The Cup O' Joel fiction-writing championships for 2003!

Very well. Nobody even TRIED to enter Monday's competition. It may have been too obscure, what with stating the rules of the game in French and all. Let's try again. This time, however, it won't be a test of your puzzle-solving, but your literary ability. Here's the rules: I will start the story. You will finish it. The winner will resolve the story in 1,000 words or less, and will be judged on A) Structure, B)Use of the English language and C)Overall good yarn tellin' abilities. Very naughty entries will be discarded, and profanity is discouraged -- it's not very clever anyhow. You're free to add your entries to the comments section below. All OFFICIAL entries, however, will be sent to my e-mail address by noon on Friday. I will be the sole judge, and my decision will be final. Colleagues and close friends of mine are excluded from competition. Here's the beginning of the story:The Ugly Truth, or 'Why I'll Never Trust the Internet Again.' Joel sat on the banks of the Kaw River, gasping with pain from goat bites to his arms, legs and torso. He had come close to defeat -- too close -- but in the end, Reynaud had taken his goat to Lecompton. The battle was over. A truce had been called. But at what price? Joel wasn't sure he would be able to drag himself to the hospital; the bite wounds that weren't bleeding profusely were becoming quickly infected. Perhaps he had avoided defeat, but Joel began to consider the possibility that he would spend his final hours at the side of a poopy-smelling river. He didn't want that. "Help ... me ... please," he rasped out to the figure on the bridge, but his voice was too weak to be heard. Or was it? The figure came closer. "Joel, I am here for you! It is me, Jemima!" the person cried out. "I will help you." Joel fainted. He awoke to find Jemima leaning over him. And he realized that, after weeks of trading bon mots on the Internet, he knew Jemima -- but had never known who Jemima was. He had assumed Jemima was a friendly young woman (a physics major) from the coffee shop, but he was wrong. Jemima was tall. British. A chemist. A man. A man named Andrew. And he had been playing Joel for a sucker under the coquettish guise of Jemima. And as he began to faint again, Joel asked himself, "How did this happen?" It's up to you, aspiring authors, to provide the answer.


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