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."
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... After some strategic primping and washing her hands six times, Elma Mater exited the bathroom in a blaze of energy, like a comet passing through our solar system. Sometimes she wondered why it was always six times. She didn't set out to wash them six times, but her hands took over at some point when her mind wandered, and the next thing she knew, it was six times again. Anyhow, she certainly had a comet-like tail this time, and like a comet, she was blithely unaware of anything other than the gravitational sun of Scab that was her editorial goal.
Two people died as she blazed a trail to (Mr.) Scab, her sterile hands glinting in the Iowa sunlight. Her first two questions were "A) Was it really you in my dream last night?" and "B) Where in heckfire did you get those superfine bellbottoms?" To this, Scab only loosed a relaxed grin and doffed his hat to revel a tremendous afro that kind of expanded in waves, like stages of a supernova.
Two celestial-like superbeings stood face-to-face across the empty Wal-Mart parking lot. The elusive comet and the explosive nova. She fired off an endless volley of questions, even addressing the mass of dogs towards the end, trying to get him to talk. But he remained aloof, his practiced Olympian air and serene countenance belied only by the gradual appearance on his forehead of the fine sheen that is ever the visible sign of sudation.
She didn't notice, but the cats did, their tails sweating in empathy even though they were sworn enemies of the silent man. (Well most of them were sworn enemies, there were a few along just to gawk, and at the back the swearing in process was being held up by a calico that was feeling too hot. It was staggering around on its cute, kitten hind legs, the overall effect anything but cute.
Scab's aloofness began to break. His glances away from the reporter toward the back of the crowd looked almost nervous. Soon, he was wading through the reverential multitude, hand outstretched in a pleading gesture.
Elma's hands were mesmerizing as, in a last ditch attempt to save her career - to keep her from having to return to a life of long-haul truck driving, she sought to hypnotize Scab like she'd seen that guy on the infomercial do six billion times. Consequently, Scab slunk away like a thief in the night, but all the animals followed her home. She is now the owner of a successful Pat Shop on 4th and Taylor, which she named 'Pet Scabs on Taylor'.
