Help Write The World's Worst Novel

Mrs. Tennis shook herself awake. "Oh my, what a dreadful dream I've just had. It involved evil robots, uncharted isles and, and, oh, it was just too horrible!" She began to sob loudly.

Mondale took out a small handkerchief and handed it to her. "Here."

"B-but-but." she screeched, barely coherent. She held the handkerchief up to the light. It was clearly monogrammed: MCF. Everyone turned to face Mrs. Figsby, except for Felicity, poor girl, who was playing tug of war with a rat who would not let go of the wayward (and sometimes sassy) panties.

"I know it was you, Colonel Mustard!" she cried, finally pulling the panties away and waving them in the air. But she spoke too soon, as the rat was still attached and the waving had launched it airborne.

"Supreme Biter! Heeeelllppp!" screamed Ensign Whiskbone. But his scream was poorly planned, for of course he dropped his end of the panties.

Felicity did not know her own strength, and Ensign Whiskbone was launched into orbit around the planet. From his vantage point, he could see the evil robots on the uncharted island, and the school, and an outline of Paterson, New Jersey. Ensign Whiskbone was at first surprised to find out he could breathe in outer space, even without the assistance of any sort of breathing apparatus. Of course! He remembered: it had to have been the panties. The curious mixture of violets and sour milk was not only the olfactory representation of the obscure object of Ralph's desire but it was also a secret formula for breathing dark matter whenever real air is unavailable.

But Ensign Whiskbone was not prepared for his second surprise, as his small body thwacked the windshield of the alien craft. "Aha!" said the alien pilot. "It looks like the pizza has arrived."

Mondale, who was listening in with an ultrasensitive listening device clamped to his slip, nodded in agreement. That was indeed the signal.

Oh, the things I could tell you about all the adventures those two poor knights had. See, they, their names being Sir Pipethread (after whom the thread on the end of pipe is now named, but that's yet another story) and Sir Elashingik, were, after being sucked into the dimensional vortex created after the slaying of the sorcerer whose name started out as Wundel but was changed to Wandel, they were dosed with massive amounts of whatever type of energy floats around a dimensional vortex, so they kept jumping around from place to place and time to time and dimension to dimension.
Anyway, these two intrepid adventurers were tossed around many different dimensions, eventually winding up in all too familiar location: St. Egbert's School for Wayward and Sometimes Sassy Young Girls. When they materialized, they realized they were no place they had ever seen before. As it turns out, this was the office of one Truthers, the janitor of said school. What the knights saw during their time there, no man will ever know. For they were both struck with an instant and merciful amnesia the moment they left the room, and a mysterious wind blew the door shut and locked it behind them. But one thing was for sure; they were far from home and probably weren't going back in this lifetime. But maybe, just maybe, if they did enough good deeds, they would be allowed to travel back home.
The knights, leaving the office and hearing the door blow shut behind them, were startled by a cry of a girl shouting about Colonel Mustard, a name unfamiliar to the knights (as was much of this place). They turned in time to see a young girl swinging what they took to be a magical weapon fling a small furry animal into the great beyond. Thinking her a sorceress, and eager to do a good deed so they could move on from this strange and frightening place, they drew their blades and prepared to slay the wench.

Felicity was not surprised to see the two knights. Strange men followed Felicity everywhere. The raised swords, however, frightened her. "Holy Florence Nightingale," she screamed.

A flash of light........and the two knights disappeared.

And as Felicity meandered westward into the sunset, she could be heard singing,

"Two knights, two knights,
Won't be just any knights..."

Next news the mad professor was in the lab.

"Violets and sour cream is it?" he said,his eyebrows going up and down like a bride's nightie. "That's cheaper than on E-Bay", he thought capitalistically and Scroogically.

He milked the cow as if he was impersonating a young,or possibly not so young, lady doing the Chicago Shuffle and he followed that up by going along the road to the florist's shop and buying all the violets up. By the time he got back the milk had gone sour so he was in clover once he had the violets pounded up in the mortar and pestle except that he forgot to get some panties and was thus forced, by the urgency of the moment, to soak his own underpants in the mixture he had whisked up in the blender which, though it was a crass fake, nevertheless did the trick as long as he closed his eyes and remembered his lateral thinking exercises which he had done constantly when he was a young man.

