A Sad Sad Tale, Chapter Two

A guaranteed 'WTF'

Chapter Two; An Unnecessary Drive, and the Realisation That Your Passengers Aren’t There

Sam jumped into the driver’s seat, and behind him, Chilton, Ned, Corban, Voice-over Guy and the Ghost of Christmas Past piled in to the back seats. Sitting in the passenger seat was an elderly sky-pirate, with a glazed over look. In front of Sam were two long rows of bone-handled levers, each set at a slightly different angle.
The elderly sky pirate Cloud Wolf spoke.
“These levers control the hanging weights. The stern-weight, prow-weight, starboard hull-weights, small medium and large; port hull-weights, ditto, mid-hull, peri-hull, neben-hull, and klute-hull-weights…’ he said, rattling off the names. ‘And these levers on the other side are attached to the sails. Foresail, aftsail, topsail,’ he said tapping the levers, each in turn. ‘Mainsails – one and two – skysail, staysail, studsail, boomsail, spinnaker and jib. Got that? It’s just a matter of keeping everything in balance.”
Sam took hold of the helm. He turned to Cloud Wolf.
“Thanks mister.”
“No problem son.” He held out his fist in front of him. “Cloud Wolf away!” He then slowly struggled out of the car, panting every few moments, complaining of a bad back. Once outside, he hobbled off along the pavement and out of sight. Sam turned his attention back to the car which, conveniently enough, had changed back to a regular car. With a determined look in his eye, and spoke.
“Let’s see what this baby can do.” A few hours of testing, poking, and playing later, they found out that the baby in Sam’s bag could dance, sing, paint fences, and recite the complete works of Lord Byron in French.
“Are we going anywhere? My ass has fallen to sleep.”
*Sam has resisted the chance to make a joke about snoring sounds coming from Chilton’s anus, because this scene, much like the previous one, is currently going nowhere.*
Turning the key in the ignition, Sam slammed the pedal to the metal (of the car floor). The car instantly shot out of the drive and onto the main road, narrowly missing a bus full of small welsh midgets, who were pretending to be Irish so that they could drink Guinness with no aggravation AWWGO (Anti-Welsh with Guinness Organisation) who were currently becoming practically genocidal in what they thought was God’s will. Ironically enough, when they had been on the prayer to God, they had crossed transmitions with the Satanists in the next flat. So instead of joining forces with the Welsh to better balance things in the natural world order, they were sent to kill them instead. They thought of a clever front with a funny sounding name to keep all but the most intellectual at bay – if anyone tried to question them, they would be brutally murdered, and if questioned, the AWWGO would say,
“Naa, that wasn’t us. And even if you prove it was us, which it blatantly was, it still wasn’t us, and you’re lying.”
A few hours after nearly being hit by Sam’s crap driving, they realised they had not stopped driving, and all died successive heart failures, except for one, who went on to become the seventy-eight Beatle (right after Ringo Starr, and a small dead rodent of unknown origin).
As they drove, Sam flicked on the radio. Despite Radio One’s pledge to always play new music, Bohemian Rhapsody was on. Obviously, everyone wet themselves – Freddy Mercury’s voice has that affect on people. In the back of the car, an invisible force was yanking Chilton’s skull back and forth.
“Holy Shit!” Corban began.
“Holy Shit!,’ Ned interrupted. ‘He’s been possessed, possibly by something!” Everyone gasped, except for Corban who was angry for loosing a key line, Sam who was busy with the road, Chilton who seemed to have lost control of his body (and its fluids), VoiceOver Guy who was never very surprised by anything, Ned who was examining Chilton, and the Ghost of Christmas Past who had no vocal chords (but, he will certainly be talking later, even if only briefly, just to funny up this dead serious bore-fest (much like incest (ice is nice, but incest is best
(a weird rhyme made up by Corban Wilkin (who was once called Short Kid (and sometimes Corbz™)))))).
Sam pulled the car off the main road and up Junction 69 (yes, I have been shot for that) into a giant inter-dimensional wormhole: ‘Expect severe delays and vomiting.’
