Last year, myself and a group of friends got together and wrote a story about…well, we wrote a story – let’s leave it at that. Great fun was had by all, and we vowed to do it again.
A year later, we got round to writing more – this time, we created six stories, in tandem. Here they are.
The chicken was salty; he was already beginning to regret his choice, when in walked a likely candidate for his contact. “How was the swim?” “Not bad” clucked Simon the rooster. “But the fricken sharks were a problem”. The contact didn’t look like the normal Head Office choice; for starters, he was a she. “Oh well, better take a walk on the wild side,” thought Simon, mustering his strength to finish the mission. He pulled out a shark tooth and cleaned his bill with it, looking to see if this got a reaction. His contact is playing with her notes; waste of a good pose really.
“The baron will be having his daughter’s wedding tonight,” she said. “You will be going as Doctor McNuggets; he’ll be expecting you”
“Oh, I really doubt that” said Simon, thinking back to the previous night’s excess at calendar Girls.
After which, Simon pulled out his glock-for-roosters and shot himself. Of course, not before saying to the baron’s daughter “Hope you ike KFC.” his body slumped to the ground, a trail of red liquid glistening in the flare of the gas light. The contact fled, to be caught near the dead body of one of Britain’s finest secret squirrel chickens would meanyears behind the bars of a medical testing facility. Simon sat up “Hah, those fake paint bullets worked a treat.”
Simon’s earpiece crackled. It was his handler at the home base. “What did you go and do that for you idiot? That was the fucking contact!!”
“Fuck” though Simon. “Now how do I get to the wedding?”
“What a cock up”, he muttered as he ambled off to the end of this chapter.
A new day dawned and a new chapter began. Baron Sanders was just beginning to prepare the preaparations to prepare the hall. Suddenly there was a crackle of electricity and a badly singed chicken blundered out of a hole in reality.
“Ah, good” said Simon, “I’m not late”. As the latest Paul McCartney offering dribbled out of the stereo, the flower seller approached with the usual array of cellophane-wrapped roses and carnations. “Flower for you hen, sir?”, he enquired brightly.
“No thanks, do you have a cleaver? We had so much fun last night with a cleaver, I tell you, the number fo things you can do with a cleaver in the bedroom is…”
“OK, TMI” exclaimed the florist and shot Simon dead, between the eyes and through his heart. an expert double-tap if there ever was one. but now Simon the incompetent spy-rooster ws dead, the florist was wanted for murder and no one was left to stop Baron Sanders daughter from marrying a man she had no idea was the reincarnated Osama bin Laden.
Luckily for her, simon was not dead, again, for the finagling florist was factually our feathered frined himself! But Miss Sanders was not yet saved.
Simon rumaged through the baron’s chest of magical objects and found the mmost magical of all, the keys to a large pickup truck. He took the keys, started the truck and drove it over a cliff; the brakes had been tampered with.
The sky darkened and Simon ran. The pumice under his feet crackled and slid as he took each step, threatening to tip him over the low wall to his left and down the steep slope. Then, all of a sudden, there appeared a mystical figure wreathed in the mist that was swirling down from the ravine. “Grab my hand commanded the misty figure, “Quick! There’s not much time!”. There was a widening chasm between him and the figure, and although Simon had never seen this person before, he knew he must trust him. Simon swallowed his courage and reached across the chasm. He felt the icy, bony knuckles wrap his, and effortlessly withdrew him from certain death. Simon met his rescuer’s eyes, or lack thereof. “You’re a skeleton”, said Simon. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” They scrambled together up a clif. Fromt he top Simon could appreciate his position for the first time. The vilalge he had left in a hurry was off to the east of the volcano; the rocky cove clockwise wound the peak, accoridng to the map memorised from the table in the cottage. Then, from absolutely nowhere, a ten tonne anvil dropped from the sky. “Beep beep”, squawked Simon and sped awy ina cloud of dust, away from Wyle Coyote and his evil tricks. Luckily in his position as Regional Sales Manger for Acme Co. Ltd., Simon was in possession of the latest technology in Coyote-escaping technology. He pulled into the park beside a local inn and parked his Road Runner (TM) bike, which was aptented, naturally – or, rather, unnaturally; not to say that what is ‘natural’ us necessarily right, though it may be…but anyway, the local inn caught fire and burned down and he had to get on the road again. Then the skeleton slapped him “Are you alright?” he asked, “It looks like you’re going faint from the gas”. Simon didn’t know waht he was talking aobut; he felt fine and his legs were made of ham. THe skeleton waited maybe a second longer and then lifted him onto his shoulders. Have to move, he thought, theis fleshy needs to breathe. The skeleton jumped into the Transit van sitting by the kerb, throowing Simon into the gap between the front seats, amongst the a congealing, half-eaten cheeseburgerm fluff-encrusted Murray ints and a worryingly fresh-looking Curly Wurly. Then, from absolutely nowhere, a ten tonne anvil burst from the ground beneath them. The anvil attached itself to the engine of teh van, converting into pure energy adn rocketing the can through the skeleton’s own portal. A portal to hell. And back, if you pay 50% more for a day pass. The sky darkened and Simon ran…