Foreword

Table of contents

Who are these idiots?

N.L. Thompson, Aaron Plikt, and Scott Tarbet are three certifiables who met on the Orson Scott Card Mailing List and have become fast friends and partners in inanity.   Frequently together in pursuit of nonexistent poultry from London to Yosemite to the plains of Mars, these virtual bosom buddies, none of whom have ever actually met (yet), have a hard time keeping their hyperactive little brains on earning a living or having a family life, so they come up with things like this to keep boredom at bay.

What the heck are they doing?

This is a serialized novella or novel or short story or something.  (Actually, it's probably already too long for a short story, so never mind that.)  They don't really know how long it will ultimately get, since none of them really has a plan that lasts longer than the next contributor's installment, so who knows?  They take turns sending in an installment, with special emphasis on torturing whomever is next in line.  The result, as you will see, reads something like a cross between Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and I Love Lucy.  They don't ever expect to meet anybody stu . . . I mean perceptive and generous enough to offer them a publishing contract, and none of them trusts the other further than they could throw a refridgerator, so they're each publishing the results of their collaboration on their own websites:  this one, N.L.'s, and A.P.'s.  If anything more than a few laughs ever comes of this they all promise to enter nunneries.   Especially Scott.

Why oh why are they doing it?

Neither N.L. nor Scott can find their backsides with both hands, so when an email exchange of a fictitious conversation between two low-brow no-neck Arizona Militia members tunneling under N.L.'s house got lost, they figured they'd better start something new, and this is it.  They drafted A.P., who should have known better, but is a sucker for a good joke, and now they're all three going around in circles like puppies with tin cans on their tails.   Mostly though, they're just doing this to keep each other from jumping on the furniture.

Can I play?  Can I huh?

You're kidding, right?  Oh, well!   It's your life! 

Sure!  If you have a snide comment, something to suggest, or even if you want to write a whole installment (usually not much more than an email page or two) email them and they may plagiarize the heck out of you, laugh you to scorn, or, who knows, they might even stick your contribution into the story, depending on whose turn it is to write next and how lazy they're feeling.  Of course, the author of this page would only treat your submission with the utmost respect, courtesy, and attention.  Honest.

Okay:  if you read all the way through this page (!?!) it's either time to get back to work or go to bed or something.  If you don't have enough self control to make yourself do that, or if you're already so bored nothing else matters, go ahead and start Chapter One.