ACRA/MISC: Tales from the Gutterground #2: The Runaway Chaotic, Sporadic, Traumatic, Make-it-Up-As-You-Go-Along-Story Game (Part III)

Arthur Spitzer arspitzer at
Tue Mar 6 17:19:09 PST 2007

<<WARNING:  Sick Disturbing stuff ahead.  Naked Bodies.  Sex.  Black 
Magic.  If you have ever been offended by anything, you probably 
shouldn't read this.  And personally not that I'm for censorship, but I 
believe the writer should probably be thrown in jail for this sick 
disturbing piece of filth.  But that's just my opinion.  But, hey, I'm 
just a WARNING tag.  No one ever listens to me.  The world would be 
better if people did.  But go ahead and ignore me.  Wait!  Don't.  Don't 
Do it!  Okay.  Fine.  Be that way.  But you'll be sorry!  You shouldn't 
read this unless you're over the age of 122.>>

                    T A L E S
                     F R O M

                      T H E
G   U   T   T   E   R   G   R   O   U   N   D

                N U M B E R    TWO

[Last Time:  A girl chasing a white grasshopper fell into its dream. 
And later, a school bus was hijacked by one of its students who was shot 
down by the bus driver who then decided to drive the bus to Disneyland 
so he could nuke it.  But before it could reach Disneyland it took a 
detour into Hell.  And now...]

The Runaway Chaotic, Sporadic, Traumatic, 
Make-it-Up-As-You-Go-Along-Story Game   PART THREE

III:  The Caterpillar

A hand grabs hold of a heel.

"Who.  Are.  You?"

The hand slowly slides up the ankle until it reaches the knee.

"My Name -- is Barry Ulysses Suttle."

The hand goes up towards the thigh area of the leg, but then decides to 
slide back down to the knee and then back down to the ankle.  And then 
it goes up again.  And then down.  And then up again.

"This is my personal narrative."

The hand having touched and grabbed every single part of the leg decides 
to go up beyond the thigh and find out what lands are left to explore.

"I had a terrier named Mr. T."


Rose opened her eyes.

Someone was chanting something.

She had been sleeping.  But.  Her head wasn't on a pillow and she wasn't 
on her bed.  It was on some leg.  Some guys leg.  And she could feel 
another hand stroking her leg.  She quickly pushed herself off the guy 
and sat up.

Her eyes were slightly blurry.  And her head hurt.  And there was drool 
all over her mouth.  She wiped the drool off with her hand.  She looked 
for some piece of cloth to wipe her hand with, but she started to 
realize that she was naked.  And so was the guy.  And apparently so was 
the girl who was stroking her leg.  And Rose became aware that she was 
part of a circle made of naked people.  She looked to the center of the 
circle and saw a man cloaked and chanting.  God.  Where was she?  Why 
couldn't she remember anything?  The bus?  Going to hell?  No.  That was 
some dream.  She was a student.  A college student.  And?  Oh, God. 
Remembering something.  This was her Creative Writing Class!

"What lies beneath the ****?  I am climbing a mountain.  A mountain made 
of bones.  Bones of dead writers.  And I climb.  And I climb.  Over the 
skulls of Homer and Sophocles I go.  I grab hold of the leg bones of 
Dante and Chaucer.  They are old and brittle.  But I keep climbing.  So 
many bones.  How will I ever get to the top?  Must keep climbing.  There 
is only death below me.  And what will I find there?  I had a terrier 
named Mr. T."

It was Mr. Suttle.  Her Creative Writing Teacher.  He was the one who 
was chanting.  But how did she get here?  How long had she been here? 
She looked at her teacher.  His cloak had numbers and punctuation marks 
scattered all over it.  He didn't seem to be aware that she was awake. 
He didn't seem to be aware of anything.  He was lost in his words.

"The Es grab the Os and squeeze them.  The first story I ever wrote was 
when I was six.  It was about my guinea pigs, Freebee and Spookster, and 
how they took over the world using their mind control powers.  It wasn't 
very good.  I'm not sure what happened to that story.  Probably decaying 
in some dump somewhere.  Like Freebee and Spookster.  I had a terrier 
named Mr. T."

