Ever wonder what a story would be like if there were “too” many hands in the pot? Would the story make sense or would it lack continuity? Would any of the characters develop any depth? Would different writing styles hurt or elevate the reading experience? Could it ever really end?
Well my friends and I decided to try, and you get to part of the process every step of the way. If it wasn’t apparent, we’ve broken the story up into color coded writing signatures, so if you see color you liked to follow more than the others…feel free to skip sections, and if you have any suggestions please feel free to comment, remember the more hands the better.
We all hope you enjoy…
Chapter One: Neil Armstrong is F’ing Shaky!
Meet Mohammed. Mohammed is a lanky unsuspecting sophomore in college. Mohammed is amazingly average in almost every way. He comes from an amicably split household. He was raised in Reseda Ca, in a predominantly middle classed north Indian neighborhood. He attended public high school, achieved mediocrity in sports and academics, maintained the average amount of popularity coupled with teenage awkwardness, and dated five girls from his high school and neighboring ones as well. One of the girls he dated twice. He has two very understanding and nurturing step-parents. Mohammed has one biological brother, and attended the first college that accepted his application. He is currently in his first year as Linguistics major, after switching from his original collegiate entry as a Feminist Studies major. A major his high school girlfriend proposed to keep them closer as they planned to take their journey through college hand in hand. Coincidentally Mohammed and his girlfriend broke up after two weeks into their first quarter. He went on to briefly dabble in journalism, communications and psychology before landing in Linguistics. His girlfriend coincidentally changed her major to Queer and Sexuality Studies. Without ever questioning a pattern of behavior for his ex Mohammed moved on, and rather quickly.
Mohammed is the perfectly average college student. He maintains a 2.7 GPA. He cheats on several tests a quarter. He misses several classes due to laziness and hangovers. He maintains a whimsical relationship with a few tolerant professors and he is part of a couple on campus organizations. With an average home life, average academic achievements, average sex life and average behavior, Mohammed has managed to become America’s “Bobby Teenager”, but not today. Today Mohammed is going to do something out of the ordinary, something above average; something remarkable…Mohammed is going to start a Third World War.
Tuesday morning 10:29 am
On campus Coffee House
At a professionally bleached oak table and chair set up sits a fair skinned beautifully freckled faced woman. Her head is slightly bobbing up and down in a rhythmic pattern as she longingly looks out the coffee shop window. Her ears plugged with white ear buds, the separate ear cords appear interwoven in her slightly clumpy and wavy cherry blonde red hair, like several rose stems growing around a white picket fence. Her shoulders are stiff and hunched over putting her arm a 45 degree angle as she slightly leans over her table. On her table lays several previously crumpled sheets of paper, two small books, two empty pens and a small laptop. She’s brought out of her state of musical trance by one of her pens rolling off the table and hitting the ground next to her. She leans down to pick up the fallen instrument and scans around the room to see if there have been any significant changes worth her attention.
Her head is raised to view the coffee shop door entrance at the moment they fly open. In enters the biggest, beefiest, long legged boy that ginger nut had ever laid eyes on. His extra small, super tight Hollister t-shirt combined with his stoned washed jeans shorts painted the picture perfect uniform of only the gayest homosexuals. This man was wearing the type of outfit where you can see the pockets rubbing against his hot, muscular thighs. She could immediately tell that he did a lot of squat thrusts in his free time. Her only impulse, the only thought in her head, is that she has to rub a healthy dose of moisturizing lotion on his legs. She snaps out of her trance to fine herself deeply blushing. Then she remembers she is a ginger and cannot blush because she is always the color of tomatoes and beets. Mohammed saunters over to the counter, his pelvis guiding the way. He places his smooth, hairless forearms on the counter to rest. He turns his head, taking in the scene to his rear. His eyes catch those of the cherry blonde who has not looked away from his massive homosexual man thighs since he walked through the door. Mohammed proceeds to arch his back and stick his ass in the air, sending out the vibe to the ginger that, indeed, it is game on. Or so she thought. He pays for the coffee, turns around and proceeds in the direction of her yearning loins. She gets up from her chair to meet him, but he casually walks right by her. It is as if she does not exist, hers eyes wide open in disbelief and confusion, no clue that fate has played a cruel joke upon her pasty head.
