This was an experiment in getting ChatGPT to produce a story that fit an overall template, but allow it to invent the specific details. It was told to follow a pattern, but the brands it inserted were it's decision, as well as the localised details. It was just given the UK train station. These two stories are generated from the exact same prompt. Similar stories can be generated from any UK train station. It was a test to see how well it can combine comedy/horror/localised details/product placement in one story.
The Future of Product Placement - Walking home from Brockley Station
I'm leaving Brockley Station, 11:47 PM, cold air biting, breath a foggy spectre against the starless sky. Got a brisk 10-minute stroll ahead of me, past the weathered tombstones of Brockley Cemetery, down Breakspears Road, turn left onto Tressillian Road, home sweet home at number 18. Streetlights smear watercolour streaks on rain-slicked pavement.
First turn, there's an old woman lying on the cobblestones. A blood-red halo radiates from her white coiffure, her legs twisted at sickening angles.
"Lovely weather today!" I quip, awkward chuckle tickling the back of my throat.
She manages a frail smile, "Slipped on this fucking cobblestone, dear. Legs gone...other than that, can't complain."
She's sipping a Costa Coffee, praises its 'velvety finish' even as her own life ebbs out, oddly comforting in the horrifying absurdity of it all. I leave her there, the comforting steam rising from her cup.
Turning the corner onto Adelaide Avenue, a man in a Tesco's uniform is impaled on the wrought-iron gates of Hilly Fields Park, body twitching in grotesque spasms.
"Busy day, huh?" My voice trembles, the echo bouncing back in hollow mockery.
"Just a bit, mate. Tripped, fell onto these spikes. Bollocks hurts, but other than that, not too terrible, thanks."
His fingers grip a Tesco meal deal, soggy sandwich proclaiming 'every little helps.' I feel the vomit rise, swallow it back, pressing on.
Passing St. Andrew's Church, an HSBC banker in a shredded suit is pinned to the church door with what looks like Barclays pens. Eyes wide, terrified.
"Nice day, isn't it?" I croak, the words a twisted mantra of normalcy in this hellish reality.
"Got jumped by a fucking gang, mate. Stabbed with pens, I think...other than that, surviving, cheers."
He's trying to order an Uber on his cracked iPhone, praises the 'unrivalled speed of BT's broadband as he bleeds out. I leave him to it, staggering towards home.
Finally, Tressillian Road. Number 18. Staring at the featureless surface where my door handle should be. A senseless scream tears from my throat, unheard in the quiet street. I'm stuck, stuck, stuck, heart pounding in a frenzied staccato against my ribs. The door, a grim sentinel, impassive, unyielding.
In the merciless silence, a half-remembered advert jingle burrows into my brain. A voice, polished and mocking, echoing in my skull: "Direct Line, we're on it!" Over and over, a cruel parody of help, of safety. Sanity unravels, the slogan gnawing at the edges of my mind, turning the fear into a madness that drowns everything else. Direct Line, we're on it. Direct Line, we're on it. Direct Line...
And there's no one on it. No one at all.
I descended the steps of Brockley station, a gust of night wind pushing against me, as if warning me of the horror that awaited. The cold gleam of the illuminated BP sign on Coulgate Street provided an uncanny reassurance as I started my walk towards Adelaide Avenue. My house, 15 minutes away, a safe haven I thought. How foolishly innocent of me.
Turning left onto Breakspears Road, I encountered Mr. Parsons, the local butcher, lying amidst a pool of his own entrails. His body gruesomely decorated by his own profession.
“You alright, Mr. Parsons?” I asked, my voice a quivering whisper.
“Just had my fucking guts ripped out, lad,” he replied, a lopsided grin on his face, "but other than that, can't complain."
An icy shiver trailed down my spine as I stepped away from the grotesque scene, the flickering neon lights of Tesco Express on Tressillian Road illuminating my path.
Taking a right onto Wickham Road, the world around me spun into a more ghastly spectacle. Mrs. Whitaker, the sweet old lady who lived on Brockley Grove, was pinned to a lamp post, a dozen knitting needles protruding from her body. The raw gruesomeness of it made me wretch.
“Lovely weather today!” I tried to keep my tone upbeat, despite the bile rising in my throat.
“Just been skewered by knitting needles, you cheeky cunt,” she managed a bloody giggle, “but other than that, I'm doing alright, cheers."
Fear turned my legs to jelly, the familiar signage of Virgin Media on Brockley Road, usually a source of internet comfort, now a grim beacon in the gory scene. I quickened my pace, the nocturnal silence echoing my thundering heartbeats.
As I crossed onto Adelaide Avenue, I met Steve, the Barclays bank manager. His body was twisted in an inhuman arch over the hood of a Ford, his bones poking out through the shards of his shredded suit. The sight of him, a usually sturdy figure, contorted in such a manner was enough to make my blood turn icy.
"Any plans for tonight, Steve?" I gulped, staring at the mangled horror of a man.
“Just getting my back broken on a fucking Ford, mate," he retorted with a strangled laugh, "but other than that, pretty good, thanks for checking."
The horrific reality took a mental toll on me as I continued the rest of my journey in a daze. Each landmark, each street name, tainted with gore, reverberating my terror back at me.
Finally, my house, the familiar yellow glow from the living room window welcoming me. But, as I approached, I froze. The door... there was no handle, no lock. Nothing. I was trapped outside. I fell to my knees, hot tears welling up in my eyes.
The slogan from the Halifax advert popped into my mind, “It's a people thing." The cruel irony of it writhed in my brain. All the people I’d seen, the horrors I’d witnessed, it was all a people thing.
Screaming echoed through the street, mine, piercing the otherwise quiet night. This was my Brockley. My London. But I was no longer home. I was just a man, trapped outside, on the brink of insanity, engulfed by a nightmarish reality.