This is based upon the concept of http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=1 - Jailbreak , which is an interactive adventure. You respond to this thread with your suggestions about what the character(s) should do next, and I will illustrate it extremely poorly. Your suggestion can be obvious, clever, or extremely stupid: I will read all of them and pick which one I think is for whatever reason, the best, and if I can't decide I will lean towards the one that was posted earlier. I have a few ideas about what is going on, but this is mostly up to you.

 

The original adventure used the first suggestion 100% of the time, but I think that's boring since it gives everybody else no reason to post. For the sake of simplicity, the initial set-up is similar to Jailbreak, but if this is successful and I don't lose the will to waste time on this, I will branch out to other locations that aren't a square, featureless room! The characters will probably slowly start to look better as this goes on, but if you're expecting art that isn't hilariously bad, look elsewhere. Just think of it as outsider art. ;-)

 

So, here goes nothing! (Except for free time)

You awake with a start by the loudspeaker playing the song Big Generator. You are in a small, hideously yellow room that contains absolutely nothing of interest. As you begin to stand, you see that you only have three fingers. You are also dismayed to discover that you cannot remember anything about yourself, except that you used to have more fingers, and probably some hair too. Stunned by this revelation, you fall back to the ground.

On the wall appears a writing: grand men oeg. You soon realize the secret message in it (which is "garden gnome") and you are astounded.

 

Having screamed the secret message a swirly hypnotic vortex that looks like some kind of inter-spacial portal from a once popular 1960s tv series magically appears in the wall opposite the Big Generator picture. You stand mesmerised by the swirly hypnotic vortex as it threatens to engulf the entire wall, a major portion of the ceiling, several metres of the floor and an interesting but valueless art nouveau vase on a rococo table you failed to notice when you first awoke. The table wobbles slightly as one of its legs disappears into the portal then slowly and inexorably it tilts, unbalanced by the missing leg. You watch in dumbfound confused horror as the vase slides relentlessly towards the swirly hypnotic vortex until it succumbs to the irresistible forces within and tumbles into the room-engulfing chasm, to be followed rather quickly though unnervingly without sound, by the table itself. Regardless of the inevitable pull of the swirly hypnotic vortex, you feel compelled you to look at your hands and their cartoon-like three digits and faintly a memory forms in your mind, something dim and half forgotten, something about two-fingers of rot-gut red-eye....

CAT'S FOOT, IRON CLAW, NEUROSURGEONS SCREAM FOR MORE

Unhappy with merely taking the table, the portal has jumped to the other side of the room! As it devours the nicely framed copy of Big Generator, everything in the room starts to get fuzzy, and you somehow feel wrong. In shock, you stare at your rapidly oscillating hands, and through them you notice an angry, giant floating can of spam, impossibly clear among the chaos. It appears to have come through the portal, and you wonder if it is a minor deity come to save you, or perhaps only a visitor from another plane with anti-gravity boots purchased from the interdimensional Wal-Mart. You are completely baffled by the limitless possibilities this situation presents and do not know what to do next.

The loudspeaker is now playing Raindance by Casualties of Applied Metaphysics.

The swirly hypnotic vortex grew in intensity and magnitude, causing the room to further distort and fuzzify, slowly sucking in the PA speaker and the spasmodic music it was broadcasting like the audio equivalent of an event-horizon, the notes being stretched and slowed to a stop as relative-time convolved into another dimension to be spat back out again through Hawking Radiation, re-arranged and re-tuned into some semblance of disorder that faintly resembled a long discarded sound experiment by Pierre Boulez. It was became increasingly obvious that the SPAM BOT was neither a minor deity nor a mere visitor from another plane, but a representative for the Soylent corporation. Fortunately the dissonant mix of Pre and Post-Vortex music is having a soporific effect on the SPAM BOT and its angry/hungry expression changes to one of blasé indifference, so quickly you snatch the anti-gravity boots from its "feet" and the SPAM lies down in a bored way...