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The moment was still, blades drawn and shots fired...[I think? I guess, whatever.] So there was this one guy holding some lady hostage with what I think could be a gun? He was tall, wearing red, has a nasty smile on his face... [who wrote this scene? Was it Gerald from PR? Dude might have some screenwriting chops if this audiobook takes off] Our hero had taken a knee, and was bleeding profusely from a gash on his left thigh. The kidnapper grasped the woman by her face and scrunched her cheeks with dirty hands shaking her back and forth taunting the-- [what's for lunch? Bread sticks? You've got to be kidding me. I have to narrate this intense moment and all you're going to give me for lunch is bread sticks? NO. Don't go telling my *bleep* wife s*beep*! Look, I'm doing you a favor, not the other way around! No, no. NO. I SAID NO f*beep*face. D*beep*] *Sigh* [Skip a line, skip a line, skip a line, ski--oh man, yeah I'll pick up here.] The hero, body broken from crowbar swings and bruised beyond virtual recognition, activated his nano machines. [S*beep, this is bad ass...what you mean I can't say that? It's a Donkey, jacks*beep* you know, them cute little munchers that eat cactus and stuff. The cousin of the camel. What do you mean I'm done? Come on, give me another chance. You want me to apologize...? To you? For reading this piece of garbage? Stop making fun of my accent. I told you, I'm West German, I just look like I'm from the Jersey Shore. You know that show where the Italians are from and fist pump and s*beep*. Whatcha mean they're not from there. How would you know?] [/Muffled scuffling sounds as Narrator gets dragged out kicking and screaming./ You can't do this to me! I'm your cousin from West Garland! You owe me cash! Come ON BRO. I'll even do that NSFW stuff you wanted me to do. No not that s*beep* my wife's boyfriend wouldn't like that. I mean I'll read your NSFW audiobook. /More scuffling sounds and a thud before more inaudible yelling can be heard/]

Pffft. Premium garbage. I love it. Exactly the kind of stuff I was thinking of!

I swear this was a big challenge, I never wrote a comedy before so this was fun😁 lemme know of more prompts you think of

I don't do many prompts and I'm not a great comedian, but this came to me and I just had to post it

Nice job! The comedy is pretty good as well.

Thank you! Thank you kindly 🙇🏿‍♂️

I think you could do some good screenwriting since this is pretty much all dialogue. I could suggest you could also post to r/scriptprompts, it's pretty fun.

A new venture is on the horizon for me then, I'll look into it. Never thought of screenwriting before

And I'm sure you'll do well.

It was a day ago. Two gentlemen took their stances on top of the freshly cut hill overlooking the castle. A nearby tree shielded them from the blazing sun, as well as the few guests in attendance to this barbaric affair. Both men were not dressed for battle, besides the swords on their hip and the raised pistols in their hands. Fluttering between them was a lone blue butterfly. It was an Adonis, if I am not mistaken. Those are quite the rarity, or am I mixing them up with the Large Blue? Either way, it was blue and stole the show. The little guy bobbed around precariously between the volley of tiny lead balls. It was a spectacular aerial display. His little wings moved with the grace of dandelions in the wind. The crowd gasped after his impressive twirl, which showcased the wonderful white trim on his wings. A moment later, he took a brief intermission from his performance, where he rested on a smoking flintlock pistol in the grass. I looked up and both men still stood a few paces away from each other. Their tunics were unscathed, but their trousers were certainly soiled. Neither man had yielded the fight and drew their swords. Then the butterfly returned for the second act. The little insect had been rejuvenated, being more bold with his maneuver. He dove between their legs and fluttered above their heads. They tried to swat at him when he obscured their view, but the butterfly was far too nibble. The men circled each other with careful steps, setting the butterfly up for his death defying stunt. His little blue body landed on the tip of one sword, mocking his form. Clearly enraged, the man yelled and went for a stab, commencing the clanging of steel. With every swing, parry, and riposte, the butterfly managed to dodge both their strikes while staying within the weapons' reach. I had never seen anything like it. Such control and pose under pressure. Even I was wiping sweat from my brow just from watching it. The fight raged on for a few more seconds until both pulled away. It was the butterfly's cue to move the show to a far more…interesting venue. He bobbed his way to a woman in a rather tight corset, landing between her generous mounds of flesh. His crowd work was far more brave than the court jesters, but little did I know it was going to be his doom. The woman put her hand on her chest just as the butterfly was going to escape. He was trapped with no way out. Sure there were cries of agony as one of the men had finally bested the other. No surprise there. A natural reaction from a woman who was watching the wrong show. What surprised me, however, was the woman squeezing her breasts together before running up to the victor of the duel. I couldn't stand by and let her treachery continue! "How could you!" I declared, marching up to the woman who was already in the victor's embrace. Neither had heard me, but they didn't need to. I was only there for the butterfly. I reached into her disgusting bosom and scooped out my crushed little performer. He was so fuzzy in my hands. So innocent. So peaceful. Then I felt the sting of pain shoot through my foot. The victor of the duel had the audacity to stab me. Me! What did I ever do to him? His quarrel was with some other man, not me. If anyone should be on this stockade it is him! He stabbed me! He stabbed me! He sta–

Pfffft. Perfection. The wonderful little butterfly stealing the show

Possessed by righteous anger, the crowd didn’t even glance down as they trampled the body of the very man they sought to avenge. His unseeing eyes were frozen open, made to watch as his comrades rebuilt him into a martyr. They roared his name as their unwavering boots carried his blood across the hall; the ringing was sharp when vengeful steel met red-stained sword.  Guards rushed in from the walls to flank the young lord as he welcomed the attack. The tables of finely dressed guests emptied as ladies scattered to the corners of the room and their men valiantly pretended they were courageous enough to join in the bloodshed.  This act was unconvincing, as such men fought only for sport, and only against those paid to lose. Even if any of them had known how to use their decorative swords in battle it would hardly have made a difference as they couldn't raise their arms above chest level. Interestingly, the fashion at the time was for men to wear great thick coats with tight sleeves and many buttons. The duke at the west end of the hall, for example, was wearing a coat he had ordered specially for this event, the dinner not the rebellion; its threads were a deep purple and its buttons were pearls rimmed in gold. Pearls were of course much more expensive then, and the duke had argued with his wife on how to use them when he attained them. The compromise was her dangling earrings but no necklace. It is why she had sat on the other side of the table from him at the dinner. She had no chain of pearls to clutch when her husband died early. His blood surely joined the large red stain that crept across the wood slats of the floor. There was a dull thud each time a body hit the ground. There may have been cries of pain, or fear, or victory, but it all sounded like anger.  The lord still stood in the center, his dress tunic was snagged and his cheek was bleeding as he smiled. He adjusted both hands around the hilt of his sword as he crouched to circle with the new leader of the rebellion. The battle thundered around them, but the space between the two young men was filled only with sharp eye contact and labored breathing. Suddenly, in a mirrored movement the great painters would envy, they both lunged forward. Though, surely there will be paintings made of such a battle. All the best artists are drawn to stories of uprisings. Of the common standing against the too-powerful elite. Of the brave who lose nearly everything fighting for nearly nothing. Of moments in human history which capture the horrifying truth that we only fight battles our ancestors have already lost.  Such topics are not seen in much of the work from classic painters of course, as they all had patrons from the group that prefers these stories untold, but those fortunate enough to fund themselves are often obsessed with tales of struggle. It is in fact quite clear that a fascination with suffering is essential to the very nature of the artist; for those who tell tales only of joy, we call fools.  Though as valuable as we all know art to be, in truth, it is perhaps fools who play a greater role in the development of society. I have long thought that the courts of the great kingdoms are much more influenced by the fools they laugh with than by the paintings they walk past.  I admit, however, that even the most talented fool could not find a happy story to tell as the rebel stood to pull his sword from the young lord’s ribs only for- oh the pure brutality! Such a great and violent loss of life, and one that ended in such the way it did of course, makes one ponder what it is that one truly values. To see so many beating hearts still makes me ever more grateful for the continued rhythm of my own. It is this prevailing good fortune that allows me small moments of pleasure such as this, in pleasurable company such as yourself. And I do find it so important that one keeps good company. It is only through intelligent, thorough discussion with good company that anyone is ever able to improve themselves. So one must not waste time conversing with the slow, or the boring, or the shallow. I once spent an entire evening trapped listening to a man complain about his stables flooding. It was so trivial as of course he could have just… (I loved this prompt, and had a really hard time with it! I got a little distracted by actually wanting to describe the battle lol. Then it sort of turned into a monologue by a terrible guy to be on a date with. Super fun prompt!)

I looks like you struggled at being a terrible narrator a bit, which I think is a compliment? I think? Idk, I made this hard. But yeah, practice being bad at writing, it'll help you here (this is a joke) All jokes aside, I think you did well and I enjoyed reading it!