Sitting behind the now embarrassed red mutant is a short, rotund Pilipino man. This man dons a pink sweater vest showing off all of his curves. His yellow pudgy fingers reach out to greet him. Mohammed never ever being with an Asian of any sorts was more than intrigued to see where this may lead.
His name was “Biscuits”, or so he said. It was really a nickname given to him because of his round ass. Mohammed never being with a man let alone an Asian made the situation even more intriguing. After getting the usual getting to know chitchat they get up together, their fingers interlocked with the biggest homo smile on their faces as if they had intentions of sinners. As they make their way out the door they both spot an alley across the busy street. As the cars pass by, engines revving up as were there hormones. With sex on both of their mind they make their way across the street, filled with jubilation as if they were little kids, they reach the alley, as they were about to share their fist embrace, 6 sailors on steroids where casually walking by and happen to catch biscuits and Mohammed in their gay embrace and immediately become enraged with anger, being the closet homosexuals they are, feel it necessary to show there hetero manliness and decide to teach “Biscuits” and Mohammed a lesson.
Both men floated through the coffee shop as they made their way to the door. Patrons and passer by’s alike stopped and part took in the fairy like behavior of the two men before they exited the building. The cherry blonde redhead, now fully intrigued by the fearlessly gay duo, follows the two outside of the shop with a slightly intrusive stare from her sharp green eyes. Unable to hear the dialogue between the assortments of UFC watching, affliction gear wearing, spiked fro-hawk having, tattoo covered sailors and the openly queer couple, the cherry blonde leans slightly over her table to get a closer view of the lip movement of the two parties. She watches the two gay men walk tentatively pass the battery of overly expressed disgust and expressively loud homophobic slander by the sailors.
She sees the two men pass half way through a tunnel of hate and ignorance created by the seven angry sailors, “Biscuits” gets a little too close to one of the men and takes a quick left hand to the face. “Biscuits” hits the ground like a bird shot out of the sky. He attempts to break his fall with both knees and one hand, while his other clutches the side of his head. The cherry blonde clutches her mouth and gasp. Looking on further, she sees “Biscuits” take a half extended knee to his lower ribcage. Mohammed reacts with a wild elbow that catches the sailor to his left right on the cheekbone, the shatter could be heard from inside the coffee shop and felt by the cherry blonde through her ear buds and bass heavy music. The first attempted gay basher stumbles backwards and begins to dribble blood and snot. Mohammed quickly turns his attention to the man directly across from him. Mohammed extends his right leg and catches the man squaw in the nuts. The sailor gasps for air and lands to his knees with his hands clutching his now mushy privates. In an attempt to guide the homosexual fighters through battle, the cherry blonde gently whispers to herself fighting commands. “Get up!”, “Watch out!”, “Kick that mutha-fucker!” and with each command she’s feels a sort of telepathic link with her new Sapphic warriors.
Mohammed launches himself across the semi circle of men and takes out the sailor hovering directly over “Biscuits”. “Biscuits” pops to his feet and spears the closest sailor to him. Clutched fist after clutched fist rhythmically crush into the bloody and broken face of the sailor under “Biscuits”. “Biscuits” is quickly lifted off the mangled sailor by two of the sailors fighting partners. Mohammed sensing his airy lover is in danger, delivers a quick head butt and few well placed elbows to the face of his fallen combatant, and lurches towards the two men holding “Biscuits”. Mohammed raises one knee after the other to the mid section of the sailor attempting to punch “Biscuits”. The sailor whips around and catches a closed fist to the throat from Mohammed. The sailor grabs his throat and leaves his face open to two quick jabs to the nose and collapses underneath his own weight. “Biscuits” slams the back of his head into the face of the sailor holding him to gain a bit of separation. “Biscuits” quickly turns around and flat kicks the brute in the mid section and launches him into the iron cast door behind him. The sailor slams into the door and leaves a full body dent in it. Both of the gay men hunch over attempting to catch a quick breathe and are met with applause by the coffee shop spectators, passer by’s and anyone within in eye shot of the recent gladiator battle. The triumphant scene is broken up by the piercing yell of “CUT!!!”