The Ranch
By Tom Harris and Michael A. Griffin
(note: This story was written using an alternate technique. Each participant wrote an entire sentence rather than one word. Michael began the story.)
There wasn't much moisture on the ground, so I suspected something was very wrong. I was fixin' to go down into the cellar to fetch some jugs of cider for the upcoming picnic when a slick, black automobile (one of those fancy Edsel jobbies) come roaring up to the house, disgorging two very unique individuals. I knew, then, that this was to be no ordinary evening!
I strolled casually up to the two men, and one of them asked me for directions. For some odd reason, I was reminded of an old tale my father used to tell: it was about men who asked for directions, although they really were not lost. Cautiously, I answered their questions as best I could, not really convinced that some sinister plot wasn't brewing here in Hampton. I was aware that the gentleman doing the asking was afflicted with some sort of terrible skin condition. His skin looked like the underbelly of something slimy you'd find under a rock or an old log half-submerged in the mud wallow near the pond. I suppressed an urge to vomit, and tried to expedite this conversation as best I could.
The first man was still asking his annoying questions when the second began to trace patterns in the dirt with his shoe. I thought these guys would never leave, and I wondered why my friend, Tom, whom I was expecting, had not yet arrived. Just as I wondered about this, I saw Tom's blue pick-up truck coming down the road, kicking up a plume of dust, and clearly disturbing the two gentlemen to the point of them entering their car and pulling off speedily, spraying my carefully-manicured lawn with gravel.
I decided to give Tom a good tongue-lashing for this, mainly because I was angry, and he was the only convenient scapegoat.
"Hey!" snarled Tom, with an angry look, "I come to give you a lift to town, and this is the thanks I git? So, who was in that fancy-shmancy black car? Some cheap tramp from the big city, I'd bet..."
"just never-you-mind who that was!", I said viciously, "Why in Hell are you so damned late, buddy?"
Tom scowled, kicked the dirt, spat a stream of tobacco juice in reply to my question.
"Got held up by business back on the ranch -- Them old cows out there, the old whores, they expect too much from an old hired-hand like me." -- The End --