This is a community story, built by one person at a time. The whole thing will end up being a creation of the community. The administrator is myself.
Each person can only add one sentence at a time. Keep the sentence within reason... if you keep making huge sentences, I will revert some of them. It would be good if you could continue some sort of narrative, but that's not as important. We'll take a vote on the title when we're done.--Tom Moorefiat justitia 01:09, 12 December 2009 (UTC)
It was a dark and stormy night, and Martin was angry. It seemed that the rain outside hadn't subsided for days, possibly weeks.
He was starting to think God, in the vision, had been right about the flood. This theory appeared to be confirmed when Martin, who was standing next to his front door, felt his foot grow wet as it got in the way of a rivulet of water trickling beneath its worn green planks. It was coming... he had to get started. Gathering his energy, he stepped out his door and climbed into the ancient pickup truck in his dirt driveway.
As he sped down the highway, his radio crackled with evangelist talk-radio blow hards and rhythmless Christian rock, the unfortunate side effect of looking for signs that others knew what was coming. Over a crooning background choir, a preacher gave a ringing call for all sinners to confess themselves and find a new life in Jesus.
He swerved to avoid a pair of emaciated giant pandas which were ambling purposefully down the road through the pouring rain. He'd ordered eucalyptus leaves over the Internet and he hoped they would be the right species.
His thoughts turned again to Melissa: it had been a year since she had mysteriously disappeared in the knitting incident. He felt sure there were flaws with the FBI theory that she had knitted a woollen version of the Large Hadron Collider and then disappeared into a black hole which it had spontaneously generated. Martin didn't buy this, however, because, from what he knew of physics, the odds of her creating a black hole without actually colliding anything were virtually nil. Still, he couldn't be 100% sure that their theory was incorrect, as there was no way of testing it because the wool collider was confiscated as evidence, and he had no access to it.
A flood and a black hole... both at once; Martin shivered as he thought about it. This time there wouldn't be any survivors. He wondered at that moment if Edward and Bella had survived, or if they had been eaten by werewolves. Suddenly, shots rang out from the Prius behind him, and his sideview mirror exploded in a shower of glass and plastic.
It seemed that "The Brotherhood" had found him sooner than he'd expected.
It had all started seven months ago, when he found the pattern hidden in the Sunday crossword. He'd often noticed the frequencies of certain words, ones that crossword writers overly relied on in a pinch...but the use of the word ILLUMINATI every Sunday seemed peculiar. This particular Sunday, the clues had been fairly normal ("4 dwn: Peter, Paul, & ____", "12 acr: Secret rulers of everything") until he got to the last clue, whose answer ran along the bottom of the puzzle. "Who watches the watchmen, Martin?" However, the Independent Police Complaints Commission had only been the surface of this conspiracy.
The real conspiracy, he thought, had been the force behind "The Brotherhood." The single, driving force behind the real conspiracy was Kirk Cameron. The washed up child star had been after Martin for years, ever since Martin decided to abandon his "abstinence-only" pledge because, as Martin had put it so many years before, "it's the dumbest thing I've ever done!"
Martin pulled his greatcoat tighter and checked the pistol in his pockets, yes, tonight would be an eventful night indeed. "And I want no part in it at all" he said aloud, just before he swallowed the cyanide pills his mother had packed for him the night before.
The Prius pulled up to the car with Martin's dead body in it.
Cameron brought the Prius to a stop and looked past his passenger, a mustachioed man who was, as usual, fidgeting with a banana and muttering something about transitional fossils under his breath in an Australian accent, and saw Martin's apparently lifeless figure slumped against the steering wheel, his fedora -- or was it a trilby? -- covering his face.