Let’s try the story bit again, but this time with each posting containing only one paragraph–but a closing sentence for the last previous paragraph and an opening sentence for the next paragraph permitted. And please, we should avoid entering our own names.
George was smug after leaving the Marines, since he stood to inherit a ton of money from his great-grandfather’s estate. While pondering options of what to do with his copious free time, he sensed the ominous presence of…
…he sensed the ominous presence of…
…his evil drill sergeant from basic training.
Sgt. Rouse had had it in for George ever since he learned who he was, for Sgt. Rouse, unbeknownst to George, knew the secret of how his great-grandfather had made his money. It had been know in the sgt’s family that they had been TRICKED in a land deal by the old man. So he bided his time. Then George gets a phone call…
… charity organization hounds coming after him. George knew that once his great grandfather bit the big one, he had to do something about them. Maybe I can invest in anti-personnel mines, thought George. However, the day was quickly turning to night and…
However, the day was quickly turning to night and…
it was time for George to get dressed up for his big night on the town. Time to celebrate, with the fetching blue silk number from Bergner’s, the matching satin pumps, the diamond earbobs, and the table for two at Henri’s. As George sat at his table in the darkened, romantic restaurant, waiting for his date to come back from the powder room, imagine his horror to spot none other than Sergeant Rouse at a table across the room. Rouse was sitting with…
Rouse was sitting with…
…George’s great-grandmother! George was certain that the old woman had been dead for years but there she sat, glaring at him and muttering something under her breath to Rouse. A pile of empty crab claws and shot glasses littered their table. Rouse nodded, never taking his eyes off of George and…
his horror gently faded away as he remembered his earbobs, they with the instantly-fatal Amazonian neurotoxin encased in their bodies. He gently fingered them as he relaxed and gave a sly grin to the two across the way, and looked up with delight as his date came back to the table. He was radient, standing in the gentle glow of the restauraunt, and George gently said to him, "Bob,
…He was radient, standing in the gentle glow of the restauraunt, and George gently said to him, “Bob, how would you feel about doing me a favor? There’s a bucket of money and a few involuntary contractions in it for you…”
…if you just kill the old broad. I don’t want to share the inheritance with you. I’ll make it well worth your while. Unfortunately, George’s great grandmother had not turned off her hearing aid, and…
. . . not turned off her hearing aid, and . . .
had also had reconstructive surgery on that bad right arm of hers. She whipped off a salve of empty shot glasses at Bob with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp jealous. Bob dropped like a rag doll, moaning in pain, perhaps thinking of the headache he would have in a short time. “That’s it, you ungrateful little whipper-snapper.” She cried at George. "I’ve had enough of your death-mongering, waiting for Biff and me to pass away! From now on, you can just . . . "
“salve of empty shot glasses???”
make that SALVO.
I better check to see if I spelled my own name right.
She cried at George. "I’ve had enough of your death-mongering, waiting for Biff and me to pass away! From now on, you can just . . . "
…and that’s all she said. She had been so agitated over her outrage against her great-grandson that she keeled over and passed out. The restaurant staff called 911 and paramedics rushed her to the hospital.
Five minutes later, she approached George. Shapely body, red hair three feet long, sexy coktail dress, huge blue eyes. She sat down across the table and opened her briefcase, and handed George a copy of his great-grandfather’s will, showing George as heir to at least $10 million, unencumbered. In her sultry voice–as glum as such a voice could be–she said, “The bad news is–your great-grandfather passed away. He was bench-pressing 775 pounds and the overhead crossbar fell on him.” George had also received really good news from the VA…
…he was eligible for monthly benefits amounting to about $7500, tax-free.
So, no matter how the dispute with his great-grandfather’s will came out, George…
really had to go to the bathroom at the moment, and then see about finding a good, under-handed CPA. For the nonce though, he felt like spending. He felt like spending big. Someting creeped over him, making him feel godlike, nd with a careless toss of the earbobs that he hated anyway, which killed a party of four who had been sitting to his rear, slightly to the left not incidentally, he called for his cheque and made his egress in a cocky, brash sort of way. Once outside, mad with possibilities, he hailed a cab. “Oh”, he thought as he got in, “this is a day for remembering”. He wanted “Big”, he wanted “Ludicrously expensive”, he wanted “Chrome”, he wanted “4 D batteries not included”.
He wanted “Big”, he wanted “Ludicrously expensive”, he wanted “Chrome”, he wanted “4 D batteries not included”.
He wanted to pee.
Ordering the cab driver to pull into the nearest McDonalds, George rushed inside to the Little Boys’ Room. There was a long line of kids waiting in the hall, doing the pee-pee dance. Brushing them aside roughly, George barrelled into the bathroom, knocked over a kindergartner, and took his place at the urinal.
“Ahhh!” he sighed with relief. Zipping up, he turned around–and found himself face to face with the wailing kindergartner’s enraged father, who had emerged from a stall, 225 lbs. of Dockers-clad suburban fury.
Nimbly dodging the vicious PTA-trained right hook aimed at his face, George reached into his pocket and pulled out his big chrome-plated mind control weapon, the MindFokker 2000, that had cost most of his great-grandfather’s estate (or would, as soon as the VISA bill got paid off). Catching the Soccer Dad squarely in the sights, George casually pulled the trigger–and nothing happened.
No batteries.
The Soccer Dad said, "…
pee-pee dance?
I can’t even write under these conditions…
The Soccer Dad said, “Your mind just got Fokked!!” 
George woke up three days later, a cold compress on his left eye. He had a note from a local cop saying they would wait for him to recover before they would press charges against his assailant. When George recovered, and the police brought the Soccer Dad to him–oh wow, was George surprised when he realized that the Soccer Dad was in fact…
…was George surprised when he realized that the Soccer Dad was in fact…
…Sgt. Rouse! Little did anyone know that the evil drill sergeant was living a triple life–driving the grunts by day, nurturing his children by afternoon, and gigolo-ing elderly ladies by night. By the time George had figured it all out…