Meanwhile, the exians kept failing to arrive. This had nothing to do with lack of trying on their part, to be sure. Indeed, they were furiously trying to arrive, they had even managed to make the bright light appear, often the messenger of momentous occasions, such as when a person comes home and turn the light on, as if to say: "Watch out, for I am coming!"

But, much as the needlessly overworked previous sentence failed to draw to a satisfying conclusion, so the exians failed to arrive.
This of course, has a reason. Since we are obviously dealing with extre-terrestrials, this is the ideal moment for the knowledgeable author to give indepth explanations about the cool alien technology stuff, and why it was failing. Unfortunately for all those who still managed to kept their attention during this particularly gruesome paragraph of idiocy, the author has not the faintest shimmer of a clue regarding alien technology. So, he's just gonna wing it, and prays to the good witch Florence Nightingale for some guidance and not too much illumination.

Well, the exians use engines that work on 'attracting the improbability'.
Since space travel at reasonable speeds sound improbable at best, the exians decided to base their technology on that presumption, figuring that if enough improbability is brought together in one place, improbable feats will indeed happen. They proved this with reliable experiments involving loads of monkeys, typewriters, paper and Shakespeare experts, but that is perhaps a story for another novel.

Unfortunately, while drawing closer to Earth, they found there was simply not enough improbability to fuel the engines, since the improbability was all focused around some foolish little school where dimension hoppers, rat armies and malicious underpants sucked the improbability to them with uncanning proficiency.

Of course, it was also a problem with the carburetor. It's always a problem with the carburetor.

Exian Chief Mechanic Snfgflooginzorp rolled out from under the spaceship on his little flat cart, wiped his fourteen grease-covered appendages on his overalls, and declared. "Yeah, it's the carburetor. That'll be eleven gajillion quatloos. No credit."

Just then, the flying rat sailed by, whispering, "I am not the pizza delivery boy. I am not the pizza delivery boy."

Surprised, Exian Chief Mechanic Snfgflooginzorp dropped his monkey wrench (shaped like a monkey, of course, and one typing Shakespeare for that matter) and it fell through the clouds to planet Earth, right over a certain school.

With all the light flashings, most people in the cafeteria of St. Egberts school for wayward and sometimes sassy young schoolgirls were blinded. Apart from Felicity of course, who was already as blind as a bat, and was last sighted singing while riding into what she figured was a sunset. Actually, it was the spectucalur sooty red cloud that remained after the rats had fired the Gimp. The Gimp aimed for the only oddly shaped flying thing it culd find, which seemed to be shaped like a money typing on a typewriter.
This spelled the end for the monkey. Too bad indeed, since just as the GIMP hit the monkey, it had spelled "the end", concluding the final masterpiece of Shakespeare, All's well that begins well, in which Hamlet, Mercutio and Romeo have a very naughty three way romantic involvement with each other. Of course, after the Gimp hit, the monkey and the typewriter were nothing more then a puff of smoke. The play however fell down towards St. Egberts, and landed quite close to Mr Truthers. He picked it up and started to read, and quickly became enchanted by the gorgeous imagery... It helped that he could imagine that dreamy Ralph wearing Hamlet's tight doublet of course.

"The play's the thing in which I'll snare the conscience of the King!" sang out Mondale, and his swiveling hips meant that he was referring to Elvis rather than Prince Charles or the like.

"Is that my underwear?" inquired Mrs. Figsby, finally noticing the violets and sour milk-scented garment in Felicity's hand.

"No, Mrs. Figsby, it's a package of instant french toast." insisted Felicity, who walked off in what she thought was the direction of the kitchen. Everyone followed, and soon they were out in the main courtyard, just under the statue of St. Egbert.

"Why, I never noticed it before." murmured Truthers.

"Noticed what?" asked Mrs. Tennis, but then she noticed it, too, and paused to gasp.

"Huh?" asked Mr. Ball, who was kept from admiring the cut of Mrs. Tennis's jib for the moment as he noticed the suddenly noticeable. Even the rats were looking.

It was true. Ralph was the spitting (well, farting, actually, but let's not get too technical) image of St. Egbert himself. As if a thousand eyes were staring at him, Ralph realized it was confession time. "Yes, it's true!" he cried out. "I am St. Egbert!"

