A couple of years ago, habnem started a Yahoo! Group for people who wanted to contribute to a stripcreator "novel." The novel itself had nothing to do with stripcreator other than the fact that the contributors were members of the site.

I now affectionately refer to the project as the "Scnovel." Of course, it came nowhere near completion. And I believe I was the last person to contribute. So, I'm going to post habnem's original "rules" and the resultant beginning of a story here with hope that it will be continued (and not just abused). Yeah, right. Anyway...

[hr]

habnem's rules (comments in bold are mine:
1) Everyone, upon his or her turn, should add about a page to the story-to-date (feel free to abbreviate this to STD; I'm going to). Interpret this as you like--all of us know how to crank the spacing up to 2.25 to stretch out a paper (:

2) If it's your turn and you're really feeling the groove or whatever, go ahead and write more than that, but be aware that if you exceed 3 or 4 pages, the rest of us are going to think you're a ballhog (or ballbag).

3) Keep the file in RTF--some of us have different word processors (okay, screw that; not necessary on the forums).

4) Once the story has found its voice/genre, please don't veer off in a different direction. Let's shoot for a cohesive story.

5) The first person will start the story; the last person will end it. Serial narratives that get passed around more than once without a clear stopping point will, I suspect, tend to fade away; again, we're shooting for a cohesive story here. If you're in the middle, think about where you are in the list--i.e., how soon the story will be ending--and try to move it along accordingly.

With that done, here are the nuts and bolts on the logistical side. I have already written my page, which introduces one character and his situation. I did this 'cause last time no one wanted to, and therefore no one ever did. I'm about to pass the STD on to whoever wants it (see how much fun that is?).

6) [Now irrelevant stuff deleted from paragraph 5] Since these are the forums, anyone is free to add to the Scnovel at anytime. I’m only posting this thing because I hate to see it die, and the forums could use a creative release.

Before I do that, though, let me say one last thing: Thanks, all, for putting up with me and my rambling, and have fun writing!

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Next post will be the STD.

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Chicken Feather Bed Bugs Bunny Hop Sing Out Side Street Walker Texas Ranger Cookie Dough Boy Wonder Years

[u]The Scnovel[/u]

When Carl Edwards woke up, he looked past his alarm clock, which had yet to go off, and looked at the desk calendar that sat just beyond it. He sat up and shook the sleep from his head.
“Holy jumping Jesus, it’s January 28,” he thought. “Six months since I moved to this shithole of a town.”
Carl knew that Indianapolis was a shithole because he had to; he was perhaps the world’s only professional Indianapolis expert. In his six months here, he had seen pretty much everything the Circle City had to offer. He had been to see the Colts, the Pacers, and even the Indians (a minor league baseball team playing in a really nice stadium was still, he had concluded, a minor league baseball team). His first month had brought the Brickyard 400 and the State Fair, with its climactic concert by the guy who sang that “All-American truck drivin’ son of a gun” song–in fact, the same guy had sung the anthem at the Brickyard, and Carl had wondered if the city council had gotten a bulk rate. Not long after that he had seen the Circle Centre mall (really nice), the zoo (kind of nice), and the “museum” of “art” (not so much).
From Carmel to Greenwood and Avon to New Pal, he had gleaned a working familiarity with just about every square block of Indy, and the prognosis was clear. Indianapolis was a typical blue collar town, a place where honest American folk settled down to drink beer, praise Jesus, and pay a little too much attention to professional wrestling; where thousands of people born in Mexico had landed to do their best imitation of same, albeit in Spanish. In short, it was a lot like any other city of comparable size in the Midwest, and he was certain no one would ever pay it any attention at all–although he could imagine the panic that would ensue if terrorists hit Eli Lilly and cut the nation off from its supply of Prozac and Cialis.
When the people he met at the bars in Broad Ripple would inevitably ask how he’d managed to spend this much time seeing the sights, he explained that it was his job. His boss was a very thorough man who liked to do a very thorough job, and he had currently set his “special task force” on finding a suitable location for a new Midwest distribution center. Carl had coworkers stationed in Kansas City, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Cleveland–pretty much anywhere that the citizens of the flyover states would consider a big city–for the same one-year tour of duty.
“What does the company do?” he would repeat, sighing hard. “Well, actually, I work for the nation’s number one manufacturer of marital enhancement solutions.”
Every time he was forced to give up this information, he wished it was what it sounded like: an ill-conceived cover story designed to conceal his real career in international espionage and intrigue, or something like that. Disappointingly, though, he was exactly as advertised–a dildo salesman–and what’s more, he had been for fifteen years. Well, except for the last six months, which he’d spent as a location scout.
Sincerely regretting his choice of occupation (it did not get the chicks he was hoping for), Carl hauled himself into the shower to rid himself of the debris from the night before. It was one of those binges that usually went down in fraternity history as the Great One, but for a single guy selling fake dicks, it was just pathetic. At best.
How six months had flown by so fast was beyond him, but he knew better than to expect the next six to go as fast. The first half of his tour might be all fun and games, but the second half was some serious work. Few towns would tolerate a single adult store in their midst, much less a distribution center. Most tended to run him off with torches and pitchforks blazing. Whoever drew Chicago and Minneapolis certainly had the sweet deal. There were whole suburbs dedicated to providing adults with everything their genitalia could hope for. Even St. Paul, the conservative half of the Twin Cities, had a decently red red light district.
But Indianapolis? Hell, it wasn't much better than Fort Wayne. It could be worse, he decided. Franklin was sent to Salt Lake City. The sex industry was so far underground; you had to be fossilized to scratch the surface.
Deciding he might as well get to work, Carl reluctantly left the warm confines of the shower and shuffled back into the bedroom of his seedy kitchenette. It looked just as dingy as it had these past seasons. Except for the very naked redhead sprawled on the floor. A very hot redhead. With the wrong genitalia.