She looked at the circle she was in.  A circle made of squirming flesh. 
  Her fellow classmates.  They weren't aware of anything.  They were 
mindless animals.  Just rubbing and stroking and nibbling... and... She 
had to get out of here.  She had to put on some clothes and get out of 
here.  Run and run.  And keep running.  Where were her clothes?  There 
must be some room that had her clothes in it.  She started to look 
closely at the room she was in.  It was large.  It was dark, but there 
was circle of candles giving off light.  She saw three doors, but she 
wasn't sure where they went.  If they were even capable of being opened. 
  And in one of corners, she saw a camera running.  And another camera 
in another corner.  They were being filmed.

"The B swallows the J.  I remember my first Creative Writing Class in 
college.  The instructor's name was Buzz Abner.  He had only one arm -- 
lost the other in Korea.  I remember him telling us one time about how 
to write the perfect story.  A story should be like a car accident, he 
said.  Not an ordinary accident though, but an extraordinary one.  There 
should be two vans.  One van is carrying reptiles, snakes, spiders, 
scorpions, and other vile creatures.  And the other van?  The other van 
is filled with naked people having sex and doing drugs.  The perfect 
story is when these two vans collide with each other.  That is the 
perfect story.  Well there should be some character development 
somewhere in there.  And maybe there should be some guns and helicopters 
in the story too.  And a raccoon.  Put all of those elements together 
and you have the perfect story.  A couple of years later Buzz Abner quit 
his job and committed suicide by boring a power drill into his head. 
Actually I made that last part up.  I don't know what happened to Mr. 
Abner.  I had a terrier named Mr. T."

What was the power that was keeping her here?  Video tapes?  Drugs? 
Black Magic?  Rose struggled to remember things.  Anything.  Assuming 
she did manage to find something to wear and she did manage to get 
outside, what then?  Who would she go to for help?  The police?  How 
many tapes were there?  What depraved acts had she performed in those 
tapes?  Would her life be destroyed by this?  And there were also her 
fellow students.  Would she destroy their lives too?  How did she get here?

"The A spreads itself as the T stabs into it.  The first story I ever 
sold was called 'Cannibal Wedding'.  It was about these two wedding 
crashers who crash this rather snazzy wedding held by these high society 
types.  And some where in the story they find out that all these high 
society types are in fact cannibals (except the ones who are 
vegetarians).  It was sort of a commentary about the class structure of 
modern civilization and our dog-eat-dog capitalistic world.  I only 
received $15 for it.  I think it would have made an interesting movie. 
I had a terrier named Mr. T."

Why did she wake up?  She should just give up and go back to sleep and 
become a mindless animal again lost in the flesh.  Lost in the dream. 
No.  She had to fight this.  She had to stop Mr. Suttle somehow.  What 
was he doing?  A spell of some kind.  What was the purpose?  Rose looked 
at her arms.  There was something on her.  Smeared on her.  A 
reddish-brownish paint?  No.  It wasn't paint.  Blood.  Dried Blood. 
Letters.  There were alphabet letters all over her.  And they were all 
over her naked classmates.  It was rabbit blood.  They had killed 
rabbits and smeared the blood all over their bodies.  Painting letters. 
  Every letter of the alphabet.

"The R, P, and E hold down the A and take their turns.  I lost my 
virginity when I was 26.  It was at some party.  I was stoned and drunk. 
  It was with this fat Mexican chick.  We were alone is some room with a 
bed.  I couldn't seem to orgasm as much as I tried.  Perhaps because I 
was drunk maybe.  I don't think I wore a condom.  She had this pink bra 
and very big breasts.  Her breath smelled like chip dip and rum punch. 
I passed out.  That was the last time I ever saw her.  I didn't even 
bother to ask what her name was.  Sometimes though I see her in my 
dreams.  I had a terrier named Mr. T."

