St. Louis Post-Dispatch; Bad Writing Festival

Author’s Note: I submitted the following material for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’s Bad Writing Festival decades ago (early 1990s). Not surprisingly the subject matter was judged unacceptable for inclusion in the paper. But that wasn't why I wrote or submitted it. I saved the piece because the little story made me laugh and every few years I re-read it for pure enjoyment. Someone at the Post-Dispatch sent the submission back with the following handwritten comment: “Very funny. We all enjoyed it. Too bad we can’t print it in a family newspaper.”

The first line of the story was provided by the newspaper; all contestants had to complete that storyline in 500 words or less in a style that epitomized bad writing.

First Line: “What Ned Richardson saw, however, was something very, very different.”

Lyncean Ned’s runner’s heart, so marvelously conditioned its resting rate was an incredibly decent forty beats per minute, thudded in a chest suddenly gone numb for, for a moment terrible indeed, he could have sworn the massive limestone statue of St. Louis, King of France, after whom the dynamic but conservative city was named, had shifted in his seat and focused his stony gaze on Ned’s Amherst singlet, which, being one hundred percent polyester, was extremely easy to launder in cold, warm, or hot water. At the apex of Art Hill’s uppermost prominence the rather heroic carved statue of good St. Louis stood, majestically mounting his beloved steed, strong and trusty blade extended, ready to impale impious infidels as he guarded the less than attractive overview of the City’s choked highways and crime-ridden byways for a centenary past.

Ned, blinking to clear his vision blurred by running into the cusp of the blowing wind, stared uncertainly at the limestone statue, trying to reassure himself. But to his scarcely containable shock the intrepid runner realized the calcareous horse was in actual fact stomping his massive Percheron feet, quivering his veined muscles, preparing for action. Ned’s eyes bugged out in naked fear and more than a little concern at the terrifying and incomprehensible sight of St. Louis twisting angrily in his saddle, pointing the long sword at him, shouting with a beguilingly piquant French accent, “Stop the drugged runner! Stop him! Let fire, Argent.”

With that ominous and portentous command, the enormous stallion, snorting tendrils of flame through fuliginous nostrils, wheeled around, tail arched dramatically over his rump, and shat fleur-de-lis shaped turds that arched gracefully through the air and smashed with astonishing and unpardonable accuracy into Ned’s chest. Hands clawing with frantic revulsion at the noisome brown ordure spreading across his torso, Ned tripped, sprawling in the street. The runners dogging his heels fell over him in a tangle of elbows, assholes, and most uncharitable curses. Leaping from the angry pile, Ned, with boundless and uncontrollable horror, saw that pious St. Louis, bloodthirsty sword flashing in the pitiless morning sun, and the monstrous steed were barreling straight at him, intent on bloody mayhem. Or worse.

“Run!” Ned screeched in panic uncontainable. “St. Louis is coming! St. Louis is coming!” With serene abandon he fled down the steep hill as the horseman from Hell’s nethermost region closed the gap until at the very bottom, while frantically looking over his shoulder, Ned headlong into a parked mini-van crashed.

Later, as the bored paramedics, having seen it all before, loaded the unconscious runner’s still form into the ambulance, the taller one said to his shorter but blond assistant, “Want to bet this guy’s high as a kite?”

At that exactly precise moment, Ned sat up, mumbling, “Honest, Mother, I’ll never eat those magic mushrooms again. No matter how bad I want to win a marathon.”

Grabbing the paramedic’s uniform with desperate calm he demanded, “Hey, buddy. Ever see a stone horse shit fleur-de-lis turds?”