THE BEST STORY IN THE WORLD...EVER PART IV
And then, when Superman put right all the things he'd done wrong when Lex Luthor had made him into a bad Superman, he beat up Richard Pryor and was sent to jail for flying wheelchair offences, and parking tickets which he hadn't paid for (although, if he'd told the police that he couldn't reach the cash machines to draw out money, he might've got away with it).
Steve remembered how he'd once been a magnificent student at school, picking up countless awards for good behaviour, longest sexual weapon, and big penis.
"Wait a minute," thought Steve. "I'm better than this...I shouldn't be dancing in the streets with Gerry Rafferty, I should be dancing on the ceiling with Lionel Ritchie and his cum-stained afro." During this long period of thought, Steve got his face smashed in several times and was dragged to the hospital by the pubes.
"A'right?" said the pubes.
"Thanks for dragging me here," thanked Steve, apologetically.
"Fuck off," said the pubes, sympathetically, walking out the door.
As the doctor tended to Steve's wounds, something that I haven't thought about yet happened, right?
Jesus, I can't think of a single thing to write. I must have writer's block. Hold on. I'll go and have sex with John Tugaroobum which, according to new medical breakthroughs, makes you know what to write. Back soon...bye!
I've been away for fourteen days, eight hours and sixteen cents, and now I'm back, with lots to say; my mind almost over-flowing with all new storylines and predicaments for Steve and co. to encounter, so expect at least another four hundred parts, ok?
Steve woke up. He was strapped to the bed in a dark room with one window high above the ground. The door was locked. Well, maybe it wasn't, but Steve had to make that assumption for various dramatic purposes. He struggled around, trying to break free of his bonds, but it was to no avail.
"Help me..." he whispered.
"What's all the noise in there?" yelled a guard from outside.
Steve got up and unlocked the door, looking at the large, bulky, man-jawed guard.
"Could you help me? I appear to be strapped to this here bed..."
"No, you silly boy," said the guard, shaking Steve's hand, "This is a mental asylum. You were committed here for talking a lot of shite."
"Just as I thought things couldn't get any worse!" sobbed Steve, stroking his thighs with bricks.
"Don't worry," said the guard, "Just prove to the doctors that you're sane, and you'll be free in no time..."
"How should I do that?"
"I dunno...kill a few people, that'll definitely show them you're right in the head, and ultimately, the music you listen to is to blame..."
Steve bit down hard into the guard's neck until blood spurted everywhere. The walls were smothered in the red liquid. It was almost like being in the belly of a sodomized eel. Steve ran through the labyrinth of corridors stealthily. He came to a checkpoint, so that if he died, he'd come back to that point for his next turn.