Was she on drugs?  Was that why she couldn't remember anything?  She 
wouldn't kill a rabbit.  She just couldn't do something like that. 
Everything was becoming too disorienting.  She was part of this spell 
though.  Some girl with oriental type features was still grabbing her 
foot.  As long as a part of her body was touching another body the 
circle still functioned.  And if she broke free everyone would wake up. 
  She had to break free.  She couldn't let this spell reach its 
conclusion.  Or maybe she could.  She didn't know what the spell did. 
Why was she awake?

"The M, U, and C become earthquakes as their embrace becomes tighter. 
Back when I was in college my favorite show was the A-Team.  I would 
occasionally write A-Team fan fiction.  I always dreamed of writing a TV 
movie about the end of the A-Team.  It would have been the Ragnarok 
finale.  The A-Team decides that the only way to save America is to 
overthrow its own government.  But there are a few members unsure about 
whether this is the right thing to do.  In the end the A-Team battles 
the A-Team and it all ends in a blood bath with everyone dieing except 
for Capt. H.M. "Howling Mad" Murdock who it turns out has been 
hallucinating the entire A-Team all this time in a mental hospital.  I 
could never get anyone in Hollywood to look at it though.  I had a 
terrier named Mr. T."

Rose was frozen.  She couldn't break free.  It was easier just to let 
this happen -- whatever was happening.  She would just watch.  There was 
pattern.  Two boys and then two girls.  She looked at the different 
hairstyles on her classmates.  Fat and thin.  Black and White.  Hairy 
and Shaved.  Legs and arms entwined with each other.  Some had tattoos. 
  Some had piercings.  The various sounds they made.  The grunting.  The 
moans.  The breathing.  The squooshing noises.  Some looked like they 
might be crying, but she couldn't tell since it was dark.

"The X becomes the O and the O becomes the X.  You're wondering where I 
got the idea for all this?  It was a story.  Posted on the Internet.  It 
was on the newsgroup mixed in with 
all of the spam.  It was posted by some anonymous person.  A magic 
ritual that would help a writer reach the perfect story.  And I knew as 
I read it that the ritual would work.  The only tricky part was finding 
the people who would become the circle.  It couldn't just be ordinary 
perverts, which would have been a lot easier.  No.  They had to be 
people who were filled with a creative energy.  Filled with dreams.  26 
people.  13 males.  13 females.  That was the tricky part.  Of course 
being a creative writing teacher I certainly had access to creative 
types.  But how to convince them to be a part of something like this? 
That was the tricky part.  But everyone has a price.  Everyone has a 
weakness.  It was hard though.  Very hard.  I had a terrier named Mr. T."

The Perfect Story?  Rose wanted to laugh.  But there was nothing funny 
here.  She wondered how Suttle had managed to "convince" everyone.  Were 
some of the students paid?  Was she paid?  No.  She wouldn't do this for 
money.  Drugs?  Maybe.  Or some kind of blackmail.  Maybe it had been a 
drug slipped into a drink and he brought her unconscious body back here. 
  Why couldn't she remember anything?  Maybe she didn't want to 
remember.  Maybe she did do this for money.  Rose wanted to cry.  She 
wanted to crawl into a ball and cry.

"The P and b merge into a B.  Why are people serial killers, rapists, 
school shooters, suicide bombers?  Aretha Franklin knew.  Respect. 
R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  Find out what it means to me.  We are a world of losers 
and winners.  Everyone is competing every day.  We must be better than 
the average person at something.  But that is not enough.  We must be 
the best at something.  We must be the king of something.  The God of 
something.  Winning is the only way to respect.  And you must win every 
single damn day.  Every damn word must be perfect.  That is the way.  We 
might hate the monsters of the world, but at the same time we respect 
them.  We have to respect them.  Better to be the caterpillar than the 
leaf.  I had a terrier named Mr. T."

God, please.  Please stop this, Rose prayed.  And she prayed.  And she 
prayed.  But it kept going.  And going.