CHAPTER TWO

The unfortunately-gendered redhead stirred from its sleep and looked at Carl with wide eyes. "I hope I didn't hurt you too much last night," the apparition smirked. "You did say you liked it rough and dirty."
"Oh s--sure," Carl stammered. "I always let pretty men have their way with me when I'm brain cell-killing drunk."
"Men? What the hell were you doing after I fell asleep? Wasn't I woman enough to satisfy you?" The redhead removed a very realistic (and hot seller) strapon to reveal the proper equipment for Carl's preferences. "I should have known. No man has all these toys laying about unless he's gay or peddling."
Carl sighed and plopped down on the bed, wincing at some potential bruising. Not to self, he grimaced. Keep the samples locked away in a very secure location.
Carl looked at his reflection in the standard-issue hotel dresser mirror and exhaled deeply into his hands. Smushed cigarette butts stood like a choir in the ashtray. The redhead began to gather her belongings.
“Are you hungry--" he began to ask.
“Heather,” she answered for him as she fished her panties from underneath the bed and stuck them in her back pocket.
“Sorry.” He winced a little. “It was a rough night and my memory’s a little blurry.”
Heather smiled, slipping on her shoes. “For you and me both.”
“Right. So are you hungry, Heather?”
“I could do with a bite.”

CHAPTER THREE

The air on the street was sharp and cutting, chilling them both to the core. Carl didn’t remember it being that bad last night. Of course he didn’t really remember much of anything from last night. The two walked in silence except for the sound of snow crunching under their feet, occasionally glancing over to nod his head at her or to pull his scarf down to smile. Many of the shops they passed weren’t even open yet, most of them family shops not yet put out of business by the Super Wal-Mart or the Super Target or the Super Strip-Mall. It was probably only a matter of time. Better not to dwell, he supposed.
Carl held the door open to the Kentucky Fried Chicken and Heather entered rubbing her hands together vigorously, Carl behind her.
“KFC…all right,” she ribbed him a little, shaking some flurries from her cap and brushing them from her jacket.
“Well, I’m on a really limited expense account so I’m trying to cut my pennies where I can, you know? And—“
“I was just kidding. KFC is perfect. I’m gonna run to the little girl’s room. Could you grab me a biscuit with some grape jelly and a coffee with extra cream?”
Carl nodded and began standing in the carnival-like line. What the hell am I doing, he thought to himself. A man in front of him hummed quietly along with “I got friends in low places,” which played on the Muzak system. What do you mean ‘what am I doing?’ he answered himself. You’re having breakfast with a woman you hardly know after having dirty-dirty sex while drinking massive amounts of alcohol last night. No big deal.
After getting their order and finding a seat (evidently KFC was a semi-popular spot at 8:00 in the morning in Indianapolis, make a note), he peeled open his chicken biscuit and waited for Heather to return from the bathroom. It was only 8:15 now so he had plenty of time to make his meeting with the building contractor at 9:00. That was the best thing about this part of town, everything was centrally located and conveniently within walking distance. Might be a good tagline for an ad at the store, he mused.
“Oh, goody. It’s here already,” Heather said, sliding into the booth beside Carl. She tore the jelly packet with her teeth and squirted a generous amount onto her biscuit, still steaming. She hardly looked the same to him, not that he had really had much to base that judgment on, but from the hotel room to the street to the brief couple of seconds when they entered KFC, it was Carl’s expert opinion that there must be some kind of amazing tools in the ladies’ room because she looked positively fetching now. Looking at himself sitting by her in the reflection of the window bearing a “Chicken Tenders!” sticker, he felt like he looked like a slightly hung-over guy who probably still smelled vaguely like sex and she looked, well, fresh. “Penny for your thoughts?” she announced before taking a mouthful of her biscuit.