“Ned, you seem to know a lot about possession. Are you sure you’re still clean from your old ‘possession’ days?” Ned looked around with shifty eyes.
“Uh… yeah, of course I am. But I have to get out of this plotline due to a change in the author’s friends, caused by a long space between writing the first and second chapter.” He kicked open the door and jumped out into the time rip all around them, laughing as he was sucked through. He arrived in the place of a very lonely Greek man, ‘strengthening his relationship’ with his pet dog. Needless to say, after that day, Ned never looked at a poodle quite the same way again.
When I (the author) first meet Ned Dowling (the Ned), he was sitting alone in the corner of our new Year Ten classroom, looking alone. Always being a nice guy at heart, I befriended him, and tried to make sure he didn’t turn out to be a cunt. He is still a pretty cool guy, though not quite as cool as he was before Tom Howell enveloped him, to create Uber Howell. But that’s a different story for a different time, regardless of how sexy you think you may be,
Bohemian Rhapsody was now at the real anus-booting parts towards the end where, during concert, the fans would all lose control of their vital organs. Their hearts would all start pumping to the sound waves sent out by Queen, leaving them with irregular and often overly rapid pulses. This usually sent all blood to their lungs, causing them to be pulled down, and ripped from the windpipe due to the excess weight, whilst at the same time, their brains would become oxygen starved, and would override themselves, and shut down. The worst incident of these events was in Hyde Park, London, during 1977. Passers by got caught by some of the effects, and the resulting pileup weakened the road, which eventually cracked open. A huge tanker of oil drove into it, and as it couldn’t hold up the weight of the meaty vehicle, the whole road fell through to the underground line beneath (as apposed to being above, which would make a whole load of sense). Two hundred and thirty four commuters were killed in three separate train crashes, the last of which caused the oil tanker to ignite, blowing away the entire surrounding neighbourhood. The overall death toll caused by the concert was never certain, but all sources pointed to it being over 5,000, some even suggesting as many as 12,000. Its not a well-publicised fact that since the release of Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen have killed more people than Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin, and Mary Queen of Scots put together. But, they got away with it because it’s a great a song, and everyone loves that ‘Galileo’ bit.
Chilton was salivating everywhere. He was also slowly spasming his way towards the still open car door. Corban realised this.
“At last, a chance to get noticed in the plotline,” he thought happily to himself. Putting on a serious face, he opened his mouth to exclamate.
“Sam, I don’t mean to bother you, but Chilton is gonna fall out the car!” VoiceOver Guy exclaminated. Corban growled.
Sam spun around, purposidentally spinning the wheel with him. Doing something purposidentally is when the character thinks it’s an accident, but the clever author (me) has already decided that he will do exactly this, as it contributes largely to a great portion of the storyline. Using the term purposidentally must be done with care, as some may mistake it to be used for pretty much anything an author writes about a character doing something accidentally. Despite what you may or may not think, writers do not plan books at all (especially Stephen King). We just write, and make it up as we go along. When you have the story planned, that is when you can use purposidentally. But never out of spontaneuity.
As Sam looked back, the car swung to one side in the middle of the vortex, and Chilton tumbled out, spasming as happily as an epileptic child mid-fit.
“Christ!” Sam profaniexclaminatered loudly. “Close that door.”
Somewhere back in the real world, Jesus crawled out of a small sewage duct by the side of a long abandoned road. Coughing hoarsely, he pulled the dead pig out of his hair; he wished he had heeded his father’s words now, but he thought it would be cool and badass to breed a pig in his skull. It had finally died during his previous horrifying adventure with the strongly Jewish Rat People, sacrificing its life for his in a heroic and awe-inspiring act that I will not go into. Needless to say, it was pretty amazing, so much so in fact that, witnessing it, or even hearing about it would make your own life so much better your penis would grow by up to three inches. Especially if you are a woman. The air shimmered all around him, and he closed his eyes.
“I’ve got to get to Sam as quickly as possible!” He jumped into the air, and then fell back to earth again.