"The L is gripped by the E and the E touches the D.  I can feel the 
ideas bleeding from the circle.  Ideas floating like butterflies.  And 
they enter my mind like moths to a flame.  What if Mother Goose was a 
vampire who got all her ideas from sucking the blood of her victims? 
Two kids trap the spirit of God in a trap made out of crayons and sell 
him to Satan.  A painting that paints reality.  What if Jackson Pollack 
faked his death because he was part of a conspiracy to scam the art 
world?  A world where carpet is illegal.  A world where toothbrushes 
exist only when the Cubs win the World Series.  What if the Knights of 
the Round Table were gay werewolves?  Ideas.  Ideas.  Ideas.  Rubbing 
letters.  Bones.  A mountain of bones.  Raining.  Heaven raining. 
Soaking.  Soaking.  I had a terrier named Mr. T."

Rose wanted to be out of this place.  She wanted to take a shower and 
wash herself.  Wash it all away.  All the blood that was on her and 
everything else.  Just scrub it all off.  Scrub and scrub.  She could 
feel a shooting pain in parts of her that she didn't want to think 
about.  She felt sick.  She wanted throw up.  She had to stop this.  She 
just had to stand up and free herself from the circle.  Just stand up. 
So simple.  Why couldn't she do it?

"The D and E stroke the A and the T and H watch.  I remember my 
girlfriend broke up with me.  That's why I bought the dog.  I needed 
someone.  Something.  Someone who cared.  It was a terrier.  A Jack 
Russell type terrier.  It had this little tuff of hair on the top.  It 
kind of looked like a Mohawk.  I guess that's why I named him Mr. T. 
When I would come home he would always be there to greet me.  Licking my 
face.  He didn't judge me.  He loved me even though I was a failure in 
life.  I remember trying to train him, but it never seemed to work.  But 
it wasn't because he was stupid -- he was just willful.  He was clever 
dog though.  He knew how to knock the trash down so he could get the 
goodies inside it.  When I wasn't at work we'd spend a lot of time 
together.  Strolling through the park and observing life.  And one day. 
  And one day we were walking along the sidewalk of the city like we'd 
do.  And he just sort of got out of his collar and leash.  And he just 
ran out into the street.  And I tried calling him.  I screamed his name 
out.  Mr. T!  Mr. T!  And this truck.  And this truck just -- And the 
truck didn't stop.  No.  It just kept going.  And going.  And -- And I 
just ran out into the street.  I picked up his bloodied body.  And I ran 
and ran.  To my car.  I put his body in the car seat and drove to the 
Animal Hospital.  The truck just kept going.  And I ran through various 
red lights.  And -- And I realized I wasn't going to get there in time. 
  So I just -- I just pulled over along the street.  I just looked at -- 
at...  I think he was already dead.  I gently stroked the fur on top of 
his head.  Dead.  Blood all over the car seat.  I think I cried.  I just 
cried.  I couldn't do anything else.  I hated that bastard that killed 
my dog.  Who didn't even stop!  Just kept driving.  Hated the world. 
Hated humanity.  Hated God.  Hated it all.  Hated.  Hated.  I had to do 
something.  Something to make it meaningful.  Had to write a story.  The 
perfect story.  And everyone would know about it.  Everyone would feel 
my pain.  Feel my hate.  That's what I would do.  Yes.  I had a terrier 
named Mr. T.  I had a terrier named Mr. T.  I had a..."

Shut up.  Shut up about your stupid dog.  Rose cuffed her ears.  You're 
the monster here you bastard.  I hate you, Rose thought to herself.  I 
hate you and your stupid dog.  Why?  Why are you doing this?  No, that 
wasn't completely true.  Some part of her did feel a little sympathy for 
the little dog.  It was sad that the dog had died.  But it didn't 
justify this.  No way in hell.  She could feel though that this whole 
spell was reaching its conclusion.  The circle of flesh was growing 
louder in its noises.  The girl's fingernails were starting to dig into 
Rose's flesh and the red headed guy she was near grabbed one of her 
wrists.  They were dragging her back.

