h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

*pacified at the moment by the idea of a drink, lowers bazooka but keeps it handy* Thanks for the gesture... but I'll get my own... no telling what kind of bartending training you've had...

Hiya All!

Yeah, I'm fine, thanks.
No, I don't want any snacks/drinks etc, if you don't mind...

*inspects fallen curtains and spent cartridges*

You didn't actually hit Coleridge, did you?

*the wind drops suddenly*

...Err...I think I'll leave this one to you guys, OK?

*disappears impressively quickly for a seal in stitches*

Coleridge...?

*Scary drumming comes from behind bar. Rhythmic swishing of machete being sharpened*

Oh. Dear. We may have a rogue barman on our hands... Coleridge! T'mershi didn't mean to hit you! He really likes you - we all do!

*Spear flies out of wall, sticks quivering in oil painting*

Come on lad, don't be like that!
*Whisper* Edge around the bar, cut off his escape route. Lock and load! Where's that craven seal gone?
Coooleridge! It's me, Mr L. I took you in when you were just a miserable Moderator, the lowest of the low, and I gave you a good home and a decent job! Cooooleridge...?

* It isn't clear where the sailor appeared from. Rather disappointingly, for this Conversation at any rate, he appears to be dead already. He doesn't smell too good either. His voice is a whisper, barely audible above the hissing of the thousand thousand slimy things which have suddenly infested the cocktail cabinet *

...Coleridge is the albatross, aye. Someone once shot her mate too, so 'tis said. Me and the crew got really p***ed off about that. It was bad enough getting to be dead, but it was worse getting undead for a long, long time. A hundred and twenty-six verses I reckons it was...

* the noisome sailor fixes Mr Legion with his terrible eye, and hesitates for a moment as a lump of his forearm drops off and mingles with the Tufted Wilton *

...and now you've done it again, so you have. We've had to bring the bloody ship five thousand bloody miles, and now its stuck nor breath nor motion halfway up your bloody gravel drive. Him and her'll be playing dice for our souls again any minute, and it's all your bloody fault. If I weren't dead, I could spit...

* the sailor aims a punch at Mr Legion, but the exertion proves too much and this time his entire arm falls off. He collapses in an evil-smelling heap *

Weather seems to have turned a bit nasty, Sir...

* it is the bartender (who is evidently not called Coleridge after all) who now speaks. He casts a disapproving eye in the direction of the blood-red sky beyond the windows. A velociraptor manages to hang on to the casement briefly, before being swept away in the rising gale) *

...To be Continued...

Unsettled by this turn of events, and definantly not to blame for any of it, Yankee-shoes begins humming to herself and becoming one with the shadows.

Take your hands off the suit, you ugly old zombie! Security! Go tell your sodding story to someone who cares! Tell Irishman! He loves stories! And sailors, if the rumours I've heard are true...

*Also unsettled by the apocalyptic turn of events, Mr Legion decides to go inhabit a much *nicer* Coleridge poem*

Ahhh, this is a bloody miracle. A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

*Breaks off lump of ice, drops it into *

Now, where's that houri with my sherbert? Fatima? Fatima? Is it impossible to get good service in this boardroom/pleasure-dome? Still, it beats the thousand slimy things hands down. Pass my loofah, YS...

*Lies back, listens to river Alph gurgling by*

Eh? What's that? War?!?

* dead guys have collected remains of a couple of hundred small furry animals gunned down in recent carnage. They wrap them up in the curtains. There doesn't seem to be an albatross among them, much to the dead guys' apparent chagrin *

Well...let this be a lesson to ye. Don't go shootin' at albatrosses in the future, and don't ye go sending up the accents of sailor-types, dead or otherwise. And just remember we only say "Jim, lad" to people who are called Jim. All right?

* they depart in a huff, dragging the curtains and muttering unspeakable curses about Frankie Goes to Hollywood. The broiling blood-red clouds disperse *

Turned out nice again. Hmmm, let's see...

*Arches fingers archly*

'Arr Jim lad, I be a poirate, I do, and I ploughs the Spanish Main with me ducks hangin' out o' me breeks, me hearties...on a dead man's chest. Pieces of eight!'
Nobody tells me who to send up. Albatross indeed.

*Picks dead albatross from inside pocket of suit*

I was thinking of stuffing and mounting it, whaddya think? Or it could make a nice tie...

*Mixes at minibar, tries to forget about recent unpleasantness*

Good Evening, Mr Legion...

* the short, fat blotchy one appears to have brought his own (cod-liver-oil on the rocks, natch) *

It would be in very poor taste to stuff Coleridge, so to speak...