“I was thinking that your biscuit would have tasted better with some grape jelly last night!”
“Sorry, Carl, I’m a Summer’s Eve Strawberry girl. You know my grandmother told me they had to use vinegar douches way back when. No wonder Grampa’s face was so wrinkled.”
“Talk about a sour puss,” Carl chimed in. He and Heather were practically under the table in hysterics—it didn’t help that Heather kept tickling Carl’s sack with those stiletto fingernails.
It was no wonder that Carl’s Thumbelina-brand butt plug nearly popped out when two large greasy hands slammed down on their table.
“Do you two perverts mind keepin' your voices down? I’m tryin' to have a little breakfast with my family at the KFC, and all this pussy talk is embarrassin'—never mind the fact that my wife is a lady of dainty virtue, and I’m gonna hafta answer some sticky questions from the boy.”
“Hey,” Carl managed, “Aren’t you the one with ‘friends in low places?’” Heather didn’t know what the hell Carl was talking about, but she had to stifle a giggle into her purple biscuit.
“Mister, that song’s about people without money, not people without morals. I’m not sure about your whore, but it’s obvious you’re not from around here. So, tone it down or get outta town. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, we didn’t realize we were being so loud. Thank you.” Carl exhaled and watched as Low Places turned and went back to his seat a little up the aisle. Carl wasn’t surprised to see that the “lady of dainty virtue” would’ve qualified as a heavyweight boxer. Carl was surprised when four tiny daggers nearly punctured his balls.
“Way to defend my honor, you dildo dickerer!” Heather squeezed a bit harder when she said “dick.” “I thought you were a decent guy when you offered to buy me breakfast. I hope you don’t believe in omens because getting talked down by a Bible-thumper and having your balls crushed by a whore is NOT a good way to start your day. Good bye!” And so Heather stormed out, but not before turning around, putting her thumb up to her ear and her finger at her chin, and mouthing, “Call me,” to an utterly confused Carl Edwards. Of course, no one saw her because all the eyes in the restaurant were now looking at him.
Carl hated jingoism, so he decided that valor was the better part of discretion. He stood up, threw down the three-fourths-of-the-way-eaten chicken biscuit, and said in his clearest, loudest voice, “What’s the matter with you hayseeds, you never seen a dildo salesman before?”
Then, Carl took out one of his business cards, strode over, and laid it down in the middle of Low Places’ table. By the looks on their faces, Carl might as well have dropped ass and left a big steaming pile of shit there for them to contemplate. “Now if you folks don’t mind,” he continued, “I, Dildo Salesman, have a meeting to attend!” And as Carl marched out of KFC, one old, horny fucker in the corner stood up and clapped.

CHAPTER FOUR

As Carl crossed into the parking lot, subconsciously wondering why his morning biscuit had a vague pickle flavor to it, Willie Morgan finished his one-man round of applause, and resumed licking his right index finger. Already, the flavor of nine herbs and spices had been washed away, but those last two were always a bit of a challenge. Summer’s Eve Strawberry, he thought, hardly any woman had used that flavor since the rumors of mild physical addiction associated with the product streaked across the Internet. Obviously, that so-called hooker was playing another game, something so intricate, he could but guess at its nature.
He did recall reading the item in the Star a few years back that mentioned that the Hamaker Pharmacy out on North Penn was the one drugstore in town that still carried the flavor, which had caused a half dozen feminists from the nearby Butler campus to picket it for a week. Willie decided to stop at the library newspaper archives, and then proceed on to Hamaker and hopefully pick up that cold trail.

