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Subject: Choose your own adventure story rss

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Carl Nyberg
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OK so you make a choice based on the previous post, then write one sentence of the story, then leave a choice for the next person.

King Vladimir looked out over his kingdom from the palace balcony and wondered what to eat for breakfast.

Pancakes or oatmeal?
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David K.
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The King declares "Pancakes!"

For his next royal decree he announces, "Bacon or sausage?"
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Jeff
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"Sausage!" the king exclaimed loudly. "Today, I feel like being a contrarian..."

"I wonder what I should do after breakfast - meet with my advisors, or walk in the garden?"
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Chris Tannhauser
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ya gotta bunny/duck it in your head
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"I looked at my hands, I understood that one fine day, one fine evening to be precise, they would no longer be hands but some other awful thing." —Jack Kerouac
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"A walk in the gar—OH MY GOD!!!"

Do you:

- LOOK

- HIDE YOUR EYES

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Rick B
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Looking at the bloody butcher block near the entrance of the garden, King Vladamir reaches down and grabs the entrails of his prized pet pig. "You killed Petunia to make my morning sausage! You vile creature!"

-Kill the butcher
-Find the necromancer to reanimate Petunia
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Jeff Wiles
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Necromancer

The ancient wizard arrives at sundown. His incantations cause Petunia's bloody corpse to lift itself from the stained earth. The undead porcine beast leaps onto the necromancer and starts chewing on his ear. As the necromancer screams, do you

- Help him fight off Petunia.

- Go for help.
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♪ Isaäc Bickërstaff ♫
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Greer
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Entropy Seminar:
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The results of a five yeer studee ntu the sekund lw uf thurmodynamiks aand itz inevibl fxt hon shewb rt nslpn raq liot.
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You raise your hand to bat at Petunia, but beneath the slathering mouth and the hellish yellow eyes, you see your beautiful Petunia. Do you--


--CRY?

--SUCK IT UP, YA BIG BABY?
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Carl Nyberg
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Cry

But also pull the pig from the necromancer, who then leaves in disgust.


Go back to eating breakfast

or

Send a spy to follow the necromancer
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Joe Gola
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Your manservant Smedley returns late that afternoon, out of breath and his face of an ashen pallor. "The necromancer intrigues against you! This very moment a host of reanimate damned shambles to your door!" Choose one:

Load your shotgun and watch an instructional video on the art of Kung Fu: turn to page 76

or

Write a letter to your solicitor: turn to Appendix C
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Andrew Roy
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"Mildred!" you shout to whom you believe is your nearest servant. "I can never remember which I write first: the date, or my return address...what?! ...Stop that shouting and gurgling! I can't hear you properly!"

Continue writing the letter, risking making a critical mistake, or;

Set off in the direction of the gurgling and shouting to see if there's a drinking game going on that you're missing out on.
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Avri
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Continue.

"Sincerely or Faithfully? Sincerely or Faithfully . . . ?"

Sincerely?
Faithfully?
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shumyum
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♒♒♒♒♎♒♒♒♒ sloooowly sinking
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You stash the half-written letter into the lower left inside pocket of your cotehardie and [edit: sincerely] peer around the corner. The reanimates (mainly livestock, mainly ducks) appear to be practicing a flash mob routine through the direction of the necromancer's comely daughter.

Dance or die?
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David Aubert
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This is getting too ridiculus, even for me.
And the King promptly died to avoid the rest of what was a very weird day.

- START AGAIN FROM THE BEGINING
- START AGAIN FROM THE LAST CHECKPOINT
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¡dn ʇǝƃ ʇ,uɐɔ ı puɐ uǝllɐɟ ǝʌ,ı
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Chestermere
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>Start again from the last checkpoint

"Gosh this checkpoint stuff is confusing," you despair. "I wonder what checkpoint the king was referring to before he died?"

A whiff of bacon from your kitchen reminds you that breakfast is ready, and you instantly forget all about checkpoints.

"Dance, you magnificent bastard. Dance!!", you vote.

An Irish reel or the Hokey Pokey?
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Matt Riddle
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So the suddenly alive and dancing King does the Hokey Pokey and he turns himself about... and promptly trips over a zombie duck.

