"Don't worry, sir." said Lord Fred. "I'll teach you how to wipe your arse with your other hand."
"Okay." whimpered the inkeeper.
"Good. Lead me to the bathroom."
The innkeeper led Fred into the building and across the resturant.
Halfway through, at the point between the smoking and non-smoking sections, a group of people appeared out of thin air. There was Sir Toby, a rough, unshaven Story Cop, a twentiesh man with a name tag that read 'Sir Lots' and a bunch of other vaguely familar people.
"Halt!" said Sir Toby. "Fred. Fred. Fred. It's time to stop this crazy story line. Arse wiping? You'd think I'd allow that in my story? Let's, oh, I don't know. Restart. Or at least you can go to a mental insitution for ten years. You're what, twenty-five? You can still battle dragons at age thirty five. This excessive violence has got to stop."
What happens now?
9/21/1999 9:46:28 AM
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