CHAPTER FOUR-AND-A-HALF

Carl, of course, was oblivious to all this as he approached the converted apartment building that housed four proctology practices, three OB/GYNs, two orthodontists, and the law firm of Flynn, Chase and McGee. It did not escape Carl’s notice that he had surmounted 9-1 odds, and when he walked out of this edifice in 45 minutes, he would not be in excruciating physical pain. Perhaps his luck was changing.
Initially, Eldridge Chase was not thrilled by the prospect of researching the ordinances regarding the sale and use of marital aids within the city of Indianapolis, but the further his investigations had taken him, the more he was fascinated. How had it come to pass, for instance, that no dildo over 6.5” in length could be sold west of Interstate 65, yet no such restriction held on the half of the city east of that artery? Or, what were the reasons behind the sets of colors that the marketed phalluses could or could not have? And how and to whom could these items be legally bequeathed in one’s estate? Who knew that the size and number of batteries in vibrating units could make such a difference?
By any means, the bottom line was that there was only one small patch of town, maybe eight blocks in size, where the Indianapolis distribution center, given all the products it would market, could be located, somewhere out on the north side, up by the Butler campus. The significance of this neighborhood had yet to be revealed, and because of its modest size, Carl left the meeting dejectedly. For now, optimism remained dormant. But as was foretold a scant two paragraphs prior, it could be truthfully said that he was not experiencing any excruciating physical pain.

CHAPTER FOUR-POINT-SEVEN-FIVE

The same could not, however, be said about Patrick Swayze. Why this could not be said about Patrick Swayze is because the only person to witness whether or not Patrick Swayze was experiencing any excruciating physical pain at that moment was the squirrel currently suffocating in his rectum. While the squirrel lacked the oral dexterity necessary to form words and phrases, if given the requisite amount of air it may have been able to communicate at least audibly. Also, despite its growing black confusion, the squirrel could tell that based on the lack of attempts by Patrick Swayze to remove the squirrel from his anus, Mr. Swayze indeed was NOT experiencing any excruciating physical pain.
Chakkamookanikka, as the squirrel was called by his fellow squirrels, was (with increasingly fading consciousness) lamenting the series of events that led to his “capture” and “imprisonment”, when his reverie was interrupted. Fortunately for him, it was interrupted by a seemingly crushing blow and a swooping rush of fresh air. His grogginess cleared quickly and he realized he was no longer in the ass of the once-popular actor.
In fact, Chakkamookanikka was embraced surprisingly gently by the cup of the toilet plunger that was used to remove him. Chakkamookanikka turned his little head even farther to the left to see Carl holding the plunger, who said, “Dammit, Swayze! How many innocent creatures are you going to murder?” Carl opened the window and shook Chakkamookanikka as gently as he could out onto the nearby ground. The little rodent skittered off cartoonishly, as it seemed to be running in the air for several seconds above the ground before it took off like a shot.
Carl was not very happy. Dildo salesmen don’t normally have sidekicks, and as sidekicks go, Patrick Swayze was not a great one. Also, Carl thought bitterly, There aren’t normally such things as dildo salesmen either. None of this made Carl feel any better about Swayze hanging around in his lawyer’s office. Swayze had a proctologist’s appointment today in the office down the hall, with Dr. Gesäßforscher. Apparently after being told he was in good anal health, Patrick Swayze celebrated by stuffing a poor tree-leaper into his healthy colon. Why Swayze chose to walk down the hall to Chase’s office to perform his act of sodomizing himself with a furry woodland creature, Carl surmised he’d probably never know.
Then, Carl realized the folly of that thought. Affecting the voice of Tim Meadows pretending to be Ike Turner, Carl said, “Patrick Swayze, what fo’ did you come to mah lawyuh’s office jes’ to put a fuzzy creatchuh in yo’ butt?” Patrick, who had not moved an inch since Carl’s plunger (which he happened to carry with him in case of one of his products ever becoming stuck in some poor volunteer’s orifice) had removed the asphyxiating nut-hoarder from his lowest sphincter, shrugged his shoulders. Since Carl was standing behind Patrick Swayze, with Swayze still half-bent forward, as if combining the two ass-wiping techniques of standing and sitting, what Carl saw when Swayze shrugged his shoulders was Swayze’s ragged asshole pucker involuntarily. Or voluntarily, Carl couldn’t be certain. All he knew was that Swayze was going to have to whip himself into shape, without the use of squirrels and their ilk, and definitely not use his anus as the main target.