Does the King:

Retrieve his regal dagger and attack the duck

or

accept the inevitable fate of being billed to death and do nothing
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Carl Nyberg
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The king accepts the inevitable fate of being billed to death

However, one of his royal archers kills the duck with a silver arrow through the gullet.

The king gets up, dusts himself off and:

Rallies his troops to fight the reanimated hordes

or

Goes to lie down and hope everything turns out alright
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Mel
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Oregon
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Aren't you glad I'm not the pied piper?
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Move a little closer so I can reach out and light your beard on fire!
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The King goes to lie down and hopes everything turns out alright. He just couldn't muster up the energy after having fixed up a big meal of the duck. He falls asleep...

1) ... and begins to dream.
2) ... and then, he is suddenly kicked awake.
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Joe Gola
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The door bangs open, you feel a sharp, boot-shaped pain in the small of your back, and you find yourself tumbling to the floor. When you finally remove the blanket from your head and look up, you see your footman John Stamos (no relation) glaring at you in a rage.

"The undead have entered the castle! All is lost! So, uh … see ya." He climbs to the window casement and is about to leap when he turns his head and addresses you once more. "You know, FYI, you can only do so many non-sequiturs in a row before they stop being funny." Then he is gone and you hear a unhealthy "splat" sound from the courtyard below.

"What an odd thing to say," you think, as the door bursts open and a mass of green, putrescent flesh twitches inside and begins to tear at your limbs. The last thing you see is this morning's pancakes as they are squeezed from your small intestine like toothpaste.

There is then an undefinable temporal span of blackness, and when you open your eyes once more you find yourself in a square chamber with no windows and a single door. Your clothes are gone, and your exquisite golden crown has been replaced with a heavy iron circle stuck tight to your head. Its ragged metal edges cut at your skin cruelly. Overhead fluorescent lights buzz, and the canvas-backed chairs are an unpleasant teal color. On the wobbly table before you there is a clipboard and a pencil, and on the clipboard is a sheet of pink paper.

The piece of paper has the following printed on it:

Welcome to Hell

Please choose your preference (check one):

_ Economy package (credits not refundable)

_ Business class (restrictions may apply)

_ Deluxe suite (ask at the gate for current rates)


You note with growing horror that the font is comic sans.
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Rusty McFisticuffs
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"Well," you announce to the empty room. Leaning over the table, you slash an extravagant diagonal across the "Deluxe Suite" line. "One of the many perquisites of royalty is that we won't be paying for it ourselves," you observe acidly, and arch an eyebrow to signal your imagined courtiers to laugh at your wit, but that brings only a fresh bolt of pain from the iron band across your brow.

Gingerly exploring the band with your fingertips, you grow bored and return your gaze to the pink sheet of paper. Comic Sans--didn't the unwashed rabble have an edition of Die Macher which used Comic Sans? Perhaps we can spice up the game by placing a wager on the outcome.

After twiddlng the pencil for a few moments, you scratch a line through "preference" and neatly write the word "demand" above it.

"We are not accustomed to being made to wait," you announce somewhat more forcefully. This place is Hellish. If you are not attended to soon, you will have no choice but to try the door. In the meantime, you scribble a royal doodle in the space at the bottom of the page:

1) Thickly veined penis and testicles with comically crude pubic hairs
2) Crown and scepter, which turns out rather more like a pitchfork
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Avri
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You try to doodle your missing royal crown and scepter, and worry that it looks rather like a peasant's tool (pitchfork or penis, you're easy).

"Where is everyone?" you demand. "I thought Hell was supposed to be other people!"

Since there is no response, you must wait. Do you wait:

- for Godot?
- for the Man?
- for a girl like you?

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David Aubert
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After a few minutes she entered the room.

A girl like you.

"Oh, my dear King, let me be your queen ...
-Well, when I though a girl like me, I didn't though ... The Beard seems ... a little too like me ... And I don't think that girls are supposed to have ... err ...
-What ?
- A crown and a scepter", you added after watching again your doodling. "Really Miss...ter, when I though about a girl like me, I didn't think about a clone of me wearing women underwear."
- So, what do we do ?


