighs. With one last desperate flick of the wheel I ignited my asshole, and I ran toward the cops. I screamed 'you will know my name, you will know my name, you motherfuckers,' and their bullets ricocheted into the wall of the store, missed me like a miracle or like a lady driver, and even with my ass on fire I knew I must find the doctors, convince them of their mis-diagnosis and also the conviction, re-establish myself as the much-loved movie projectionist of this suburb