CHAPTER FIVE

Eldridge Chase’s secretary looked up and motioned towards Carl. “Mr. Chase will see you now, Mr. Edturds,” she said. Carl winced. There was no way in hell this little twit could have mispronounced “Edwards”. That had to have been deliberate. He advanced towards the secretary angrily, dismissively addressing his sidekick, “Pull up your fucking pants, Swayze. The days when anyone wanted to see your ass were over after Road House.” Swayze looked hurt, but dipped his asshole even lower to the ground to pull up his bicycle shorts.
Carl stormed over to the secretary’s desk and grabbed the papers she had in front of her, ignoring her outrage. He examined them and saw that his last name had been crossed out on all of the communication to the secretary, and replaced with “Edturds”. The handwriting on “Edturds” was a familiar, barely legible second-grade pigeon-scratch, with backwards vowels. “Swayze,” Carl muttered under his breath. He glanced at Patrick Swayze, who despite his age and weight gain, was attempting to re-create the Jennifer Grey dance scenes from Dirty Dancing with a couch cushion. He saw that Swayze, while amidst the mincing and prancing, would favor Carl with a mischievous, knowing grin.
The damage had been done, though. The secretary had called Carl “Mr. Edturds”. Swayze’s little plot had succeeded. Carl knew that soon Swayze would move to attempting to re-enact the love scenes as well, so he made for Chase’s office as quickly as he could. Swayze would only be busy for a minute or two, and he needed to make the best of it.
When a haggard-looking Carl Edwards entered his office, Eldridge Chase was absent-mindedly picking at the remains of his breakfast, a croissant that had passed its freshness date during the Carter administration. “Mr. Edwards, have a seat,” Chase said, gesturing with one hand toward an empty, tattered chair on the other side of his desk. “How has your day been so far?”
“Look, don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to,” Carl sighed, “and trust me, you don’t want to know the answer. So let’s dispense with the wanky-wanky and get to business. Any news on the possible site? I need something to tell my supervisor other than ‘I fished another squirrel out of Swayze’s ass this morning.'”
“Well, Carl,” Eldridge started. “I can call you Carl, right? Good. First things first, I did my research, and the neighborhood I told you about earlier truly is the only area that fits all of your firm’s needs. It is a relatively small amount of space, and there’s nothing I can do to make it bigger for you. Lastly, I really didn’t need to know about the squirrel.”
With that last word, the figure of Patrick Swayze, pants still half undone, appeared in the doorway, humming a wistful tune. “Eldridge!” he bellowed. “You must work at Home Depot on the side, 'cause you’re sure giving me wood.”
Carl hung his head in frustration. He hated dragging this pile of piss around with him, but the higher-ups back at HQ thought he would make for great PR. The housewives can’t get too upset about dildos and marital aids when Patrick Fucking Swayze is making their panties moist. What HQ hadn’t counted on was that Swayze’s fall from Hollywood grace had made him more than a bit off-center. To put it bluntly, he was batshit insane. And now, he was another one of Carl’s problems. The worst part is, no matter how embarrassing Swayze acted, everybody besides Carl ate it up with a spoon.
In fact, esteemed lawyer Eldridge Chase was virtually in hysterics over Swayze’s profane and stupid (and profanely stupid) outburst. The sight of this highly respected professional, red-faced and doubled over laughing from a half-assed comment made by a washed-up star made Carl question his choice of profession once again. “If I had just stuck to the oboe,” he thought, “I could’ve gotten all the pussy.”
Carl snapped out of his reverie and cut right into the inane conversation going on at the moment. “Maybe Patrick and I should take a trip over to the site and do some scouting,” he said, and quickly turned to Swayze, just waiting for the little bastard to complain.
"Oh, sure," Swayze began, sounding more like a whiny douchebag than ever before. "Clockwork!" Carl thought to himself angrily. Swayze continued:
"Let Swayze do the scouting! Make Swayze scout for so and so. Make Swayze gravitate those-"
"Pat," Carl said, interrupting. "Fuck you. Okay?"
Swayze was absolutely silent.
"No! NO! Just FUCK YOU!!! Okay!? Fuck you in the ass with no lube!"
"Carl-"
"SHUT UP! You're going to be scouting WITH me, okay? No one's making you scout, dipfuck. I hate your pansy-ass whining, you colostomy-fucking shit maggot!"
The two were silent. Carl, surprised by his own outburst of Tourette's, and Swayze, still hoping someone would fuck him in the ass with no lube, made nary a peep.
Eldridge walked over to Swayze and bent over to his ear. He whispered into his ear "I think he's a bit mad." Swayze responded, "Like angry mad or insane mad?"
"A little of both. I think it would be in his best interest if we sent him to the asylum."
"Oh! You don't mean the local asylum..."
Eldridge stood up and said in a loud, clear voice, "That's right! We're sending you, Carl, to THA ASS-EYE-LUM!!!"
"FUCK!!" Carl screamed.

