A different kind of story

Howdy everyone, Moonlit here and I bring you part one of two of a different kind of story.  My roommate Toonsem and I did an interesting writing activity last night and I'm going to share the results below.  It's something he did in one of his classes and I just had to give it a try.  The way it works is you have a writing prompt, all participants start writing a story based on the prompt and switch papers after ten minutes.  You then try to continue the other person's story, it's like a rotation comic.  So the story that will be posted below is a result of his words and mine, this is the one that he started.  Without further ado here it is.

Prompt: You wake up one morning to find that one of your arms has been replaced with a long blade, what do you do?
     George woke to a beautiful Sunday morning.  The birds were chirping and the sun lit the back of his wife's head like a halo.  She was sleeping soundly next to him, with her neck gently resting on his right wrist and her silky brown hair flowing down the length of his arm like a chocolate river.
     He watched her breathing silently for a few minutes.  He didn't want to disturb the peace or ruin the perfect image that had greeted him the second he opened his eyes.
     But nothing gold can stay.  Just then an enormous fly entered the room, buzzing about boisterously.  It circled just above his head, positively begging to be snatched out of the air and squashed by one furious fist into oblivion. 
     George acted instinctively.  With one swift motion, he lashed out his arm.  But he could not grab the fly.  His hand had inexplicably been replaced with a long, rusty blade.  He stared up at it in disbelief.  It took him a minute longer to see that the entire room was covered in blood and that his wife's head had rolled into the corner, leaving a bloody trail in the white carpet.
     He surveyed the gruesome scene and began to hyperventilate.  Then he began to cry.  His wife's head that he'd been embracing so lovingly earlier was just that, a head.  With a shout he pushed it off the bed.  The decapitated corpse of his wife lay next to him.  The bed was completely covered in bed.  George stood up and went to the bathroom, the rusty blade dragging on the carpet leaving a long slash mark.  He went over to the toilet and began to vomit.  When he finished he looked into the mirror that reflected the bedroom.  There he saw something that made him vomit again.
     An arm, a severed arm, his severed arm.  Sitting on the bed reflected in the mirror was his left arm.  Someone must have done this for some fucked up reason.  How would he begin to explain this?  He woke up with a blade arm next to his dead wife?  The only way to get anywhere would be to talk to the police.  In this case, that meant admitting he killed his wife.
     George swallowed a lump in his throat and found the telephone.  He let the blade arm drag around because he had no idea what to do with it.  He dialed the numbers 9-1-1 and the operator answered.
     "911, what's your emergency?"  The operator asked.
     "Could you send someone over?"  George asked.
     "I think... I think I killed my wife."  He said hanging up.
     It was then, upon speaking this terrible truth, that he collapsed onto the floor and wailed in agony.  "Oh, Rosa," he sobbed violently, "I'm so sorry.  If only I had known that my arm was a six inch blade!  Then I never would have attacked that fly!"
     He continued to lie and moan pathetically until the sirens blared and the police arrived.  With an immense effort, George pushed himself up with one hand and opened the front door.
     The police had their pistols ready, as they came prepared to every potential murder scene, but none of them were prepared to see a long rusty blade, non-threatening though it was, fused to the man's wrist.
     The officer with the thick mustache was the first to speak.  "Oh shit, wow," was all he said.
     After a stunned silence, the cops moved to handcuff him.  George was too traumatized to resist or even say a word.
     After a silent ride down to the station, George was lead into a small interrogation room.  He got frightened glances from everyone in the station as his bloody blade arm scraped against the ground.  He sat down in the chair in front of the small table in the windowless room.  It felt like he was sitting there for hours, George did nothing except put his head down on the table and try to process what was going on.  Eventually the door opened and the officer with the thick mustache came in and sat across from him.
     "George Bloom?"  The officer asked.  George looked up.  "I'm officer Charles.  I'm going to help you."
     "Help me?"  George said.  "I killed my wife!"  George said indignantly.
     "No, you didn't."  Officer Charles said, George looked at him quizzically.
     "Not directly."  He explained.  "There was no way to know your arm had been replaced by a blade.  We checked out the crime scene and it all checks out.  There won't be any murder charges placed against you, it was a freak accident.  We even know who might have done this if you're interested."  He elaborated.  George perked his head up with interest.
     "You do?"  George asked.
     "Yeah."  Charles said pulling out a manilla folder.  "A guy who calls himself Olaf the mad mutilator.  He's been pulling shit like this for months, breaking into houses and cutting off limbs.  But never anything like this.  We're going to pick him up now, he's in the abandoned warehouse downtown."  Officer Charles explained.
     "Thank you."  George said looking up at the officer with eyes still puffy and red.
     "You know, I understand what you're going through."  Officer Charles began.  "This sicko took my wife's legs, I've been after him for months.  But this time he fucked up, he left fingerprints all over your arm that he left at the crime scene.  We've got him now.  If you'd like to come and meet him yourself, you can.  What you do is up to you and I'll look the other way.  Are you ready to go?"  Officer Charles asked.  George nodded as the two left for the officer's police cruiser.
     It was a quick ride to the warehouse down.  Officer Charles parked across the street.
     "Okay George, I'll need you to wear a wire in case we need back up."  George nodded.  "Whatever happens in there, I'll look the other way."  Charles said setting up the wire on George's shirt. 
     George left the car and made his way to the warehouse.  The door was open and inside was big open room.  In the middle of the room was an old man sitting in a chair. 
     "Ah! Hello my son!"  The old man said.  "I am Olaf."  He said formally.  George said nothing.
     "I assume you have come to kill me?  That's why I left evidence, so you could find me."  Olaf explained.  George still said nothing.
     "But you won't want to do that.  I've been working on something.  A new arm for you!  I'll replace that pesky blade in exchange for you letting me go!"  Olaf bargained.
     "No."  George said simply.  "You don't know what you've put me through you sick fuck.  This isn't just about my arm.  You made me murder the love of my life.  You've caused pain and misery for me and who knows how many others.  I won't kill you.  That's too good for you.  What I will do is teach you the pain you have created for all the people you've attacked."  George said.
     "No, don't!"  Olaf shouted, as George advanced towards him and in one swift motion cut off the old man's left arm at the elbow.  The old man screamed in agony as George quickly cut off the other arm at the elbow.  He turned around and spoke into wire.
     "Charles, he's here, come get him.  Call an ambulance as well."  George said leaving the building.
     "Rosa, I'm so sorry."  He said solemnly as sirens surrounded the warehouse.