Avant garde, no?

So, on a whims - a whims I say - last night, Ben Pobjie and I decided to write a story on the Twitters, taking it in turns to write a line. Here, for posterity, is the story we wrote. Ben started it.

Ed didn't suspect when he woke up that morning that he would discover a deep metaphysical truth. But he did wake up bleeding and nude.

The previous night was a blur. So was the morning. He'd woken up on the Gravitron. "Who are you?" he asked the dead dame next to him.

She didn't respond. "Wise guy, eh?" barked Ed, slapping her round a little. But she was a dead end. He got out and followed the sun.

'Twas round the 15th galactic rotation that Ed realised he was going in circles, but by then it was too late. He had space-sickness.

The sun had led him a merry dance, but Ed had gained one vital clue: near Venus he'd picked up a matchbook from the Caribou Lounge.

"I want answers right now," Ed screamed at the Caribou's put-upon bartender, Darren. "Oka-" "Too slow," Ed replied, shooting him.

He was out of leads. But he still had his trusty .38. "Yes I do, don't I wuvly?" he crooned to the gun, stroking it. He needed help.

Who could he call? Ghostbusters? His problem was not a ghost. He liked ghosts. You might even say he was a ghost. The whole time.

But how could he be sure? He pinched himself. It hurt. A lot.He collapsed, screaming. Do ghosts feel pain?He asked the ghost beside him.

"We may not feel pain," replied the ghost, "but we do have feelings. You insensitive prick. Also, we constantly feel our dying pain."

Ed had never liked that ghost. He made his excuses and left, only to run into...Texas Tim! Was THIS the key to the affair?

"Texas Tim, I need answers," Ed explained, "and I don't have time to answer Texas trivia!" "You know how this works," Tim whispered.

"I'll give you the microfilm if you can tell me what year Texas officially seceded from Mexico." Ed panicked, his pants falling.

"Lock in 1836, Eddie," said Ed confusingly. Tim stared. "Sorry, you're losing me," he hollered.

And that's when it happened: Ed's body began to lose structural integrity. He was returning to his fungal form.

"Tell my wife I'm sorry I never told her I was a shape-shifting mushrooooooom," Ed stated matter-of-factly as the paparazzi moved in.

Later on Ed became Secretary-General of the UN, but that's a story for another time...

The End.

The moral of the story is you should never write a cheque that your bank can't cash

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