“God didn’t upgrade me to SuperJesus™! What a bastard!” He began running along the road as fast as he could, occasionally stopping to ‘befriend’ (read molest) the more attractive of the cacti he passed.
Back in the car, The Ghost of Christmas Past moved his bishop diagonally forward and to the left by three squares.
“Scrotemate!” Corban looked around the board nervously, looking for a way out of the very complex form of Checkmate TGOCP had just pulled on him. In Fury, he had learnt to dance several native dances, made love to three animals (one of which was dead), and had lost a sum of money equal to the annual income of Microsoft through 2p slot machines (money which he did not actually own himself).
Angrily, Corban swiped all the pieces off the board, one of which shot straight through so-and-so’s temple (the ghosty guy… you know who I mean). Even though he’s a ghosty, it still effected him enough to send him straight back to Hell, where all of Charles Dickens’ characters (and indeed old Charlie himself) belong. VoiceOver Guy sighed. He had realised, as you should have too, that I am splitting up all the characters, and as he was not very prominent in anything, he was next. Opening his car door, he tapped his headset, testing it, then dived to his fate. Corban threw the chess pieces, board, and the original copy of the Bible he had found under some old newspapers in the back of Chilton’s Dad’s car out of the door, then grabbed the door, yanking it shut. He scrabbled into the front (triple word score, points value: 32) and sat down in the passenger seat next to Sam.
“Sam, this has fucked up a bit, hasn’t it?”
“Ho ho, yes Corban. Yes it has.” He continued steering the car through the air, despite the lack of logic (how can you steer when your wheels aren’t touching a solid surface, or any surface?). Suddenly an alert (also not there until I just added it right now) went off behind Sam’s head.
“Oh shit… unnecessary objects floating in the warphole…” Within seconds, huge chunks of metal were flying past the car, missing it by inches. As they rounded a huge bend (er; hehehehe) they saw what the problem was. There seemed to be a huge construction sight in the middle of the warphole. Hundreds of drones were working on it, flying around it, welding pieces together. It was like a huge honeycomb, surrounded by thousands of angry bees. But, the drones seemed clumsy, often letting go of huge girders, letting them be whipped away. These were now hurtling back towards Chilton’s Dad’s car. Luck seemed to be on Sam’s side, but she was sitting on the gearstick *for sexual pleasure*, so it was hard to tell, as she was moving up and down, and around a lot. Then it happened.
In the midst of the construction was what looked like a huge blade. It had come loose, and was breaking through the layers of metal surrounding it. All around, the tiny drones shot out long harpoons, all trying to stop it from escaping, but it was no good. With a final ear splitting screech, it broke through the outer rim *giggle* and, taking all the drones with it, began spinning straight for Sam’s car.
“Oh no! Someone’s disabled the steering!” Sam noticed. Corban looked at Sam, who was not actually trying to steer, but instead was eating Nachi the Nacho’s Nacho Topped Pizza Flavoured Cheese Sticks (not available anywhere, because they don’t exist). Corban was about to point this out, but he didn’t get a chance. The massive fuck-off blade sliced through the car (killing Luck (though don’t worry, it was just Anti-Luck, pretending to be here to win a bet with a small piece of glass she met in a pub)) and sent the two halves spiralling off out of the warphole. The blade swung downwards, and it too disappeared. In unison, the drones swore.

Interlude!
Oh no! It looks like our fearless adventures have all been separated. Don’t cry though. Here is an entertaining story to keep you amused.
One day Jimmins the Anally Retentive Irishman found a nickel.
“Exclamation! A nickel! Its my lucky day!” He then went home, ate a potato, lived in Dublin (and Belfast), owned a shamrock, drank four times his own body weight in pure alcohol, and made love to seventy two women he didn’t know (they didn’t realise it was happening either – the funny part comes nine months later). And he didn’t live happily ever after, because of the amount of parent tax he had to pay, or something, and he committed suicide by shoving a sharpened potato into his eye.
There, wasn’t that fun.