Story Time

Tagged with a Splotchy virus by Dean. My contribution is after the rules...

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a
variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but
that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make
a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate,
it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

The ground crunched beneath my feet. Besides my noisy footsteps, I heard only the sound of the gentle crackling fire behind me. Its faint orange light lazily revealed my immediate surroundings. Beyond the glow, there was total blackness. I whistled. I took the small rock I had been carrying and whipped it away from me, expecting a thud, crack or plop -- but a soft yelp of a cry answered. [Splotchy]

Failing to leap tall buildings of uneaten Nestlé Crunch and Krackel bars in a single bound, I had waded through them instead, the crunchiness of the candy adding to the crunchiness of the drought-stricken, pebble-strewn soil, elevating the aural to a heretofore unknown level of crunchiness, as if Dick Cheney himself were trampling the defleshed bones of third world refugee children scattered about his clawed feet, the dried marrow spewing forth from between shards glistening in the wan moonlight.

I shivered.

Silently thanking the Old Ones that I had decided to stuff my backpack with packets of instant coffee instead of those mini boxes of Rice Krispies or stalks of celery because those things are far too crunchy in comparison to things that are not like packets of instant coffee and all that Xtreme! crunchiness would've only disoriented my delicate sense of hearing, therefore preventing me from ever hearing the creature amidst the cacophony. Sore feet and a diet of nothing but caffeine and sugar for days and days. No wonder I ended up lost in this haunted quail preserve.

That feeble sound, I soon found out, was made not by a hideous hellbeast bent on tricking me by deceptive vocal prestidigitation into becoming its next meal, but by a meek, mousy, nearly hairless creature no more than three feet tall, almost like a midget hobbit dwarf with skin more pale than a made-up Twilight extra who dwells in a sunless condo. As it entered the camp, illumined by the rustle and pop of burning wood, I saw through the curling smoke that it was visibly frightened. I calmly gestured towards it, quickly pulling back, trying to reassure it that I meant no harm."

Do you understand me? Can you speak? Who are you?"

"My name -- my name is Dick Cheney." [Randal Graves]

I'd been living with Cheney in his small hut for only a matter of weeks but it seemed to have been years at this point. I had come to this haunted quail preserve looking for Cheney, hoping he could train me as he had my father.

So far all I'd faced was exhaustive physical training peppered with gems of Cheney's grammatically challenged "wisdom" as he taught me how to try and change reality through sheer exertion of willpower. I was having trouble taking Cheney's ancient bullshit belief seriously.

Today I was running through a jungle obstacle course with Cheney, as usual, perched lazily on my back sipping from an airplane bottle of scotch. We (I) had been running, swinging and jumping through the impenetrable brush for several sweat-soaked hours already when he tapped me on the shoulder.

"Piss, I must."

Having to go myself and grateful for the respite I skidded to a stop and placed the horrible little gnome onto the ground next to me. We both unzipped and started to drain our rancors. Curious; I snuck a glance at his miniature lightsaber. He must of caught sight of me looking.

"Judge me by my size? Size matters not."Cheney groaned and shook his head. He put his repulsive, gnarled claw on my hand led me to a nearby clearing. At it's immediate center sat a small, grizzled man with an unbelievably long, white beard.

"Control the mind of the Blitzer you must," said Cheney.

"I can't Master Cheney," I whined. "He's too logical."

"That," he sighed, "is why you fail." [Dean Wormer]

"When you confront the Dark Lord, the true meaning of logic will you face. And before you face that terror, the Olberman and Darth Maddow fall before you, they must. A mosquito's flatulent emission in a hurricane by comparison, the mind of Blitzer is."

"Yes, Master Cheney... I'll try."

"There is no try! Enhanced interrogations there are! Terrorists there are! Wiretaps there are! Try there is not! Hmph! A true Gopi you will never become."

And so it went, week after week, month after month... the endless sessions of paintball, the ceaseless repetition of arcane, ancient spells of fearsome power. The painfully vexing meditations bending the power of the fuzz to shape the world as it ought to be, rather than the way our pitiful senses perceive it to be. Contemplating hallowed koans and paradoxes: justifying the unjustifiable, attacking the unassailable, soiling the sacred, and deifying the dishonorable. The excrutiating full-body waxes, followed by the catharsis of scented oils. Master Cheney was my stern taskmaster and guide through it all. The mind of the Blitzer had long since crumbled before the power of the fuzz.

Finally one day, like a fatal cerebral hemorrhage, enlightenment burst forth. "Master!" I cried, "there is no spoon!"

Master Cheney scowled at me, and with tight, cold eyes growled, "A true Gopi have you become." He paused and grimaced in the heart-stopping manner I had come to recognize as "pleasure."

"Grass Squatter, time for you to leave, it is."

Packing my few possesions, a small briefcase of Rice Krispies and celery (it didn't occur to me to wonder what had become of my instant coffee, at the time), and my Osmium Galacticard, I strode to my HmV. My faithful droid, Rush2Hanni3, had kept it idling for the duration of my education. Brimming with confidence, and exulting in the glory of the power of the fuzz, I bade goodby to my Master Cheney's swamp.

Little did I know what I was to face; I might have been less eager... (Lockwood)

I tag Mr. Wayne, Viking, Darius Whiteplume, Samurai Frog, and Utah Savage... but I hate tagging people, and won't be the least offended if you don't feel like playing.