CHAPTER SIX

It didn't matter what anyone said--Rich Hawthorn hated Las Vegas. Even before he had stepped out of his limo and into the vast maw of this fruity German-themed hotel and casino, he had been viscerally reminded of the fact that the whole town just really gave him a case of red-ass. Hypocrisy naturally did that to him.
It had dawned on him as he'd come up the Strip from McCarran Airport. He went past the fruity castle-themed hotel and casino and saw, out in front, people handing out cards and brochures full of nude and nearly-nude women who, prompted at a moment's notice by a discreet phone call, would come to your room and "entertain" you. The people with the cards and brochures couldn't say anything about the services they advertised, nor could the advertisers be any more specific about said services. No--in a state where prostitution was famously legal, Las Vegas, the world's greatest monument to vice, sat in the one county where that was not the case. That said, hawkers silently plied their trade, attempting to entice visiting conventioneers to sample the "entertainment" on tap by shoving handbills in their face--in front of structures that were seemingly made of Legos, no less.
Hypocrisy was a particularly hot-button issue for Hawthorn, a crime he'd often been accused of. A lifelong Baptist, he had, some time ago, started up a certain business enterprise. He called it Samson & Delilah Inc., after learning that the other famous Biblical couple had already apparently signed a deal to endorse a different line of sex toys. And yea verily did it come to pass that Samson & Delilah grew, to the point at which it had distribution in thirty states and three countries. Long story short, he wound up relocating Headquarters to the only place he could think of--the San Fernando Valley--and attempted to join a small Southern Baptist Church there. The deacons were concerned about accepting his membership, given his unorthodox livelihood. Hawthorn, as he often had, mused that in a sinful world like this one someone will always fill that demand; it might as well be someone who's going to invest the proceeds in furthering God's work, right? The deacons thought over his reasoning and, having calculated the tithe on a $15 million salary, decided that it was sound logic indeed.
Rich Hawthorn may have had a hard time recognizing real hypocrisy if it clad itself in neon and jumped out in front of him, but he knew he hated it, and Las Vegas was full of it. Anyway, here he was, where he found himself every April, at the Adult Novelty Universal Convention (it had started as the Adult Novelty Universal Soiree until some locals, hypocrites all, decided they didn't so much like the signage).
He had just stepped out of a seminar entitled "Money Shots: How to Weather a Slump Without Egg (Or Anything Else) On Your Face," when his cell phone rang. Checking the display, he saw it was Carl. He looked at his watch, did some quick time-zone math, and flipped it open, concern spreading across his face.
"You're burning precious anytime minutes, Edwards. Tell me Swayze's okay."
"Swayze? Oh, he's fine, except for some possible internal bleeding. No, I'm calling because they've just had me committed."
"What? Who has?" Rich found the news unexpected.
"Eldridge and Swayze. They're taking me to fucking Terre Haute, to a mental institution. I'm calling from an ambulance."
"Are you crazy?"
"What do you mean--am I kidding, or am I in fact crazy?"
"Either, both. I don’t know."
"It's like this: I went on a swearing rampage at them, because they're a couple of fucktards, and they had me committed. Evidently the law says you can send a family member to a hospital for a 24-hour observation period if you suspect he's a danger to himself or others. But since I have no family in the state, I guess it turns out my attorney has power of attorney. It's pretty fucked up."
"Watch your mouth, young man. Put Swayze on the phone."
"I would put Swayze on the phone, IF he was in the ambulance with me. Even he's not crazy enough to get into an enclosed space with me after pulling this shit."
"Well, fudge it, Carl. So you're telling me you'll be poopcanned for 24 hours while this plays out?"
"Unless you can convince Swayze and Eldridge to quit playing their fuck-fuck games with me….yes."
"I said watch your mouth, Carl."
"That's awful hard to do without looking in a mirror as I talk, sir."
"All right, Edwards. You're going to owe both me and Jesus a heck of a reckoning after this is through. Let me get a hold of Swayze."
"Don’t bother," Carl said miserably, "I can use the break from all this bullshit."
The next sound Hawthorn heard was a click as Carl Edwards hung up the phone.

