Worst ongoing Prose EVER (try to keep 'plot')

[ken worley]

loosely follow reality, that is.....but go to town on the writing skills, peeps...Here is the first page...next
poster...GO!



Reginald's feet were throbbing briskly. He grabbed Cynthia's nipples roughly, and twisted them until the blood rushed between her legs.
"AAAAAiiiiiiiiiiAAgggHH!!!!," Cynthia piercingly shrieked, dialing 9-1-1....Hanging up, she turned to reginald with a wounded expression. Raising her voice to be heard over the approaching warble of the ambulance, she queried,
"Where have all the cowboys gone?" She ran from him, and to let the paramedics in.

Later, at the hospital, she lay in the intensive care ward, mulling over her recent experiences with Reginald.
Perhaps it was time for a change, she thought pointedly...Maybe the handsome doctor who'd just treated her for 3rd degree nipular trauma....or the ambulance driver who'd smiled boyishly as he collected her nipples and placed them in his thirstbuster cup for reattachmentability. (he'd sipped at it afterward, she recalled...that meant something, right?)...Or the orderly who was even now flirting, whistling George Michael's "I want your sex" as he emptied her bedpan.

"Choicessss..." she whispered, licking her lips canary-eating-cattishly, drawing out the sibilant in a ridiculous fashion.___________________________________________

[PKMKII]

Suddenly, she realized that Reginald was not Reginald at all, but rather his twin Jeffiford Chesterfield!! She thought to herself "If the media finds out about this, it'll be like a kid in a candy store. A candy store of MURDER." Irregardless, Cythnia knew that the only one who'd have answers about this, the Illuminati, could only be contacted via the secret internet, and she'd need to find the one-armed manned to be able to log into that, and even if she managed to do that, the Illuminati would not be forthcoming about it's location or whereabouts, and this conundrum made Cynthia wonder why people get so upset about run-on sentence.

Still, the prospect of knowing who exactly was behind this plot to destroy nippledom had her literally bursting with excitement. There was only one thing to do, once her wounds were healed, and she banged a few doctors: go to Albuquerque.

[Edd]

Albuquerque, land of adventure and obsequious letter q's. A place where you can find a killer plate of barbecue and an ice cold Mexican beer, if you knew just where to look and when to look the other way, i.e. when the bouncer is picking the pocket of the drunk he's also tossing into the street like a sixteen year-old caught shoplifting at the thrift store wearing sneakers that cost more than you made the entire time you were employed at your last job, which, admittedly wasn't very long. Home of the last person to incite rage in your psyche while exciting your libido, causing everlasting physical and emotional scars that, while painful in a past, present, and future sense, also ensure an abundant supply of sexual partners, as long as you're willing to share a bed (or hammock, or back seat, or bus bench, or poorly lit alley, or grungy restroom) with a self-destructive and psychopathic, yet incredibly hot, adrenaline junkie with a Florence Nightingale complex. Albuquerque.

[ken worley]

Cynthia awoke from her stupor with a false start.
"Albuquerque?!?" she exclaimed to herself rudely." Why the hell would I think of going there?"
"After all, that is Reginald's boyhood home." She said the name with bitter disgust, nearly bordering on bile.
"In FACT," she ruminated vapidly, "Only a total schmuck would even talk about Albuquerque!"
"Oh, don't upset yourself", said the handsome ambulance attendant, sipping another Thirstbuster as he changed
Cynthia's stomach-drainage-pan. "My name is Scotty Long."
"Long....", Cynthia longed to herself quietly.
"Why, I hardly know you." she said shyly. She blushed below the covers.
"Well, we should do something about that," Scotty tersely ejaculated, pulling out his wallet, and sharing a sheaf of photographs with the ailing victim. Cynthia took the oportunity to take stock of her appearance, and other dating potentials.
At 5-Feet, 8 inches, she was taller than the average redhead, and as Scotty went on about boyhood trips to the family cabin, she was fair of skin, and possessed of large, symmetrical (though now maimed)-breasts.___________

[ken worley]

