beaupipe
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- Feb 21, 2009
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We used to do these little multivocal pipe murder stories on another forum. People just add a line or two and off we go. They usually went from bad to godawful, and they never actually ended but who cares? I'll start:
Muddler stared hard at the painting in front of him, a terrifying landscape with a set of ghostly images in the foreground. Product of a diseased mind, he thought to himself. Why can't people just paint what's there?
He turned away from the painting and scanned the room. He was tired and his sister, who had told him to meet her at this gallery, was late. He had no use for this world of artists in which she so effortlessly moved. There was a picture of the artist beside the painting, a grizzly type with a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Well, thought Muddler, at least the fellow has one redeeming quality.
With a nod to the "No Smoking" sign on the gallery wall, Muddler wandered out to the sidewalk intent on finding a place to sit and smoke his pipe in peace while he waited. He found a ragged bench with peeling brown paint a few doors down from the gallery. From his pocket he withdrew an old Rhodesian, loaded it with some Virginia flake from his pouch, and gently pressed it down with his thumb. Someone watching him might have thought he was engaged in one of those pensive rituals for which pipe smokers are famous, but in truth, his eye had lit upon someone coming down the block and he had forgotten his pipe. A few feet away, a tall brunette had stopped and was slowly unpacking her guitar case.
He'd heard that busking was making a comeback in the city. Comeback comely busker, he said to himself.
She had just strummed her first chord--a tentative E--when the screaming started. The pitch sounded familiar to him and he turned to see his sister emerge from the gallery shouting, "Oh my God.... Oh my God. The artist. He's..."
Muddler stared hard at the painting in front of him, a terrifying landscape with a set of ghostly images in the foreground. Product of a diseased mind, he thought to himself. Why can't people just paint what's there?
He turned away from the painting and scanned the room. He was tired and his sister, who had told him to meet her at this gallery, was late. He had no use for this world of artists in which she so effortlessly moved. There was a picture of the artist beside the painting, a grizzly type with a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Well, thought Muddler, at least the fellow has one redeeming quality.
With a nod to the "No Smoking" sign on the gallery wall, Muddler wandered out to the sidewalk intent on finding a place to sit and smoke his pipe in peace while he waited. He found a ragged bench with peeling brown paint a few doors down from the gallery. From his pocket he withdrew an old Rhodesian, loaded it with some Virginia flake from his pouch, and gently pressed it down with his thumb. Someone watching him might have thought he was engaged in one of those pensive rituals for which pipe smokers are famous, but in truth, his eye had lit upon someone coming down the block and he had forgotten his pipe. A few feet away, a tall brunette had stopped and was slowly unpacking her guitar case.
He'd heard that busking was making a comeback in the city. Comeback comely busker, he said to himself.
She had just strummed her first chord--a tentative E--when the screaming started. The pitch sounded familiar to him and he turned to see his sister emerge from the gallery shouting, "Oh my God.... Oh my God. The artist. He's..."