Carl put down his cell phone with a grimace and held his arm out to the EMTs. One of them nodded and strapped his arm back down.
"Thanks, guys.", Carl drolled, "I mean, for everything you've done."
The EMTs looked hurt, and one of them even had the moxy to pout.
"We're just doin' our jobs, man!", he said with the fervor of a watery-eyed James Dean.
"Which is preventing me from doing MY job. Do I look or sound even remotely crazy to you?"
The other EMT spoke up, and his voice was deep and gravelly, as if he were gargling sand instead of speaking. The sound of it sent shivers cascading throughout Carl's body, as he had never heard such an otherworldly sound emanating from a human vocal array.
"That is for the Psychiatrist to evaluate, Mr. Edwards.", he said.
"Well, hurry the fuck up and get me there, then, so I can prove to this schmuck that I'm just as goddamn sane and assfucked rational as the cuntraping next boyfucking asshole!"
The gravelly-voiced EMT smiled, and Carl swore that the EMT's teeth were not the little white Chiclets they were supposed to be. He thought he saw razor-sharp, Tyrannosaurus teeth in that EMT's head. He also noticed that the EMT's skin had taken on a grayish hue and seemed to be pulled unnaturally taut across his skull. Carl closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth violently, to wash the vision away. The EMTs took this as a sign of struggle and pounced on him to stabilize his neck as well.
Carl was still too shocked to struggle and merely let the EMTs restrain his neck movement. As they did so, Carl looked up at the same EMT who had shown him the razor-teeth earlier. The EMT was not looking directly at him, and Carl saw no hint of any of the previous devilishness he'd witnessed. Carl closed his eyes and thought, "Maybe Eldridge and that prick Swayze were right to have me evaluated."

Heather sped as fast as she could towards the hospital. She knew she may not make it in time, but her pedicured foot was as far down on the gas as she could possibly push it. More than anything, she needed time. She made up her mind to stop before the hospital if she needed to.
She risked a glance backwards, checking to see if Carl was still alive. His face was smooshed by the neck-stabilizer pads they placed around his head, but he was still breathing. That was good. What wasn't good was that she might have to kill the other EMT as well. He was definitely human, but she could not risk letting him live with the knowledge of what his partner actually was. She allowed herself to think linearly, without emotion. If the EMT was not dispatched by her, most likely the thing inside his partner would kill him first, and in a far less humane way. She was just glad neither one of the EMTs had really looked at her as they jumped into the back of the ambulance when the call came through.
"Sit tight, Carl.", she thought.