"The B slows and opens the O and the N and E enter.  I can feel the 
bones coming to life.  Twain and Kafka are grabbing my ankles.  They 
know I'm close to the top.  They want to stop me.  The mountain wants to 
stop me.  But it can't stop me.  I rise and rise.  I feel rain falling 
on me.  God is trying to drown me.  But.  Not even God can stop me.  I 
am so close.  I crush the bones of Borges and Burroughs as I get close 
to the peak.  Not even Shakespeare got this far.  I can see it.  I can 
see something.  Something White.  It looks like -- it looks like a -- A 
Grasshopper.  A grasshopper?  It's eating the mountain.  It's too big. 
Can't be -- I had -- I had a terrier -- I had a..."

Rose knew this was her last chance.  She ripped herself free from the 
circle and ran towards one of the doors.  She tried to open it but it 
wouldn't turn.  Open!  God, open, Rose screamed in her mind.  It 
wouldn't turn.

"XY into XX?  ESP?  PCP?  RESPECP?  Heaven drowns!  Falling!  No! 
Dreams devouring!!  Swallowing!!  Skeletons!!  Drowning!!  Personal 
Narrative!!  Barry Ulysses Suttle!!  Had -- Had -- Had!!!  Terrier!! 
Terrier!!  Falling!!  The Circle!!  The Circle!!  T!!  T!! 
TEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!  Stop!!  Stop!!  No!!!  Truck!! Truck!!  Broken!!! 
Circle Broken!!! No!!! No.  I am awake.  No.  I am awake.  I am awake." 
  And Barry Suttles eyes opened.  And he looked at Rose who was still 
trying desperately to open the door.  "You!  You broke it!"  Barry 
Suttle's face was filled with rage.  "You broke the circle!  Get back! 
Damn it!  Get back to the circle!  Get back!  Now!!"

And Rose started to do exactly that.  What choice did she have?  She 
couldn't fight him.  She couldn't fight this.  She didn't even know if 
there was a world still out there.  Perhaps this was the entire world. 
It would be easier this way.  Accept it.  Accept that this is the way 
life is.  But before Rose reached the circle of naked bodies who were 
starting to awaken a light filled the darkness of the room.  Barry 
Suttle turned his head around wondering what was causing it.  It was a 

"What...?  What the hell?  That -- That shouldn't -- I have no..."  But 
before Barry Suttle could complete that sentence a big boot crashed 
through the window's glass.  A red boot attached to a rather large 
muscular man wearing a tight black spandex costume with a red belt 
around his waist and a red hood covering his head and a red cape that 
flowed around him.  A strange symbol was inscribed on his chest and he 
carried a very big black book.  Four more men that were dressed exactly 
like him crashed through the window.  Glass flew through the room as the 
various unclothed students who had just awakened became aware of all 
this and started to scream and panic.  The men looked a bit like 
professional wrestlers.

"Who the --?  Who are you, people?" Barry Suttle managed to sputter out 
as he slightly backed away from these strange costumed men.

"We are the new Managers of this Universe, Barry Suttle --Black Magic 
Creative Writing Instructor.  We hold the keys to Heaven and Hell now. 
We are The Real Deal.  That is all you need to know."

"Look.  I know what this looks like, but..." Barry Suttle started to say 
as he surveyed the room full of naked creative writing students.  "But 
it was all totally consensual.  I mean just ask them -- my students -- I 
promise that..."

"Lies.  But we know the truth, Barry Suttle.  For it is written here in 
this book."  The hooded man then opened up the big black book he was 
carrying and turned to a specific page.  "All the sins and evil you have 
committed is printed right here.  All your lies are here too.  You never 
had a dog named Mr. T.  It was your truck that ran over the dog.  It was 
you who didn't stop.  Who kept on driving."

"No -- I -- I didn't mean too -- for that to -- it was an accident!  It 
was an accident!  Please!  I wanted to stop!  I had to get to this place 
-- didn't have the...  I wanted to stop.  I didn't mean to run over -- 
over... It was a mistake.  It was a mistake.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I 
didn't mean to.  Didn't mean to.  Please!  Please?"

"Your apologies are too late.  And the evil you have committed is too 
much.  For your crimes you must go to Hell."  The hooded man flipped to 
another page in the book.

"Wait!  I've got rights!  Look.  Who the hell do you think you -- I'm 
calling the cops!"  Barry Suttle was bluffing.  He wasn't really going 
to call the cops, but maybe it would...

