30th August, 1989
As the sun hung low in the sky by a single golden thread, the mausoleum gathered warmth; its ageing marble doors creaking thermally and the stench becoming unbearable. The flapping of wings and some high-pitched ball tossing was the inevitable result. As the landslide gathered momentum, Stuart's giggles could be construed as being somewhat larger than the average price of fish.
Finally, Prunella was proved positively paranoid, and the people from the prison persuaded her to posthumously die, by slitting her throat with a rubber band.
In another story, it might be said that the content of this story was irrelevant but in fact it wasn't quite as trivial as it suddenly became, once passed on to the next author.
Robert, Prunella, Dennis, Patrick, and the ever-fragrant Demis Roussous all went about their separate lives without ever once meeting each other. But suddenly the samurai sword sticking from Patrick's shoulder showed that he was not as alive as had been suspected. It was in the course of the murder investigation that they first met, as both were killed by bullets from the same gun. They got on well together after that, with adjoining graves and excellent views of dirt.
Glinting in the full moon, Melinda's razor swept smoothly and quickly to its destination: the magnetic lines of force joining Patrick's decaying body to Anja's copper kneebrace. Reversing potential, Prunella was able to produce a thousand amp current, sufficient to fry Patrick. Prunella and Anja sadly buried him, nose down.
As he left, he left a small bloody trail from his stump. Trotting along behind, faithful Ozalp brought up his rear, clenched between his ears and collecting mushrooms in his skirt. ``Hmmm hmmm hmmmm,'' he hummed to himself as he skipped lightly off the cliff; his eager voice could still be heard as he bounced off the rocks at the bottom. Nowhere else could such a ridiculous thing happen without the author vetoing the whole idea. Such is literature (and I use the term loosely).
Confused voices from below the ground echoed hopelessly in the ensuing flood of silence. Somewhere, somehow, sometime, there would have to be an explanation for this gratuitous use of adverbs, when clearly only a mountainous yak herder could see into the murky night.
Ambling along on his still bleeding stump, Patrick cursed curses. If it had a few less bugs, he would have used it instead of trying to buy something better from the software pirate who had then cut his leg off. The cutlass descended on Patrick's leg, shattering a solid steel stole.
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At a later /etc/reboot, the leather sandals scuffed the beauty of the mausoleum's shiny marble door handle. ``Rope is a strange substance,'' Robert mused, ``I wonder if it would be more suited to repairing scuffed marble surfaces, or to hanging Patrick.''
Stuart was ropable. So he was. His head, stuffed and mounted on Robert's trophy wall smelled suspiciously of elderberries, which caused Robert to remove all but one article of clothing - his Ethiopian nose flute. ``Please could you feel my reed, to see if it is tuned right?'' ``Pock!'' he replied. Eventually a carborundum stone was found. Having tuned his reed, he turned to more musical matters. His fingers danced lightly over the stomach of Anja, who slapped him crisply on the other side of a well-known bout of rigor mortis. Martha gave the argent-thinking melon perhaps three existential coconuts willfully removed contrapuntally manage offal. Under a waterfall, on the edge of a swamp, peacefully decaying was Dennis, the star of another tale. The snarling slug chewing thoughtfully on his festering eye socket, Ozalp knew no bounds. This was due to his tenacious monotonicity which had often got him into tenacious monotonicity. Still, what does one expect from a piano with only one key being played by a blunt-nosed stoat. The story of how the nose became blunt does not concern us, although the long tale of its later sharpening remains to be told around a campfire late at night.