It turns out there is such a thing as the International 3-Day Novel Contest, which is basically NaNoWriMo on speed. You are given three days to write an entire novel.

So assuming a novel is 50 000 words, and you'll be sleeping / doing other things 8 hours out of every day, that leaves you with 48 hours to write the novel - 1042 words per hour, 17.4 words per minute. Of course, I would never try this, since I struggle with RSI and this would be a certain way to permanently damage my hands. But I couldn't resist seeing how much "story" I could write in five minutes. So, to the amusement of my friends, I set myself a timer and started typing. This is what I wrote:

Jeremiah Applegate stared at the door and considered his options. He still had a few shells left, but the aliens were coming in through more of the entrances now. The hospital was otherwise deserted, and he was sure that the sirens outside heralded similar invasions elsewhere.

He sighed and reloaded his shotgun. Time to kick some alien... butt. (There would be time for anatomical lessons later.) He opened the door and poked out his gun, aiming for the first of the slavering alien beasts. A quick shot dispatched the creature.

He was about to take aim at the next monster when the simulation suddenly ended.

"Dammit Karen, I was enjoying that!"

"Your psych profiles suggest that you are in need or a quiet time, maybe a simulation of a japanese tea ceremony."

"Karen, my profiles suggest that I want to have sex with you, and you are a computer."

"Point taken."

"Anyway, what's up?"

"The trade delegation from across the Thames is here. They say they have several barrels full of poultry they'd be willing to give us in exchange for some hydrogen."

"Tell Jake to check out the meat and see if it's actually chicken or something like that."

Jeremiah took of his sensorsuit and changed back into his uniform. Time to take on the office of North Kensington Inquisitor once more. After all, there were mouths to feed.

We went downstairs, careful not to tread on any of the less-stable parts of the iron stairs of the old warehouse. One day, he told himself, there would be enough nanofactors around to fix up the stairs. Or someone would do it for him, as a favour. After all, that was what public office was about, right? Favours!

Let's just say there was much giggling when I passed it around.