Let this story heretounderforthwith be known as:
The story Warren wanted a title for

The story Warren wanted a title for

Bryan, Callum, Warren

26th April, 1991

Anja looked out from beneath her blood-covered duvet to the morning sun shining in through the broken window. It had been a long, hard night and her kneebraces were in pieces on the floor. Ozalp lay beside her panting, as dogs were wont to do. Little did she know that he was not fit for android consumption since this particular breed of heat seeking canine contains a cocktail of very nasty organic chemicals, however Jay could only believe his eyes when his toes were bitten completely off. Stuart laughed! But in a deeper section of the woods, Aethelfrith's lonely search for her spare kneebrace continued. It had all started in next to no time. And thus the universe was created. ``Well'', said God dusting off his hands, ``now to find that kneebrace.'' Meanwhile, in a nearby laboratory, Robert was dead. Patrick, his lover, lay by his side (Robert's side that is). Robert, tired of being dead, lept up from the terminal screen and stole the keyboard, of & *@#%^& . ``Now I have control of story universe'', Robert exclaimed, just as the keyboard disconnected....

In another part of the directed acyclic graph, Aethelfrith ate her picked warthogs with WD40 and lightly grilled stoat slices. ``Yum'', she thought as she gobbled the last remnants down, only to find that below the current screen of text was a huge, lumpy, uliginous slime ball. Not quite knowing what to do with it, Aethelfrith passed it on to Ozalp who deftly iconfied it. ``Oh no'', he exclaimed, ``I've forgotten the mapping (the rest of Ozalp's cry was drowned out by the sound of the Hard-disk eating the CPU). Meanwhile, in a leaking, damp, dark, and not all together nice I/O bus somewhere near a broken kneebrace, Marvin was about to solder his leg to the ground rail when, in a flash, Anja's knitting needle sliced through the air and wounded his diodes in a pathetic attempt to create an anti-static electro-magnetic field generator. But, alas (and alack), it was to no avail, and he bravely plundered on leaving the evidence in his wake. Ozalp barked. Nearby a large tree crashed. Over twenty years had passed since the last tree crashed down onto the small village. Many of the villagers were upset at this lack of care exercised by the gods, and decided to teach the gods a lesson, they would burn a piece of apple pie in offering. However, in an astounding lack of care, the villagers' clothes caught on fire, and the effective population growth of the comunity plummeted that year. As was Sir Mervyn Moncrieff, so also was Anja, Patrick, a few obese villagers and a small flock of Eastern Mongolian geese. As confusing as this was to all concerned, the insanity continued unabated until a nearby UFO accidently destroyed the Earth.

The sudden and somewhat violent dematerialization of a small terraqueous globe orbiting an ordinary yellow star had little significance to the universe, but the impact on the local population was rather dramatic. Anja didn't need to be reminded about the pizza she had left in the oven, but its sudden loss of existence had her worried. She looked over to Patrick, and began playing with his nose flute. ``Patrick'', she smiled, ``would you begin with Chopin's Ballade No.1 in G minor?''. ``Of course, my dear'' he replied, graciously inserting his forefinger into the upper-most hole. With a sudden gasp, he realised where the pizza now was, and it wasn't a pretty sight, if you could see it. Meanwhile, over the other side of the galaxy, a small yellow man had just proven that there were some fundamental flaws in the theory of the universe, and space began to tear, fold and spindle at the seams. Luckily Anja was a good seamstress, and with adept use of a roll of flyscreen and used paper bags had it all sewn up in a jiffy. Then the fire began, nobody knew how. Torrents of meaningless garbled words pouring began forth all Anja of noone least and how the knew next stop few sentences. The blast carried them all back to the edge of that treacherous ravine, where, moments earlier, Patrick was hit by a number 10 bus. At this point in the story things were not going well, there was a large dark cloud overhead, which at any threatened to rain down a hail of kneebraces, and the dam was about to break. Several words earlier, the word `time' had been left out, suggesting that time was indeed irrelevant, as were the ducks that had been caught in the rotary mangler. Vainly they tried to extricate themselves, but just as it seemed a grotesque description of their decimation was about to occur, a couple walking, hand in hand, through a flower-littered meadow, both dressed all in white, her hair flowing in the wind, were shot dead. Too much insanity had leaked into the universe, the universe grew tired of this. The universe decided that the inhabitants needed to be taught a lesson. The universe promptly vanished up its own gravity well.

Ignoring the ending of the last paragraph, Aethelfrith had decided to embark upon a voyage of discovery and self-titillation, spelt wrong. Her crew consisted of a randy warthog, a fried chicken, three sodden cigarette butts, a cup of Indian tea, a large but nonetheless timid-looking African Violet, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the shelf, ninety-nine bottles of beer, and three annoyed bank tellers. The bank tellers, like all bank tellers, were either half asleep, hiding in the back corner or reading the Australia Post guide to productivity. At this point in out story the authors dozed offff fdsk dfg jkj .....

Suddenly they awoke, astounded at the total lack of fish abounding in the fields, and began making fish out of papier-mache. Then, as it dried, Robert killed Patrick just for fun. ``Ha Ha'', he cried, ``your fishing days are...'' But just then, a large paper killer whale lept up and tore his throat out, which just goes to show that you shouldn't count your killings before your fish are dry. Ozalp quickly slurped up the pencil shavings, and disappeared into the index. A wild Table of contents burst out of chapter 2 and headed to the glossary, thinking it was the index. Ozalp had survived for the moment. Chapter 3 part the hair ended.

The sun rose slowly over the decaying remains of Ozalp, who had died while the stage crew had changed scenes - he was cut in half by a prop samurai sword. Nonetheless, Anja continued changing into her new gardening outfit, complete with thick leather gloves. ``I just love the smell of leather,'' she said, raising the pointed stick high above her head and bringing it crashing down upon the ill-fated, already crumpled, universe. God was not impressed with the behaviour of his creations and promptly called a halt to all the sillyness. The Galaxy, the kneebrace and everything stopped.