"You couldn't possibly be St. Egbert." stated Mr. Tennis, who was feeling rather logical indeed, despite the growing shadow overhead of the Exian craft which was coming in for a landing in order to get its carburetor properly fixed and also to chase the rodentish alleged pizza boy who had escaped and was hiding behind the sculpted butt of the statue of St. Egbert, which was nearly as dreamy as Ralph's own flesh, blood and adipose tissue one.

"Why can't he be St. Egbert?" asked Mondale.

"Because St. Egbert was born in 1066," answered Felicity. "Or maybe it was 1492."

"It was 1564. I was born in 1564." said Ralph.

"Wait a minute." said Figsby. "Isn't that when Shakespeare was born?"

"It was indeed." offered Mr. Ball, nearly stepping on the ball gag, which the rats were trying to heave up and onto the statue of St. Egbert -- I mean, Ralph the bean counter. "So you're a time traveler and somehow related to William Shakespeare."

"Oh, I'm not just related. I am." bragged Ralph, thrusting his hands into his pockets, an act which dislodged a small shower of dried kidney beans and quill pen with the embossed initials WS on it. The beans and pen fell upon Ensign Whiskbone, fresh from his sojourn in outer space as a possible intergalactic pizza boy.

"Holy Florence Nightingale!" gasped Felicity.

"Well, you'll have a lot of explaining to do." said Mondale. "This ought to be good."

Florence Nightingale herself appeared upon Felicity's ejaculation. The mysterious witch pondered whether this was the time to explain Ralph, dimensional vortices, and strange characters who appear then disappear.

But as she was quite,quite exhausted she continued to ponder and decided to get some kip in and then she would see whether Ralph was worth the effort which she could easily see would likely be considerable.

And anyway-her mascara was running due to wande buying a cheap brand and no respectable Witch could possibly countenance being seen with rivulets of black gunk dribbling down her fair cheeks as if she was a barrel of tar boiling over while the road-menders scoff their meat and potato pies in the brew cabin.

So off she went to her toilette.

The congregation of so many strange events created a real crisis for Florence Nightingale. St. Egbert's school had long been an easy portal for dimension-travelers. The student Felicity, although severely lacking ordinary senses, possessed a strong spiritual aura that seemed to attract the most bizarre of the dimension-travelers.

As a powerful witch, it was Florence Nightingale's task to police the dimension portal at St. Egbert's. Florence had grown weary and tried using her apprentices Wandel and Spendius to police the portal. However, their juvenile behavior proved that they could not be trusted with duties that required responsibility and wisdom.

In the rest room wande was slumped in a battered armchair gazing sightlessly at the ceiling which was tastefully decorated in duck-egg blue, or green might be nearer; it was hard to say.

"What's up with the old bat?", he said thinking out loud.

spendi, who was doing fifty press-ups, stopped in mid stroke and gazed at him pityingly.

"She thinks our juvenile behavior has proved that we can't be trusted with duties that require responsibility and wisdom.", spendi replied imitating the evil witch's most supercilious tone of voice and her haughty,unforgiving facial miens.

He wafted his right hand as if wafting away two mosquitos to accompany the bit about responsibility and wisdom.

"What can you do with them?, he asked in the full knowledge that wande had no more idea than he had and continued with his muscle-toning exercises.

"I don't know", wande said unblinkingly. "I've tried, goodness me how I've tried."

"What?",spendi said,stopping again in mid stroke.

"I don't know what to do with them.They're a mystery to me.", wande said.

"I know you don't know you silly sod." spendi replied, "I don't know either.
Nobody knows. They don't even know themselves. You just have to play along or head for the hills. Or the monastery.

He finished his fifty and lay face down on the mat only he had his head turned sideways a bit so he could pant slightly in comfort.

"I bet it's okay in a monastery.",he went on. "If I was a young lad I would do some double shifts to pile enough cash up to be able to get into one of the posh ones. I'll bet they are well organised. That's why they try to spend all your money so you are stuck."

Just then the strident buzzer buzzed stridently in two sharp impatient tones.

"Here we go again", spendi sighed wearily and raising his lithe six-foot frame from the floor he sidled out of the room leaving wande pondering.

*Editorial Note*

(good job, spendi. we have set up possible storylines for jespah and the others. hopefully one of them will step in to continue the story.)