Story Time!
Posted By Caulimovirus on December 19, 2005
“The Adventures of Rackshaw and Epstein”
.: The success of this post depends on you, Dear Reader. For you see, it is You who will make it happen, You who will supply the content of this post, and it is You who will stumble backwards onto Your neck when You slip on that marble You carelessly left on the stairs.
.: The idea behind this post is simple: I will start by writing a single sentence, the beginning of an epic story, and you will supply the next line in the comments section. Once the story has received an ending I deem acceptable, I will post “The End” in large, green letters. Multiple entries from a single commentor are encouraged, but please do not post twice in a row. Also, try to keep it somewhat clean. Here is the first sentence:
“Epstein!” shrieked Rackshaw, “why didn’t you show this to me earlier?”
[Edit: Just to clarify, you're allowed more than one sentence per "line", but try to keep it three sentences or under.]
Rackshaw sat down to calm down a bit. “It can’t be true. It simply can’t” he then replyed
“Why I just saw her, walking in the park!”
Epstein fumbled with his coat pocket nervously. Should he tell Rackshaw the truth of the matter? He cleared his throat and continued, “It’s not… not just that Elaine was out walking, Rackshaw old chap… she was… walking another man’s dog!”
Looking down at his only pet, a grand champion persian cat, Rackshaw came to a sinister revelation: “Elaine never walks dogs at home…”
Epstein’s face was all gray now.. “another man’s dog, can this be true?” he thought to himself.
“Read me the note again, will you. I need to hear it again!” he commanded Epstein.
(btw sry ppl.. my UK arnt 100%.. hope Cody can correct my miss-spells)
Rackshaw stared down at the crumpled note in his hands and with burning eyes he read it outloud in a faltering voice.
Took Jeffry’s Dog Out For Walk. Could You Pick Up Some Mustard At Store? “That bitch!”
Apparently, Elaine had forgotten just what kind of vindictive sonovabitch she had married. Without a doubt, decided Epstein, things were going to get messy on Hedgecroft Lane, and he’d be stuck cleaning up after Rackshaw once again.
Meanwhile, over on Hedgecroft Lane, an 18-wheeler suddenly became a 17-wheeler, fulfilling half of Epstein’s bizarre premonition.
The lorry, filled with common lunch condiments and a caffeine enriched driver, careened into the lamp post on the corner.
“Two messes,” thought Epstein as a deluge of mustard soaked into his yard.
With a resignation born of years of suburban conformity, Epstein’s first move was to call Chem-Lawn and cancel his weekly turf treatment. His second was to check the pulse of the driver slung unceremoniously over the hydrangeas. “Looks like Jeff won’t be picking up his dog anytime soon,” he mused, absentmindedly sucking mustard off his fingertips.
Epstein shook his head and pulled himself out of what seemed like a week-long stupor! As his eyes focused on the carnage just beyond his pouponed fingers, it occured to him that in the spicy brown confusion Rackshaw had slipped away. Epstein knew EXACTLY where the old chap was heading.
His eyes blazed with unholy delight at thoughts of finding Rackshaw. Who else but Epstein knew that what Rackshaw loved above all were clowns?