Feeling witty? Dramatic? Sad? Ironic?

Adding one sentence or clause at a time, let’s see what sort of literary masterpiece we can create. Story should conclude by the close of play, today.

Contribute as many times as you would like, but allow at least one post from someone else between yours.

Try to punctuate correctly to make it easier for the next person to add their bit.

As the sun rose on the sleepy Northern town, a lone man rode in unnoticed before collapsing in the street, the sound of his mud-splattered bike hitting the pavement the only sound to break the silence.

He was not wearing a helmet.

But it wouldn’t have mattered, as, judging by the look of horror on his face, it was something he had seen that killed him.

The police arrived quite quickly. The usual sad formalities were dispensed with; back at the station the attending officer opened up the cyclists’s messenger bag…

in which some funny idiet plan was found. Together with…

A pot of something called minty arse lard!

a small titanium box. Locked, but apparently without any mechanism to allow an opening.

An expert opinion was needed. But who?

There was also a laptop. The officer opened it and it displayed a site called Singletrackworld. Could this be related to the incident and untimely death?

Could Singletrackworld provide an expert opinion?

Someone with knowledge of crossing a busy junction the wrong way on a small motorised toy car perhaps would hold the answer.

Alas, it was clear that mystery hung in the air. Who was this man? What was in the box? And what was symbol tattooed on his back?

Could it really be a tattoo of an Oopma Loompa riding a Hamster??

Sgt Bontrager picked up his phone.
‘I’ve had enough of this’ he said. ‘It’s just to weird for me. I’m bringing in D I Peat.’
PC Raleigh, his face as grey as September in Walsden, shuddered and dropped his bacon sandwich. ‘No, not……….The Downhill Detective!’ he gasped, before sliding gently to the tarmac.

And becoming possibly the second food related death of the day!

Suddenly Vinnie Jones appeared. Grabbed the fallen police constable by his feet and dragged him across the floor. Vinnie then started pounding on the policeman’s chest singing “Tragedy” at the top of his voice.

After 10 minutes of pummeling the stricken policeman’s chest, Jones suddenly realised that the correct tune was Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. The irony of the situation, only 3 days after Robin Gibb’s failure to ‘stay alive’, was not lost on the retired testicle tweaker.

meanwhile, down at the morgue, a muffled banging and shouting could be heard from the cold store

“Not again! I know it’s hot outside, but there are better places to have a wee nap,” muttered Tim, the head pathologist as he opened the drawer. “Now get up, get dressed and go and help the others.”

In the main office ,James chuckled to himself ,that would teach the work experience kid to get all lippy about his career choice.

Said his boss, and you can clear that mess up – what have I told you about the rights of dead people and that you must not do that anymore….and then the phone rang, it was the police station again “there’s been a development”