A) Well, I think it's time for me to try something new. Come here my queen. **Kiss the girl like you**
B) Sorry, I'm not drunk enough! **Flee while screaming like a little girl.**
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Rusty McFisticuffs
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Stiffening to your full height, you rip off one glove and slap it to the floor. "We will never be... unmanned by any situation facing us," you declare. Your second glove slaps the first and you step forward, pull her hips roughly to yours, and kiss her passionately, deeply, grinding the coarse hair of your beard into hers.

At length, you pull back, disentangling your mustachios. "I... have a confession to make," you say quietly, dropping the majestic plural. She stares at you, trembling with what could be fear or wonder. "When I was but a wee baby, my father, the king of our realm, feared that pervasive sexism would prevent any but a man from ascending to the throne. Some in his place might have used their power to fight against this injustice, to change our system of laws and the fabric of our society; but he, instead, took the somewhat easier route of... securing the service of... a travelling beardomancer of no small talent."

"You mean--" Her whisper caught in her throat.

"Yes. You really are a girl like me."

1) Sweeping the pencil and pink form to the floor, you growl, "You. Me. This table. Now."
2) "Now what do you say we slip into someplace a little more comfortable?"
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Joe Gola
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The table gives a creak, and then a groan, and finally a loud, aggrieved complaint, and it collapses to the floor in a pile of flimsy lumber. The Girl Like You shatters into fragments of mirror, cutting your lips and fingers. Gamely you try for a last tongue kiss with one of the larger shards, but the moment is gone. You heave yourself to a sitting position.

Standing before you is a tall man with black skin, but truly black, the color of a coal mine. A young woman dressed in rags is perched hawklike on a chair next to him. He regards the clipboard with interest.

"The deluxe suite, very good. I like a man who appreciates the finer things. Or woman. Or whatever you are. Follow me, your highness." He leads you out of the room and down a dingy cinderblock corridor. The young woman stalks behind, barefoot and silent. "Don't dawdle, or she might catch you!" As if on cue, the girl begins to make a hoarse panting noise.

What follows is a long, tiresome journey through a series of tunnels, foyers and stairwells. Hours seem to pass, and you begin to fear that you will fall asleep on your feet, until the presence of the thing behind you sends the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Then, abruptly, you find yourself in a luxurious hotel room. Light beams from the floors and ceiling, and painted alcoves hold statuettes of heroes and lovers. There is a large, inviting bed, and in the corner is the severed head of a person. "Mine! Pretty!" shouts the girl, and she runs to collect the head. She strokes the hair of the unknown victim, its eyes and mouth agape in a last gasp of terror. "Pretty," she says.

"Hmm … the rest must be around here somewhere. Well, no matter! Enjoy!" says the black man. "The current rate is a pound a week. Someone will be by to collect." There is a flash of fire and he and the young woman are gone.

A quick search of your quarters reveals only a few items of interest. Beneath the bed is what appears to be a wooden trap door; there's just enough room for you to shimmy under and squeeze through if you wanted … or for something else to squeeze out. A large closet holds, as you expected, a horrible headless corpse, and it occurs to you that you could use it to perform an impromptu puppet show. Lastly, there is a delicate silver bell on a purple velvet cushion.

What do you do?

A. Descend through the trap door
B. Perform a Shakespearean tragedy with the headless corpse
C. Perform a slapstick comedy with the headless corpse
D. Perform a Die Hard-type action film with the headless corpse
E. Ring the awful bell
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Jeff Wiles
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You reach out timidly for the slender handle of the bell, but once you grasp it, you ring it with the authority of the regent you are.

For a delicious moment, it appears that nothing will happen, but then the door opens and a twisted form that may once have been human shuffles into the room. Its single arm is curled over its chest, and a twist of cloth is wrapped around its mismatched legs. One eye is milky and the other squints at you from a weeping socket. You think you might see maggots swimming in the ooze.

- Ask for food

- Ask about the trapdoor

- Ask how to leave the hotel
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David Aubert
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- I want food.
- Here is it, Pancakes with sausages ... It's what you wanted for your breakfeast, right ?


A) How do you know that ? (Threaten the servant with the butter knive)
B) Absolutely ! (Eat at least your well deserved breakfeast)
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