* inspects stains in carpet *

...and the sailor-boys will only come back if you tie her round your neck...

* inspects claw-marks in the window-frames *

...Y'know, I'd have to say you handled that rather well, on the whole. There is something else that's been worrying me, though...

... too much talk...too little minimalism and certainly too little hunting shooting and fishing.....Grabs elephant gun, fishing rod, a box of ammo....and a bottle of tequila....heading for nearest hunting ground, cheerily humming the theme from "Brazil"..

* waves to T'm-D *

Now don't get confused and go pointing the fishing rod at any charging elephants...

...Yeah...as I was saying, I'm kind of worried

I had this dream, see, and in it someone got hold of the Remains of Pingu. Silly really. I mean this Pingu-thing just looks like a blob of black and white plasticine, but it's really, really dangerous. Honest.

There was this elf-lady called Swerve or something who was looking after it. She seemed pretty together. Well, up to a point, anyway. I mean, she wouldn't get careless with something like that, I don't suppose...

* stares curiously at Mr Legion *

...You haven't got a brother who's a Wizard, by any chance?

* downs

...Oh well, mustn't Mix our Threads. Anyone fancy a spot of fencing? Since I've only got short flippers, I'll take you on underwater. Even things up a bit...

What ..I can´t go fish elephants...better shoot some fish then instead. Just saw a nice big pond right outside. Funny thing though with all those humanlike figures jumping in from about 5 meters up....probably just dolphins though. I hate those animals...always makes me wanna do some heavy shooting.....

Loads elephant gun and takes aim....

Not at me, T'mershi! I won't stand being shot at again... *sigh* what ever happened to Xanadu? I even found a fresh loofa for Mr. Legion. We could be e-vil in Xanadu. Like a Mr. Freeze type thing... *Raised bazooka and aims at T'mershi just in case*

*Smiles magnanimously*

Tell you what. We'll compromise.

*Messes with control panel. Dissolve to...

The gardens of Xabadabadu. Deckchairs, and magazines for the more lazy, with a mermaid-filled river Alph gurgling by for you sportsmen. The river is also equipped with an underwater fencing arena, for obvious reasons. The woods nearby are positively brimming with small animal life to shoot*

I've been making some changes to the boardroom. Not so much a boardroom now, really, so much as a pleasure garden. Oh well It still has a minibar! (On a more serious note, I'm beginning to understand how dictators and villains in the past have been distracted from their plans for world domination. When you have a tall, cool drink and a spot in the sun, the world starts to look pretty good )

Throw me my loofa, YS, and I'll whup that seals a$$ at underwater fencing!

*swerves in blue lights flashing*

where is it?

Hey Swiv. How goes it? I'm taking some time off from wizarding, but still, as your guider and protector on the Quest, I feel obliged to say: Is it secret? Is it safe? You know the little lump of plasticine of which I speak... Two Questers in one day, first Pinniped, now you...can't be coincidence. Someone is trying to get the old Fellowship back together, eh?

If you feel like relaxing, Xabadabadu has all the amenities you'd expect in a pleasure dome. Pull up a deckchair, forget about the Penguin. Have a with an umbrella in it!

...Penquin...anyone say penquin...strolls off to bring back some penguins in bondage.

Oh no, I had a feeling I'd have to explain this. T'mershi, YS, meet Swiv.

*Gestures at Swiv, who is hiding under a swivel chair but >not fooling anybody<*

A while back me, Swiv, Jedi Jade, Pinniped, Granny Weatherwax and a few others went on a Tolkien-esque Quest (I was the wizard) to destroy a small lump of plasticine that was the remains of Pingu, the Dark Lord of Children's TV.

F84056?thread=166905&skip=0&show=20 <--- It started here.

We passed through Soho, Hyde Park, yea, even unto the BBC Television Centre. Unfortunately, as so often happens, the thread was sidetracked and abandoned.

And the plasticine was thought lost....

Until now, apparently. Pinniped is stirring up trouble in my boardroom, and Swiv seems to think the plasticine is here. They've been conspiring to take the plasticine without my knowledge. But I *found* their thread. And the albatross that I shot is involved, god knows why.

*And* my is spilled.

Ahh, much better *tosses Mr.L his Loofa and some spiked with iocane powder (hey... someone has to keep the standard of e-vil high)*
Welcome Swiv, have a ... my special recipe!
*Olivia Newton-John skates by singing and is immediatly shot in cold blood* Nothing like a good pleasure dome... Next time you quest, this Yankee would be glad to join you.

... ...to all and wellcome Swiv.



....see the penguin...