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IF Story 3: Groovy Baby, Yeah! - Oodles of Noodles for the Soul

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Postby Sockets » Mon Jul 29, 2002 3:47 pm

This the newest IF story out. I am the creator of the IF story. There has been countless spin-offs, but I retain my title(What title?).

Rules: No signatures
Comments welcome
Emoticons welcome
NO FLAMES

I have no idea how I will enforce those rules though. But I beg of you. To play all you have to do is to continue to story told by others. And this time it can be horror, comedy, rpg, but please no adult content(if you know what I mean ;) ). Now I will start it off.

You are Bino Mcgee, a famous player around your 'hood and a secret agent. You were sitting in your cubicle when you get a call from your girl, Monisha. "Someone is killing me!" she shouts. You jump out the window of the 7th floor. You start falling...
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Postby Mystery » Mon Jul 29, 2002 3:51 pm

falling.......fallling....................................................................
..................................falling.................................................
..............................................................................still.......
..........................................................................................
.........falling................

:p

(sorry- I just had to)
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Postby Sockets » Mon Jul 29, 2002 3:55 pm

Keeps falling....falling.......finds Mystery falling......Mystery tries to hold onto you.....you push her down....you continue falling......until you fall on a truck with hay in it. You look under the hay and find an enourmous pile of....



Edited By Sockets on 28 July 2002 at 20:55
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Postby MileOut » Mon Jul 29, 2002 3:59 pm

tripe.



Edited By MileOut on 29 July 2002 at 16:59
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Postby Sockets » Mon Jul 29, 2002 4:03 pm

You take a little tripe and chew a little. Suddenly the hay truck stops and this fat farmer gets out of the truck. He meets this man in a black suit. They talk quietly. The man in black points at you and the farmer heads towards you. You desperately try to get out of the hay but to no avail, you regurgitate all over the farmer's face.
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Postby Sockets » Mon Jul 29, 2002 4:03 pm

By the time you type something the friggin' topic is changed!
:p



Edited By Sockets on 28 July 2002 at 22:26
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Postby Sockets » Wed Jul 31, 2002 6:08 pm

Bump.
Forgive me for the past...
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Postby Woodfish » Wed Jul 31, 2002 6:12 pm

Bumping.... bumping... bumping...
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Postby ds490 » Wed Jul 31, 2002 6:48 pm

...bumping...bumping...farting...bumping...
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Postby Lancer Sykera » Thu Aug 01, 2002 1:12 am

...bumping.... farting..... regurgitating.... bumping....
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Postby MileOut » Thu Aug 01, 2002 11:51 am

One minute past noon and the numerous nooks of Gelbhallenstraße were changed. Dustbins, laid out for collection, digested their wares whilst the bricks of each building shifted minutely, small - yet dangerous - cracks arising. Vents popped their grilles, the dense steam that normally dissipated into the air lay heavy on the street forming a scalding fog. Pedestrians, too changed, their busy routines slowed to literal crawls, and sometimes stopped completely. And overhead, at the top of the street, the great steeple of St. Venerius tore the heart from an innocent cloud, its watery life brought down upon the cobbles for all to thrive in.
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Postby Mut » Sat Aug 03, 2002 8:04 am

Pulling the hood of your jacket over your head, you listen to the soft patter of raindrops on fabric. The farmer is still yelling at you, but you cannot hear his voice. It is like the world has gone mute, save the steady rhythm of falling rain. You shrug off the feeling. Monisha sounded like she was in some serious trouble, not that it's any surprise to you. Somehow, your girlfriend and trouble always seem to go hand in hand.
R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)
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Postby Mercury » Mon Aug 05, 2002 4:09 pm

..



Edited By Mercury on 06 Aug. 2002 at 13:02
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Postby Mystery » Mon Aug 05, 2002 4:40 pm

You awaken in your bed, cold from the brisk morning air that wafts through the open window. You pull yourself from the tangled sheets and rise to see what the commotion is. Looking out to see chaos on the streets; you hear horns blaring, people are running about screaming, random fires burning. You throw on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt and run out of your building, with your recent dream still heavy on your mind.

Arriving in the middle of the street, you look in awe at the sight before. Some sort of metallic vessel is imbedded in the building the next block over. People are screaming, crying, running away from and to the the site of the mundane scene just down the street.
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