____Her features were surprisingly sharp and intelligent, the result of an Armenian in her Grandmother's genetic pool. Her eyes were a deep emerald green, and her lips a pouty, full ruby red. Her nostrils were perfect trapezoids,
and her father, bouncing her aknee, as she was little, often said, "Just missed diamond-shaped by a nose."
Scott the boyish ambulance attendant was still rambling on, proferring his stack of memories at her like an attack dog, when the admitting nurse burst into the room.
"We've misplaced your intake forms!" she exploded. We'll have to redo them!
"Why always ME?!?," Cynthia whined internally, at which point the handsome doctor who'd sutured her came in to check his stitch-craft...Coloring slightly, and hoping he could read between the lines, Cynthia hinted to Scotty that he should go. ("Why?" she asked herself, "has he not sipped of a thirstbuster veritably swimming with my severed nipples?..Why go all girlish and bashful now? ) Scotty took the unspecified hint and vamoosed.
As the handsome doctor, Dr. Avery, checked her sutures, Cynthia felt torn.
Dr. Avery was not quite as boyish in his handsomeness as Scotty, in fact he was rakish, but he undoubtedly was a better provider, more mature of wallet and stock portfolio. Cynthia desperately searched her intellect for a conversational gambit to throw at the doc, but came up empty, her mind drawing a blank for once that morning, and
before she could recover her wit, he suddenly shot bolt upright, and hurried from the room, leaving only the draught
on the medicine tray, and on Cynthia's exposed mangled chest.
As she recovered, the admitting nurse again burst in
"We've inadvertently inverted your nipples!" she bellowed..."If they become aroused, they will cause excessive pressure upon your cardiac muscle, and you'll be killed."______________________________

[black bart]

"Any chance of a hand job?" Shouted the short Welshman from behind the screen next to Cynthia's bed, "It's just my hands are really ugly since that accident with the Davy Safety lamp back in Maesteg...

"Good God" exclaimed the Welshman, "She's got no nipples look you!!!"

"I've seen it before in the valleys...She's a witch!"

[ken worley]

After nearly a week of fighting back their gorge, the non-welsh people in the room
returned to their discussion.
"My nipples", Cynthia moaned,...
".....inverted?"

"Yes" the admitting nurse confessed. "You can discus it with the boyishly handsome Dr. ____ when he returns,
and also, we'll have to redo your intake forms, someone"...she shifted her eyes cornerward..."has spilled on them"

"Ink?"...."coffee?.." Cynthia gasped.

"no, one Jeffery Chaucer, admitted for rectal discomfort and sudden inexplicable weight-gain...The orderlies spilled him from the gurney, onto your paperwork....There was...................leakage."
The nurse turned cryptically, and moved from the room in an unspecified manner.

[black bart]

"Well" thought Cynthia, "I've had my nipples inverted, the cute doctor has been written out of the story and some Welsh people have derailed the plot, surely things can only get better from here on in"...

Stephen King paused at his word processor for a well earned break after 60,000 pages..."there just hasn't been enough committee meetings or witchcraft so far" thought Stephen helping himself to a Crispy Creme Donut and a soda...and then with a large belch Stephen went back to work...

Jeffery Chaucer pointed at the flip chart and announced sweeping changes to the hospital board management structure...

[Arabella]

"It does appear that this flippin' chart could do with a wash" mulled Dr. Jeffery Chaucer as he thought of April in her shoures sweete. Shaking his head ruefully, he gathered himself and dramatically swept into the surgery theater with his gloved hands held high.

Shattering applause greeted him; even the patient struggled to rise and join in before sliding, with a soft moan, into unconsciousness.

"Nurse," quoth Chaucer, "which of many sondry folk haven we here?"

Beverly hesitated before answering, a bit put off by his strange diction. Gathering courage and the hem of his gown, she murmured "It's your long lost boyhood friend, Reginald. He has traveled from far Wales via Albuquerque, hoping that you could help him. It's been quite a pilgrimage for him since he had to travel most of the way on foot after being robbed at the Tabard Inn this morning. Surely you must realize that you have a worldwide reputation?"

"Aye," he averred, with a muffled laugh as he patted her down. "But surely this is not germane at the moment."

Germaine, she thought bitterly, as she gnawed her peppermint gum and unsuccessfully tried to toss her long golden hair under the surgery cap. Must he always try to bring Germaine into the conversation? Will he ever forget her?

