We've all been there- in real life we're capable of reasoned argument and, as rational people, capable of setting aside arguments when the opposing party is disinclined to be reasonable. This is true even though we know the words are not permanent- there's a good chance whoever we were arguing with will never remember exactly what we said. The internet however is a surreal place- words we send out will never go away completely, yet the layer of anonymity we enjoy often leads us to behave as though words online were more fleeting than words spoken to ourselves alone. Sometimes this leads to brutal honesty; sometimes it leads to outright malice. Either way, most of us would be appalled to see someone say the things we've seen online to someone face to face. John is about to say the things he might say online about strangers in real life about people he knows. I want everyone to feel free to write for John, and to take the story in any direction they feel like going (comedy, drama, sci-fi, whatever) but with one catch- make only one post, and then consider yourself banned. Don't write any more, and don't talk to potential other writers about where you see the story going or what the character means to you or try to explain what you meant- once you write, you can only read. Also if you are going to kill John please wait until at least 2 or 3 other people have had a chance to write.


Banned

John was hardly even paying attention. He knew that this was a big deal; his world would never be the same. When your mother dies, the family changes, and certainly some serious conversations to be had with the children. But John was thinking about other things, and his younger brother had to shake him when the priest called him up to say a few words.

"My mother left all her money to charity when she died. I notice that her foundation's president, Max is here today. I'm sure she thought that made her look noble, but I wish she'd left her debts to charity too. My oldest daughter, Jess, was going to start college in a couple of years, but I regret to announce that can't happen now. I'm sorry, Jess, your college education is going to pay off grandma's mortgage. So thanks, mom. Thanks alot for less than nothing. Screw you, Max."

John turned and spat at the coffin, walked out of the church and slammed the doors behind him.

(From Sarn Cadrill, who wasn't able to make this post himself.)

It was hours later. John walked the gritty streets of downtown Los Angeles. To the west, the setting sun could occasionally be seen through the buildings, a mere sliver above the waterline. A police siren sounded in the distance, mingling with the other sounds of the street to form a song familiar to John's ears. It was the song he'd listened to growing up, and it reminded him of a past he'd spent 20 years trying to forget.

In his left trouser pocket, John's cellphone began to vibrate again. He ignored it and kept walking. They'd been calling every few minutes. Family. Friends. Especially his older sister, Faye. She was one of those people who saw some bull**** deeper, psychological meaning behind everyone's actions, and spent her time trying to "get to the heart of the matter" as she put it. It made John sick. Couldn't it just be as simple as he'd said? He just wanted the money to pay the bills, and mom was such a self-righteous ***** that she thought she was doing everyone a favor by giving it all to a bunch of poor, deadbeat bastards so caught up in their own drunkeness they couldn't live life without a handout. Street people were all the same. They had no one to blame but themselves, but they always wanted someone to bail them out. God knows no one had ever given John any breaks, least of all his own mother. And now after he'd scratched and clawed his way up the financial ladder to try and provide his own kids with the life his mother could never provide to him, she had to be there, even in her death, to take it away in an instant.

Suddenly, John heard footsteps in the alley behind him. Years on the street had trained his ear to recognize the difference between someone walking behind him, and someone coming up behind him, and this was not an innocent walk. He turned just as the teenaged, Mexican thug raised a revolver. The kid seemed surprised at first that John had heard him coming, but he recovered quickly, masking that surprise with a look he probably thought was intimidating. His gaze took in John's black Armani suit, his Rolex wristwatch, excitedly.

"You're a long way from home, aren't you?" he said in his thick Mexican accent. "Guy like you don't belong in a neighborhood like this. But you give me your wallet and I make sure you get home safe."

(And now, one from me!)

"Really?" John asked rhetorically. "I'd say you're what's wrong with America, but that would be presuming that something was right with it--"

The thug interrupted John with a shove of the revolver's barrel into John's torso.

"Shut up. Give me the watch."

"Or what? You'll shoot? You think I care? Go ahead -- shoot. You'll probably get away with it too in this dump. But for a watch? Jesus, could you prove me anymore right at how GOD DAMN--"

A shot thundered, and John fell down. Lights in the nearby buildings flicked on, and murmurs could be heard. The thug stumbled in place, then bolted into the shadows. Several minutes later, an ambulance arrived, lifting John into the vehicle, and raced towards the nearest hospital...

(Hopefully someone else can continue with better.)

"That wasn't exactly the smartest thing you ever did, was it?"

"Eh?"

The sirens of the ambulance blared somewhere behind the throbbing in his ears, dimmed to a muffled wail. And yet the deep, ominous vocal tones resounded in his head, clear and crisp. The feeling of being in two places at once flooded his consciousness. A feeling, he decided, that felt far too natural for normalacy.

"Come now, you were shot. Remember?"

The sudden flash of the Mexican's face and the shock of pain that rushed through his body moments before lapsing into unconsciousness under the now familiar bellow of ambulance sirens.

"And I presume you're... an angel then?"

"Was it the bright halo that gave it away or the wings?" the angel mocked, though wore a facial expression that was as benevolent as any of the 'Children's Bible' pictures he recalled. His hair was black, however, unlike the angels from the old books. "Did you think only blonde people were allowed into heaven?"

"You're reading my mind?" John accused though he felt that the attempted facial expression was lost somewhere in translation from the physical to the metaphysical.

"Ah, now here's a real question for you," the angel's smile continued to beam down upon him. "Maybe I'm just a product of your mind?"

John chose not to dignify that with a response and made an effort to peer around the ambulance van with little success. He had a strange awareness that there were doctors in the van but he couldn't make his body work in the way he once did.

"Okay, let's assume I'm not a physchological feature in your brain trying to convince your dying mind that you're on your way to heaven, but, instead, I am from heaven and I have the notion of sending you there yourself," he paused, allowing his words to sink into the dying human's metaphysical ears. "But, on the other hand, I could send you back to Earth to continue living. I know those debts are such a nuissance but think of all the family and friends you'll be leaving behind. Which will you choose?"