INTERLUDE

The scnovelist made a fist and pounded said fist against his or her forehead. What the hell was I smoking when I wrote that last chapter? Oh yeah…crack. The crack cocaine had been left at the scnovelist's house by his or her best friend's dealer's girlfriend’s pimp. The pimp's name had been…Willie…something quite ordinary. The pimp had been short and white, but his hair was tall, black, and greasy. Instead of giving a handshake, the pimp had dropped a vial of crack into the scnovelist’s' hand, bent forward with stealthy grace, and whispered, "Call it a housewarmin' present, bro (or sis)."
The scnovelist had murmured surprised thanks, but he or she quickly dropped the vial into his or her pocket and forgot about it until the next day. The scnovelist smoked the crack (after executing a quick Internet search on how to do so) that next day as a purely observational and experiential exercise, of course. He or she had woken up that night in front of his or her monitor promptly greeted by CHAPTER SIX. After rereading the entire story twelve times and chapter six twenty-four times, the scnovelist was kicked in the head by the donkey of inspiration and began writing…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Carl Edturds had no idea that Heather the prostitute was racing along in front of the ambulance wherein he was currently strapped down. And, even though Carl had seen Heather's I.U.D. ID card that morning while checking her purse for small bills, he had no Idea that I.U.D. stood for Intergalactic United Detectives. No, Carl the doofus had thought it natural for a hooker to carry an I.U.D. card. For all he knew, it qualified Heather for discounts on a range of pregnancy prevention products. He had meant to ask Heather about the card over breakfast, but she had stomped out--taking his heart and curiosity with her. What Carl couldn't remember was whether or not Heather had taken her biscuit, too. "Biscuit," he thought and, next, "Croissant!"
Though his arm was strapped down, Carl's hand retained its normal range of motion.
So, Carl reached into his pocket and grabbed Eldridge Chase's stale croissant. Yes, in addition to stress-induced coprolalia, Carl was also afflicted with mild kleptomania. Most of the time, Carl kept his klepto under control, but certain items tended to pique his pilfering interest. In Carl’s case, the most attractive items were crescent shaped. Thus, he really had had no choice but to steal Eldridge’s croissant while the normally stilted Mr. Chase had been guffawing at stupid fucking Patrick Swayze. Luckily for Carl, the stolen savory saved his life.
With zero knowledge of why he was doing so, Carl flicked the croissant back and over his head toward the double doors of the ambulance. In an unlikely event, the stale croissant knocked loose the hinged handle of those double doors, and the doors (not featuring Jim Morrison) swung wide open. The EMT closest the doors leapt back in fear. However, in an even more unlikely event, the EMT with Tyrannosaurus-type teeth leaped--screaming and salivating--out the doors after the croissant and was subsequently pulverized by a tour bus full of paleontology students. What makes this final action so ridiculously and highly unlikely is the fact that Carl Edwards had absolutely no inkling of an idea that he had been abducted by a space-hustling resident of the planet Tyranno disguised as an EMT, nor did Carl know that Tyrannese were highly addicted to stale croissants--especially those in motion--and, further, that residents of planet Tyranno had once been spirits of actual dinosaurs which escaped just before a rogue comet collided with Earth and killed nearly everything and that those same spirits emigrated to a planet, took a remarkably human form, and decided to call themselves the Tyranno (even though Rex was a pretty cool name) and nearly match the name that Earth people would give the Tyranno's dinosaur forebears millions of years later, and, as the final blow to logic, everyone knows that paleontology students seldom take bus tours to Indiana.
Gloriously oblivious to all of this information was the ambulance driver who had spent the morning in a foul mood because his pocket pussy had exploded from overuse the night before and now the driver knew that he'd have to spend the next four-to-six weeks masturbating (because he was too damn cheap to pay for express shipping) while waiting for his new pussy to arrive. Thus, the ambulance driver was lost in self-debate about potential personal lubricants and paying no attention to street signs, signals, nor traffic when he smashed into the rear of Heather's red Volvo (pun intended).

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Chicken Feather Bed Bugs Bunny Hop Sing Out Side Street Walker Texas Ranger Cookie Dough Boy Wonder Years

Ah, this thing brings back memories; strange, strange memories.

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Peeing sitting down is the gift you give yourself.

I know I wrote part of that, but reading it, I couldn't for the life of me tell you which part.

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I has a flavor!

I used to live within walking (or rather driving, to the people out there) distance of the "museum" of "art". I totally identify with the first part of the story. I also attended a demolition derby for the first (and last) time in my life. And no one seems to have worked in the flasher girls that line up in front of the brickyard (which I was invited to be a part of, but declined).

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Mediocrity at its most average.

I'm pretty sure I was part of the original SC Novel group, although I don't think I ever actually contributed anything to it since I never check my Yahoo! mail.

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Dad was flammable