This started off as a verbal story improv, and then turned it into a writing game. The bit below, created by Terry and Amber, served as the starting point for round one of that night's writing:
"Scab O'Henry limped down the city streets, tossing the chicken legs over his shoulder, forming the piles which the dogs flocked to in growing numbers, the packs the city was known for. The svelte TV anchorwoman stepped out of the bathroom, trailing the six foot train of TP stuck to the bottom of her shoe."
Untitled
... Samantha Powers strode with unmerited confidence across the state fair to intersect with Scab's path. She pulled a piece of lint off of her blouse as people parting around her were careful even not to step on the trailing toilet paper.
"That's Stephanie Powers," someone whispered.
"I thought it was Samantha!" a crew cutted rowdy shouted, and the burly, denim vested men behind him muttered their agreement.
Taking a pinch of snuff, a distinguished Englishman in a bowler hat on a unicycle said, "That most assuredly, most definitely is Stephanie Powers." Soon rotten vegetables were crisscrossing the crowd as more joined in the riot. By the time Samantha reached the prize heifer barn, she was coated in a thick layer of tomato-slime and broccoli florettes. The once virgin white train at her feet was now a stir fry in the making.
Not again, she thought. Once she had wondered where crowds got all those rotten veggies. Then, one day she had incidentally been swept up by an unruly mob, and found to her amazement that when she put her hands in her pockets, they (the pockets) were full of rotten veggies. It was some strange natural law. Strange, but true.
The TP unceremoniously broke, leaving the rotten veggies to their unholy rest. Ms. Powers, now only using her last name, for fear of causing another riot, didn't notice she'd lost Scab. Scab was leading the dogs away, hitchhiking on the highway, piling them into the truckbed of an antique Chevy.
"Wait!" she screamed and ran after him to no avail. Suddenly strong arms lifted her from behind and she heard the squeak of a unicycle wheel. She looked up into the broad smile of the Englishman, doing a good 45 MPH down the road. Horace & Boris were the only people in the world able to ride a single unicycle together, it was part of their act in lower Hartfordshire. How had they found her, and why would her ex-lovers have to turn up right now of all times. She had been this I----------------------------------------------I close to Scab, this I----------------------------------------------I close, but never had she been farther away. Even now she could smell the breath of all those dogs, trailing away behind the Chevy like so much swamp gas.
"Horace, quick, after that pickup!" she barked. The cats all picked up speed too, though one stopped quickly to lick itself. A merry chase ensued. The menagerie headed north until ...
"Cut!" yelled the director. "Where are the antelope? This scene is supposed to have ..."
"Cut!" cried the producer. "This isn't supposed to be a story-within-a-story, who wrote that?"
