Thread to Write a Story Using One Sentence Per Post

'V' had hated the man who'd sold him those out of phase saras, a hatred hed carried festering in his heart for too long, and now in the briefcase he had the pictures which would destroy Parry in the Swindon rotary club for ever!

"Ah good evening Mr Parry" said Evil Lord Vuksanovic, "How is the Goat?"

"Please please Vuk keep the goat between us..

I’ve been to hell and back lately and I fear it’s not just a phase I’m going through."

Parry, peered from below his Locke's fedora, ran his fingers along the "Rose and Scroll" of the Purdy 20 bore concealed beneath his aging leathery Barbour smiled and said Ahh the Ball and Nutter we meet at last.

* product placement by Cobblers of Hoxton*

And then the door bell went, causing him to awaken from his profound dream...

He stumbled to the door, half asleep, tripping over a Led Zeppelin DVD which he picked up, soaked in with a shrug, and tossed into the fireplace despite the probable, and perhaps violent, disapproval by his guest.

Bleary and but half-awake, he pushed the door open, only to find his way blocked by a vast mountain of remaindered copies of Sting's autobiography.

Stately plump Vuk Vuksanovic came to the stairhead clad only in a skimpy nightie followed by several rather toussled, sheepish members of Take That.

A Mini, on leave from having adventures, hears of the lizard’s plight and goes to rescue it from certain dodgy Vuksanovic photo shoot, buxom models or not, the end?

The magnificent end of the buxom model was an object of intense fascination for Fred Scuttle as he chased her and her scantly clad sisters up and down the stairs all throughout the closing credits of this arthouse production.

Once again, the Buyer came to; still whispering the mantra, "I am not a lizard - I am not a lizard."

Professor McTavish began explaining that there was no market for experimental science fiction but the Buyer fixed him with a hypnotic stare and hissed ever more slowly and emphatically, "I am not a lizard - I am no-o-o-t a lisssssssssard."

McTavish knew now that it was too late - that he of all people must now bear this terrible responsibility - but even as he reached for his semi-automatic Smith and Wassname the Buyer's tongue lashed across the room with the speed and ferocity of a whip.

The crack brought Domf from his daydream, leaning over the railway bridge on Croft Road, watching the trees sway and the lights play from the nearby Plough Inn, diffracted from its bent leaded panes - "God" he thought "Swindon is a shithole".

He knew this was his last ever journey and it was only Parry that could have brought him here to settle the old score once and for all - and his mind raced "toy taxi, Parry, Marco, Evil Professor Vuk, Emily Bishop, the hearty stew.....Mrs Mick... Yes!! Mrs Mick!!

No-one could have ever recognised the taste, Mrs Mick and her legendary cullinary skills were famous of course, but why now was becoming clear...no-one had ever eaten lizard before...

ANd then the dreaded MatRob appeared, half cousin to the Matrix, he rushed thru the assembled crowd flashing (his camera) at the mob as the Buyer rushed down the steps of the British Museum shouting "I've got one, I've got one" - Toy responded "You are not taking that statue of Bachus in my taxi"

Derek

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"Yes I am", although only a body of a Roman God the cab driver would get a good enough tip if he got it to Swindon within the hour.

Sadly, the taxi driver kept yammering on about his fiancée; this faux pas cost him his tip.

In disgust the buyer placed the statue on the spare plinth across from Nelsons column. There wasa scream of angush from behind as a group of modern artist bore down lofting the body of a cow preserved in formaldehyde above their heads.

"A mossst unexssspected pleasssure," said the Buyer, licking his lips in anticipation, "a pre-dinner morsel."

As Mr Toy had taken 250 pounds cash as an advance payment on a journey outside of the boundaries of his licensing authority, he didn't give a shit about the tip and managed to arrive well within the hour.



Regards,

Steve.

The Buyer, now in human form, came to again in a sea of formaldehyde and broken glass, and stared in amazement at Nelson's column, which he was almost certain did not belong in Swindon...

As the buyer got to his feet the crowd that had gathered around him inexplicably scattered in panic but, too dazed to even wonder why, he staggered to the side of road and yelled, "Taxi!"

"250 pounds in cash, not bad . . . not bad at all", little did he know that as he stroked and counted his wad his passage between London and Swindon had been secretly observed and already the feared GATSOS were munching through his wad of notes.