It seems to me that it's been a while since we've had any games that spark creative story telling, so as resident etymythologist and piffler, I'm going to start up a little game. I'm going begin a story, all you have to do is use your creative juices to continue it. But first, a couple of guidelines.

1. Story segments should be no more than 200 words in order to allow others to develop it. (And no double posting.)

2. No real-life comments, only story related posts.

3. Each segment must end with a statement that will lead into the next. (ie. "And then he . . .")

4. Try to keep the thread in a straight line so we don't have parallel universes of the story.


And here we go . . .

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, there lived a young lad named Gunther Nilpferd who had a unique habit of poking himself. He was a member an unusually large family that was rather poor. They lived in a cave in the side of a flower covered hill in the heart of a vast forest and depended mainly on the fish in a small stream for their daily nourishment. Despite his unfortunate lot, Gunther was determined to be a successful map maker, so one crisp autumn morning he saddled up his pet sheep and prepared to . . .

Gunther was determined to be a successful map maker, so one crisp autumn morning he saddled up his
pet sheep and prepared to . . .
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ride her to the famous Portugese map making town of Carta Blanca to seek his fortune. Alas, just three day's journey from home Gunther's sheep high-centered on a stone fence, so Gunther dismounted and began pushing her with all his might, attempting to dislodge her from her petrified perch. A young woman, Ursala Ovisrender, spied Gunther heaving mightily behind his sheep and....

A young woman, Ursala Ovisrender, spied Gunther heaving mightily behind his sheep and....
dismounting from the magnificent bay gelding she was riding she threw the reins to her faithful retainer and addressed Gunther in a haughty tone.
"You disgusting man, satisfy your peasant lust elsewhere and leave that poor animal alone."
Her words and the disdainful look on her beautiful face stunned Gunther. He ceased pushing and ....

Her words and the disdainful look on her beautiful face stunned Gunther. He ceased pushing and ....
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stood gawking at the regal-looking Ursala in disbelief. "I...I...," he stammered, then, reflexively poking himself in his left eye, "Oww.... I wasn't d-d- doing anything to Mathilde; she was stuck, and..." "Enough!" boomed Ursala. "you are on my family's land. We shall determine what you were doing and what the consequences shall be. Igor, her burly retainer, lifted Mathilde from the rock and turned towards the nearby town as the sickly sweet smell of tallow and curing hides wafted in the breeze. Ursala turned to Gunther and...

Ursala turned to Gunther and said, "Young man, we are going to examine the available forensic evidence to determine your guilt or innocence. If we find that you are guilty of committing unnatural acts with your sheep, we will either turn you into forensic evidence at the tanner's shop, or we will send you to Wales. My father the King, who's a wicked old thing with manners most alarming, will decide which."

Gunther paled. "Madam!" he quavered. "Ohhhh madam, oh madam ...!" he semi-quavered. "Please, just have me flayed. Being sent to Wales is too horrible a fate to contemplate!"

Ursala smiled regally, and ...

Ursala smiled regally and, glancing over her shoulder, rasped breathlessly, "Now that my faithful retainer (and churl) is out of earshot, I have something to ask of you..."

Ursala smiled regally and, glancing over her shoulder, rasped breathlessly, "Now that my faithful retainer (and churl) is out of earshot, I have something to ask of you..." "Please show me your dragon! All my maps have "here be dragons" at the edges, by the cartographer's signature, and I've always wanted to see a cartographer's dragon. If you will show me yours, I promise that, in return, I shall run away with you tonight, and pay for your tuition as a cartographer. If you refuse . . . "

I promise that, in return, I shall run away with you tonight, and pay for your tuition as a cartographer. If you refuse . . . "
you shall have to face that wicked old thing, my father the king. Gunther paled again at this! He was so unnerved that this time all he could get out was a hemidemisemiquaver
of agreement. So they set off back towards his flower-covered hill. She was too polite to ask why he kept poking his ribs as though they were borax, but she did wonder.
Gunther was wondering, too: how on earth he was going to
explain the absence of a dragon at his home, for he was not
a cartographer yet!

However, by the time they reached his hillock home, Ursala's feminine intuition was ringing alarm bells in her head. As they approached his charmingly rustic hovel, she fixed him with an icy glare, and demanded in her most regal tone: "Before we go in, tell me the truth. Do you have a dragon in there, or not?" Filled with a heady mix of fearful apprehension, and eager anticipation, Gunther squeaked: "...

Dragon?"

At that moment Igor leapt from the bushes still carrying the exhausted sheep. "I followed your footprints here in order to..."

At that moment Igor leapt from the bushes still carrying the exhausted sheep. "I followed your footprints here in order to inform you that no unnatural acts have been committed with this sheep. "

Feeling somewhat relieved, Gunther began to relax. Just at that moment, his wife Gretchen, stormed out of the cave. Seeing Gunther with the incredibly beautiful Ursala, Gretchen screeched "Gunther what are you...

Seeing Gunther with the incredibly beautiful Ursala, Gretchen screeched "Gunther what are you...doing home so soon?!" Gunther poked his head as Gretchen continued buttoning up her shirt.

Our intrepid hero, now remembering that he had a wife, and at such a young age, replied, "Well, dear, I, uh . . ."

"...have just invited this young lady up to my room to see my etchings of -"

"No, don't say it!" screamed Gretchen.

" - the Jazzoctopus!" finished Gunther, naming the much-feared mythical marine monster.

Gretchen began to tremble. Ursula stared at her. Just then a black cloud passed over the face of the sun, a chill wind sprang up, and ...

they all threw themselves to the ground on their faces, screaming, "The Jabberwock!! The Jabberwock!!." But as the monstrous black creature grew nearer, they changed to, "

they all threw themselves to the ground on their faces, screaming, "The Jabberwock!! The Jabberwock!!." But as the monstrous black creature grew nearer, they changed to, "Snark. Snark." For indeed it was that malign mythical metamontrosity, the bastard child of the firedrake and the serpent, often mistaken for a Boojum.

"You see" said our hero, head amongst the rough weeds, next to Ursula's. "

"You see" said our hero, head amongst the rough weeds, next to Ursula's, we're all toast unless we snivel, snorting and snotty, before the Snark. We must propitiate him and his dam, the Quordlepleen, and his sire, the Jazzoctopus. They all arose from the ground, joined hands and formed a ring, and began dancing, while singing, "

I started writing this when it appeared that JazzO's great idea had ground to a halt. I've kept adding to it, so it's a little longer than 200 words. But, having put in the effort, I thought I'd better inflict it on you all. [nya-nya emoticon] Don't flame me, please ... !

They all arose from the ground, joined hands and formed a ring, and began dancing, while singing, ""Who stole the meatloaf, who stole the meatloaf!" They were interrupted by a cavernous voice with a fruity, plummy Beeb accent, although a little croaky, which said brightly after the best style of Kenneth Horne, "Oh, helloooo, chaps. Bit of a clanger of a day, what!"

The churl and the churlish princess spun around to find before them what was previously behind them — a middling to largish dragon, more a serpent in their midst than a snark in the park. Truth to tell, it was rather tatty overall; scales loose, holes all over its wings, especially along the leading edges, generally a faded green in colour on top, but the hue had remained a little richer underneath. Which was, after all, the bit that the two callow castlepeople could see best - or at least most of. A wisp of smoke with the odour of ordure trickled from one running nostril and there were dull scorch marks around its muzzle. Its eyes were rheumy and a bit bloodshot, but very bright withall.

It had a natty silk scarf knotted neatly around its neck which had "St George was a Plonker" printed in felt tip marker on one trailing end. It also wore a pair of John Lennon specs and had an IBM Thinkpad under one wrinkled and partially chromatically-descaled forelimb.

Gunther shrugged and looked resigned. Gretschen looked angry and started tapping her foot. The churl was busy wondering if he had brought any spare under softwear along and the princess looked dumbstruck, mainly because she knew she hadn't. The sheep looked frightened, but that wasn't anything new. The Princess had mentioned Wales, after all, and it was a sheep, after all.

"The internet again?" Gunther asked, evidently rhetorically. He turned to the petrified princess. "Damned thing - owns the 'Do Drag Inn' in the middle of the forest, but makes all his money from writing bad comedy sketches for British TV. And always wants to access the Internet from our place." Gretschen nodded furiously, scowling. Scowling seemed to be her best feature.

The dragon arched one eyebrow, looked briefly from one to the other and said, in a hollow, cadaverous sort of a way, "Flippin' telco won't upgrade the exchange in Drown'emquik Swamp for halfway decent bandwidth. For some strange reason. What do you expect?" He shivered, showering everyone with whole scales and a varying number of tones from others.

"Well come along inside. This wind will be the death of me, damned if it won't!" And he sniggered, as at some inwardly-remembered joke, spraying sulphurous smoke and half-expended brimstone across the grass where it smouldered and stank to high heaven. Pushing the door open, he clattered into the house, talons tripping tinnily on the turquoise tiles. Our cast of idiots followed it in slowly. When they reached the parlour, they found that the dragon was already busily connecting its Thinkpad to a modem. "Don't you just love ADSL?" he asked heartily and without waiting for an answer he breezily waved one forelimb-thingy at easy chairs around the wall. "Please, sit down!"

A small pall of malodorous smoke was already gathering between the rafters. The Princess was the only one game enough to squeeze around the dragon to reach a seat on his other side. The serpent sniffed, screwed up its muzzle, wrinkled its nose and enquired innocently as she passed, "Anyone need to use the restroom? I'm sure Gretschen won't mind." Gretschen looked daggers at the dragon which blithely dodged them.

"Wha...what's your name?" asked the Princess nervously suddenly aware of the overall size of the dragon, "if you have one, and you don't mind my asking."

"Why, not at all and thanks for enquiring," the worm replied, plumily. "It's Monty Dipsas Python. Anyone got a drink?"

"But," protested the Princess, "you're not a python!"

"Try telling that to the marines," Monty snorted. A brief and very yellow gout of flame issued from one nostril and incinerated the flowers on the table, or rather, sprayed them liberally with soot. Then he laughed, the shaking of his rather ample belly dislodging a few scales which playfully tinkled on the floor in thirds. "One is not at liberty to choose one's name or one's species. That's the task and privilege of one's parents. 'Python' is my last name, not what I am. Besides, my name has brought me some real notoriety if not fortune. Can you say the same? Of course, there never was a flying circus. That was the purest of artist licence. Some people do take liberties, don'cha know?" And he turned one sardonic eye on the princess.

Swallowing hard, the Princess used a dainty fore finger to curl her lip disdainfully. "Common!" she sneered. "You're just a common dragon. No class at all." And the lip slipped back to its normal position of petulance.

Monty leaned against the wall which creaked alarmingly, and gave Ursula a long, pensive look. "So you say, so you say. Common, am I?" Then he said, "Well, when I think about it, my girl, I may not have much class - rather a luxury in my kind of work, hmm?, but I'm better than morally certain that you're not a princess, either." And he had a "and that's that!" look on his face.

The Princess thought briefly, seemed to remember something, and suddenly went a whiter shade of pale. Her stomach felt as if it wanted to do cartwheels across the floor. "Bu ... you ... the ... What do you mean, I'm not a princess?" she squeaked finally. "I am a princess!" She started coughing and spluttering. Gunther brought a tray with a glass of water which she promptly tipped into her lap without even appearing to notice.

"Just that," the Smaug lookalike said lightly, dusting a few loose scales off its chest to the floor where they struck a major chord. "You were never even a twinkle in your father's eye, m'dear. In the eyes of your mother and the castle groom, certainly, but not the King's. QED."

"Well," snarled Gretschen, smirking cattily. "That'll make for a stable monarchy when she gets the throne!" And she began giggling helplessly. Just then, the Thinkpad chimed to announce it had connected to DragonNet, and ...

Pre-story note ""stable monarchy" was Ab-Fab! All great fun says Stranger-in- Limbo -- Now the story ( I haven't counted words, the rule appears to be relaxed) continues ......

and the Princess, half-closing her eyes and looking coyly at Gunther, said to Monty, "Mr. Python, if you will excuse us,please, Gunther and I are tired of parlaying in the parlor and now we wish to retire to make a Prince of Wales." "Better come with me, barby-princess," said Monty,"and we'll make one whale of a prince." "Excuse me,Monty",said the wretched Gretschen, nearly retching at the sight of him, "but I am not, shall I say, familiar, with either the primary or the secondary sexual characteristics of dragons. Are you of the male gender or of the female persuasion?" "Genderly speaking, I could persuade you that I am NOT a dragon in drag. My tail may be dragon(as all of me is)and this tale may be dragging, but one thing ain't dragging as sure as my name is M. Python" Whereupon, the observant Gretschen, as a look of wide-blue-eyed astonishment caused her pupils, (inter alia) to dilate to the rims of her smiling Irish* irises, replied in a surprisingly husky voice to Monty " ......

*Welsh/Neo-Celtic

replied in a surprisingly husky voice to Monty " ......

"Thou can join the line; one more gentleman caller
that will pass through my dainty boudoir"
and at that she gave him a wink and a pucker
and said "Mon Dragon, à ce soir"

Now Gunther turned to Gretchen dear
and said in voice bemoaning,
“Gretchen love, what have thou here
been doing since the morning

that three days past I left the farm
got stuck on the stony pillar,
and then was threatened with some harm
by Ursala Ovisrender.”

Then Ursula into Gunther’s ear
says, much to Gretchen’s dismay,
“Why Gunther dear, tis all so clear
thou art cuckolded this day.”

So Gunther turns to cloudy skies
and to the gods he bellows…