"No.  You have no rights.  Not anymore.  You will be sent to Hell 
#88888888.  In this Hell you will have nothing.  No clothes.  No food. 
No drink.  No human companionship or any type of companionship.  You 
will have an endless white room with nothing in it except a typewriter 
and an endless supply of paper.  And you will only have one idea for a 
story; try as you might to imagine more.  And you will write this story 
over and over again.  And this story will be about a man who writes the 
same story over and over again; try as he tries to write something new. 
  That will be your Hell, Barry Suttle.  Forever and forever."

"No!  This is -- this is just crazy... Get out of here!  I -- I'm going 
to..."  But before Barry Suttle could take any kind of action the floor 
started to shake.  A crack in the floor started to open up beneath 
Barry's feet.  Before Barry could run to a more stable area he felt 
himself being sucked into the crack.  With all his strength he grabbed a 
piece of the floor and tried to hold on to it.  "Please!  Don't!  I'm 
sorry!  God!!  God!!"

"No.  There is no God.  There is only The Book of the Real Deal."  The 
hooded man closed the book.  And with that the floor sucked Barry Suttle 
completely in.  The floor reformed itself and the only evidence left 
that a man named Barry Suttle had ever existed were a couple of bloody 
torn fingernails embedded into the wood flooring.

Rose huddled close to the floor.  What had just happened?  She just 
wanted to scream.  She was naked in a room full of naked people and 
strange men wearing hoods and capes.  One of the masked men walked over 
to her.  The man took off his cape.  He offered it her.  "It's okay," he 
said in a calm reassuring voice.  He helped put the cape over her body. 
  She shivered as she huddled inside the cape clutching it closely to 
her.  "He's gone.  And he will never harm another soul.

"Why?"  Rose asked as tears streamed from her eyes.  "W-Why d-did 

"This world is broken, Rose.  It is a world ruled by liars and corrupt 
souls.  People who care more about power than humanity.  My friends and 
I are going to end that.  We are going to pull the weeds that blot the 
sun so the garden may rise once again.  We are going to drown the lies 
in the fire of truth.  We are going to save this world.  Today is just 
the beginning."

"I-I d-d-don't un-un..."

The hooded man nodded.  "This will help you understand."  He handed Rose 
a small book that looked exactly like the big book that the other hooded 
man was carrying.

Rose looked at the title.  The Book of the Real Deal.  "W-What is this?"

The hooded man looked towards the broken window and then he looked back 
at Rose.  "It is the Answer."

The hooded man rose back up to his feet.  "It is the Way."

And then he walked away.  "It is the Future."


NEXT:  A Pack of Cards...

Notes from the Gutterground...

This is a fine example of a story that you should never turn in for a 
creative writing assignment.


Man.  What can I say about this story?

Well, I guess I should point out that Barry Suttle is of course a 
completely made up character that bears no resemblance to anyone I know. 
  I've only ever taken one creative writing class and that one was 
instructed by a nice lady who was absolutely nothing like Barry Suttle. 
  As for why I made him a creative writing teacher -- it just seemed 
like an interesting idea for a villain -- nothing more -- and it worked 
for the story I was writing.  I have nothing against creative writing 
teachers.  Sounds like a fun job.

As far as I know there is no

And this story... well I wasn't really going for pornography or 
erotica... if I had I would have written it differently.  It's probably 
more horror that verges on black comedy... most likely you'll be more 
creeped-out by this story than titillated by it.  So, yeah, this story 
is sick and disturbing.  Too much?  I don't know.  That's up to you, the 
reader.  This will probably be the sickest issue... the rest should 
perhaps be less sick... although another story might be more 
controversial than this one... I don't know.  Well, okay it's possible 
that there will be sicker stuff ahead...

I think compared to the average Stephen King novel, Vertigo comic it's 
no big deal... Neil Gaiman's done sicker stuff.

This was supposed to be out in February.. don't know when the next one 
will be out.  April.. maybe the end of March... who knows...

Arthur "Awkward Silence..." Spitzer

More information about the racc mailing list