[Cap'n Mitebe Lorst]

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. But obviously no-one could make their mind up, so let’s say it was, sort of, mediocre.
“Where is my old pal, Reginald?” asked Chaucer with a manly laugh. “I well remember him on the Committee for the Conflagration of Witches – that must have been back in ’65.”

Stephen King punched the air. ‘Now we’re motoring,’ he thought happily.

Beverly led the great doctor towards the isolation ward for the Welsh, hoping that the desperate cases within would make him forget… Germaine.
As they approached ward saith ar hugain (27) an alarm signalled with raucous urgency.
“Code blue, code blue. Welsh person arrested,” droned an electronic voice.

“Well, that’s not news,” chuckled Chaucer, brushing back his mullet locks of blonde hair.

Beverly wilted and pressed a hand to her breast. Did Dr Chaucer not realize that she held such warm and moist feelings for him? How could she let him know how she felt?

[Arabella]

Beverly paused...and rethought the problem. The anaestheticist seemed to smile as he readjusted the controls....

Magically, they were transported to France: not the best of countries nor the worst of countries. Upon arrival at Charles Le Gaulle airport, the party saw a bandaged woman staggering from the passenger chute. Could that be Cynthia, Beverly wondered. Or possibly, the rich and famous demimondaine Paris Hilton? Ah, she thought, but there is no small, rodentlike dog with a pink Hermès leather collar nor is there a pink aura nor any pink accessories from Lacroix....so possibly that might even have been Reginald he of steadfaste friende of me lovere Chaucer or Osama bin Laden recovering from a bad nose job... Beverly passed out, briefly, snuggled close to Chaucer's copy of the Ars Amatoria, which he kept closeby, away from his wallet, but neareth his shires endes. She throbbed listening to the throb of his heartbeat and endes, then she noticed a....

Before they actually had their tickets validated, the party was on the bus and headed for a lovely vacation château, the castle D'If. Ah, the lush verdancy of the South of France. The hills, nudely brown, laid suppine like a nouveau riche middle class tourist, laiden with greasy bain du soleil and redolent of Coppertone SPF 25. The scent of UV protection mingled with lavender and thyme odors, piqued with a topnote of over-ripe beaujolais. The soul of France in the summertime is charged and vexed with many opportunities, so like a young demoiselle, who upon..... Chaucer seemed to be studying his iPhone, looking at something titled "Germa..." as he whisked his mullet locks away in a fit of feverish concentration. But Beverly was concerned about the postcard from Albuquerque she found creased in her underpants....

Beverly started toward the loo at the back of the bus, attempting to hide the wedgie in her lacy black Italian teddy from La Perla. She loosened the top of her corset to divert onlookers by exposing one rosy nipple, scented with her warm, milky and Chanel-laden thoughts, and a let fall a tendril of golden blonde hair, which she stroked, provocatively.

She halted suddenly as one garter snapped--alarmed at the same time by the grey gaseous snaking shape of CO2 gas. Surely there was not going to be a KISS heavy metal performance right now? That was scheduled for lunch....! she thought. What of

Stephen King paused, thinking Maeve Binchy or Danielle Steele had taken over his keyboard....then a sound started humming in his ears. "Oh, no" he shuddered. "Not those coal-mining Welsh sods. ARRRGH"

It was the vuvuzelas. RED, ORANGE, GREEN, BLUE, plastic and inhuman. They hummed, mindlessy and maliciously as if driven by a will of their own.....increasing their volume and earsplitting drone with every idea the noted author had for increased sales and pagination counts....

[black bart]

'Oh la la' said Jean the Tour Guide, 'sounds loik we've ad un too many elpings of thee Casoulet , non?'

'OK evreebodee' follew moi and don't try to mince like moi meme...ah learned it freum Jean Paul Galtier imself non...

Voila votre accomodacion Le Chateau D'If...so nomed parce que c'est un right dive an most peuple say: 'IF only it WAS a Chateau...oooh ah made ze joke...

[Nef Yoo BlackBeard]

an din tha roil navee tri ta ketck me an thay kant katch me an din thay call me bad noims an din i git mad an i sed
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr nanananana ye kall me a bad noim agin an nun ove ya kan kum ta my burfdat pardy an din thay sed
Hokay nefyu we B surry
an i sed
hokay din
ya kum ta my parrdy but ya haffa bwrin me big presintz an anty B wantz sum stuff to
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr