The Story Book.

I'm ripping this idea off a friend. The basic premise is simple. Someone starts off a story and each poster below them continues the story. We could set up basic rules to keep the story for the most part on the same track. With my friends story we had no rules so the story got ridiculous fast. It spanned many universes and brought characters such as Dr. House and Sonic the hedgehog together.

It was late at night in the urban concrete street of LA, a hot wind blows past through the quiet street

– a man with the lips of a fish and teeth of an ox stood smoking a Marlboro, dressed in full black so that his transmuted mouth was less visible to those who may have passed him. He was scared; he could die tonight, if the right small-minded bastard walked past him. But regardless, he continued smoking.

And then the man with the lips of a fish and teeth of an ox dropped dead, as an unassuming man who was nonetheless a small minded bastard walked by him.
Barely glancing back, the man could be heard to whisper "I guess i was the right one for you."

- walking purposefully yet not quickly so not to draw attention, the unassuming man continues his trek into the mist shrouded alleys of the city, in the morning police officers find their work is only just beginning...

a dog farted...

And with that fart, a new age was coming – one of intolerance and bad smells. The cops on the beat the next day could smell it everywhere, and it wasn't just dog fart. It was something much worse. To find the killer of this fish-lipped man, they would have to put the hours in, above and beyond. In such a volatile and sensitive society, the death of someone so unique could cause mass outrage. This was a job for the best detective in town, who's name was

John Cena.

John Cena was the right man for the job. Hell, the only man for the job. A veteran of two wars and a nasty divorce, he was the only man in the city that had enough grit to push back against this city.

Cena had left his job as a pro wrestler years before, tired with the posturing and chest-beating. He would always hold a special place in his heart for it, but he knew the fish-lipped people needed his help. Back in his wrestling days, his manager had been Bose Panchet, a fish-lipped man, who also had the feet of an elk and the tongue of a honey badger. He looked up to this man, but when Bose was murdered in tepid blood by a deranged binman from East Central, he saw the way that these people were treated by the system, and vowed to avenge Bose's fateful legacy. As he stood over the dead fishman on that warm LA morning, the sight of the cold body brought back horrible memories, and he decided his first action would be to

he took to the underworld of the mean streets of LA, not a hard thing to find but difficult to survive without experience or the right grit. he found a name, a name of a man neither unassuming nor of a small minded bastard.

it was a feeling, a primal feeling of instinct and gut

Originally posted by Nuke Nixon
- walking purposefully yet not quickly so not to draw attention, the unassuming man continues his trek into the mist shrouded alleys of the city, in the morning police officers find their work is only just beginning...

To this point, it was a shockingly coherent beginning.

Yeah, this went to shit quickly. 😂

And he didn't mind the shit and kept on flicking harder and harder at each pounce like a beating drum only getting more rough at its beat. Heather knew he had total control over her yet still she kept on riding like a jocky to its horse. He knew she was such a dirty **** and he could get away with anything even murder. She then screamed with such joy I'm going to cumm I going to cumm.... and....

Originally posted by Genesis-Soldier
he took to the underworld of the mean streets of LA, not a hard thing to find but difficult to survive without experience or the right grit. he found a name, a name of a man neither unassuming nor of a small minded bastard.

it was a feeling, a primal feeling of instinct and gut

He had found Nicolas in an old run down motel. His escorts had John off. His room dior was cracked open. The musky smell of the the room penetrated his nose, and his mind. John Cena walked to the window and placed his finger on the thing that opens blinds. "It's time to let the tiger out of his Cage." John Cena let loose the mighty glare of the sun. Right into Nicloas' face. He screamed, "My eyes!" as the light burned reality into his pupils. John Cena stood there, impatient.

Nicholas reached blindly toward the stained coffee table in front of him and began swiping around, his left hand covering his eyes from the burning glare of the outside world. At last he found what he had been looking for and slipped the dark shades onto his face. He blinked behind the black lenses, rubbing his temples as his head screamed its hangover curses. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know who was in this rundown little hole of an apartment with him. Blinking away the purple spots in his eyes, Cage groped the half empty coffee pot that had been resting on top of a stack of pornographic magazines. He gulped down the rest of it. Cold. Stale. Burnt. He couldn’t remember how long ago he had originally brewed it.

“Cena…don’t suppose you’ve come over for a Ghost Rider marathon?” He managed to choke out, padding the pockets of his denim jacket in a failing effort to find his flask.

Cena mulled it over, then started to smirk.

218 minutes later (they opted for the extended version of the first one on Cena's insistence), the films were over. Cage chuckled.

"Not my finest hour," he said, pulling on a cheap cigarette. He offered Cena one, but Cena just looked at him with disgust.

"I'll pass on the cigarette, but I think the second one is solid, as far as sequels go."

Cage flicked the cigarette butt out of the window.

"What are you here for, Cena?"

"I think you know."

"Do I? I've been cooped up in here for the past six months, preparing for Leaving Las Vegas 2: Leave Harder," he said. His eyes shot up at Cena, and Cena saw the pain behind that look. "I need another nomination. I'm dying here, man."

Cena paced the room.

"Do you know anything about... a fishman?" he said.

Cage stalled, then adopted a nonchalance in his expression that Cena recognised all too well. He turned away, put his hand on the wall, and said:

'You know, I should really go outside and pickup that cig-butt, it was a total dick move to flick it out the window like that; you can start a forest fire like that. Don't know what I was thinking."

Cena raised an eyebrow at his long estranged friend. When Nick made eye contact with him, John studied the hollow sunken face, the thin features of him. It wouldn't be the first time that he envisioned Nick as a scarecrow. A hollow thing made of straw. He wondered if he poked him hard enough that nothing but straw would spill out.

"You can leave when you've finished answering my questions, Nicholas." John crossed his arms, moving to put himself between his gangly friend and the door. The energy in the room suddenly grew tense. The scarecrow in the denim jacket and sunglasses lost himself for a moment, actually wondered if he'd be able to power through the former Heavyweight Champion. The thought didn't stick. Maybe if he had popped a blue before his friend had barged in here.

He resigned himself to his fate, although began noticeably perspiring.

"Fish man, eh? I've known a few since I've been around. You'd have to be more specific. They all tend to blend together, ya ask me. Just weird-o freaks with horrific mouths. What's your beef with them?"