You know I'll drive to
Right before dawn
And knock the little jockeys
Off the rich peoples' lawns
And before they get up
I'll be gone.
That evening, as I went to the back of the bar reeking of gin & tonnyx, I expected to be greeted by my pretentious, old friend, the semiotics lecturing shed in the usual manner:
'Hi, Shed. How are you?'
'Rather superlative, Yossarian.'
And so on, and so forth...
The night air was cool and crisp that evening, and the moon appeared to be so close, so magically close, that I knew in my heart I could grab it. After a few attempts I gave up, however, for this surely was not the time to be grabbing the moon. The shed and I needed to talk about the things that he had brought upon me. It was his entire fault. These Templar, these... these... these large, hairy Frenchmen, had tried to kill me. And more importantly, they were beginning to pick on my friends.
It all made perfect sense. They were the ones behind every recent negative event in my life as a researcher for the guide.
- ~The recent Fakenun attacks against, 'The Blood of the Zaphodistas.'
- ~The rather confusing lack of researchers in Mina-Muse of Bondage's Fan Club.
- ~Shazz, editor of The h2g2 Post, and her sudden 'illness.'
The list was endless.
And that's when I saw it. Shed had been burned to the ground.
I ran back into the bar, grabbed my satchel and towel, downed the last beer on The Maverick Table, and bolted out of there. They had gotten the Semiotics lecturing shed, and I still couldn't believe it. What I could believe, though, was that, without a doubt, they would be after me.
The only researcher that lives within a mile radius of The h2g2 Legs is Frederic the Italic. In ten minutes I had made it to his apartment building, ran up eleven flights of stairs, and was now standing in front of his door.
I cried as I knocked the door hurriedly, and looked behind me to see if they had followed:
'Frederic, open up! Please!'
The door opened up a crack.
'What is it, Yossarian?'
His tone of voice rang with bitterness.
'Frederic, thank zarquon you're home...'
'What do you WANT, Yossarian?'
He said in the type of voice you would use when talking to someone who had just torn up your favorite Rene Magritte poster and arranged a horrid blind date for you.
'You've got to let me inside! I'm in danger, man. They're going to kill me...'
I could feel him roll his eyes.
'Who is it, Frederic?'
Said a familiar female voice from inside F.'s apartment.
I could not help but express my surprise for I knew exactly who that female was. That voice belonged to none other than Rachael the Italic.
'Er, Frederic... What's Rachael doing in your apartment at this time of night?'
I asked even though I knew the answer, and added a slight cough at the end for effect.
To which Frederic the Italic glared at me, slammed the door, went back to researching causes and effects with Rachael the Italic, and left me in his hallway, vulnerable for any old Knight Templar to come up and slash me to pieces.
Which is almost entirely what happened next.