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

The town clock strikes 2. A light wind blows fallen leaves around. In the west of town, an insomniac black bear forages in the pizzeria dumpster, but since everyone's asleep no one notices. They won't see the mess until morning. Over at the biker bar, they're drinking, and don't notice anything that doesn't look like beer.

Wladislaw Winzekowski is sleeping, too, under a European-weight duvet that he has acquired recently. He tried to buy one locally, but no one in Hooverville knew what a 'duvet' was, or how to pronounce it. Hooverville people have a way of becoming irritated when one mentions unfamiliar things, so Wlad gave up and resorted to Amazon Prime, which has a broader vocabulary and rock-bottom prices. This duvet is nice and fluffy, and saves on heating costs. It is also covered in cat hair, because Ignatz spends all day on it, and Wlad hasn't got around to wielding the lint brush this week.

At the moment, Ignatz is not sleeping, because cats are nocturnal beings. They are also highly philosophical. After prowling the house for nonexistent mice, Ignatz decides on some musical practice. He'd like to play the organ, but it's off and the rolltop cover is down. Next, he tries the keyboard, but no joy there, either, as this instrument is also off. Ignatz hasn't figured out which button turns it on, though he frequently tries random combinations. More than once, he has turned on the 'Demo' button while Wlad is playing, causing Wlad to fuss about 'disco Beethoven'. But there's no juice on the Yamaha right now. So he settles for the piano, which requires no electricity. Fortunately, Wlad has forgotten to pull down the lid.

Ignatz is vaguely aware that he was named for Paderewski, Wlad's idol and a great Pole. Unlike the great maestro, Ignatz has four feet to accomplish his goal of making great music – and, to his feline mind, he does.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypJDXayM5FM

'I call this the Hooverevolutionary Etude,' he says to himself. Wlad is not available for comment, because Wlad is a very heavy sleeper who once slumbered through an earthquake. So Ignatz has the music room to himself.

After awhile, he tires of the exercise. Cats have shorter attention spans than your usual pianist. He climbs the stairs to Wlad's bedroom, and curls up on the duvet for a cat nap.

He has a nice dream. Like many of his dreams, it is literary in nature. Two of his cat friends are giving a recital of the works of WB Yeats. Yeats really understood cats, unlike that numbskull TS Eliot. Yeats also knew that cats did not appreciate being given cutesy names because they are wild, Byronic creatures, as well as legends in their own minds. In his dream, Ignatz accompanies his friends with piano music as they recite 'The Cat and the Moon':

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VGd_T2U8JY

Wlad wakes momentarily and wonders why Ignatz is purring so loudly.

'Happy cat,' he thinks, as he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

My mind raced with the throb of the motorcycle. The fact that she had been in the town when the photo was taken (and who knew when that was?) didn't mean she would still be there.

Worst case was she had simply been on holiday, hired a bike, and joined in with the local fun. We'd done the same thing together in a different life.

She could be home now (and who knew where 'home' was?). Maybe with a husband, kids, family dog? I felt sick just contemplating how far she could've moved on since leaving me.

Seven years for me went by in a timeless limbo, for her, it must've been an eternity.

I was shaken from my gloom by a line of growling choppers, overtaking me with ease as the bike club made its way over the wooden bridge and towards the town whose lights were twinkling against the distant, dark backdrop of woods and mountains.

On each riders back, a logo, colours proclaiming their owners belonged to the Nite Pirates. A snarling death's head patch sporting crossed swords and a blood red bandana, beneath that the bottom rocker. Simply reading *Hooverville*.

I smiled to myself, if I was looking for a Harley riding beauty, who better to ask than the local M.C?

I twisted the throttle, making the Harley cough indignantly, and followed the bikers into town.

And that, my friends, was my first mistake!

Sheriff Rowdybush is sleeping soundly. If he were dreaming, he might be dreaming of music.

He admires the skill of the organist immensely (and if he had been able to hear Ignatz's piano playing, he would have admired the skill of the cat immensely as well). The Sheriff has his own Yamaha keyboard, but he has 'two left hands' as the saying goes. He sometimes plays the keyboard on his days off, but with the volume set low so that nobody can hear when he makes a mistake and has to start again from the beginning of the tune. The pieces he can play best are the ones that remind him of his dear Deanna http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQ0oE__4T5k

Sheriff Rowdybush is not dreaming, but even in his unconscious state he is comforted by the weight of the blankets on his bed pressing down on his legs and arms and warming his muscles. He is comforted by the softness of the pillow supporting his head. He is comforted by the bread and milk in his stomach that is slowly being digested through the night with quiet sounds of borborygmus. He is even comforted by the sound of the refrigerator in the kitchenette humming away.

Even though he is sleeping soundly, part of his brain is also alert for any changes to his comfort levels. A certain amount of pedestrian or vehicle traffic through the night was comforting to him, as that was to be expected, but if the sounds became greater, or stopped altogether, that part of his brain wondered if there was a blockage on a road somewhere that was causing people to adopt a different pattern of travel than usual for that time of night and he would go in search of a solution. Even something like a power cut would affect his sleep as it would stop the refrigerator hum and cause that part of his brain to wonder what was happening. And of course things like burglar alarms going off when the electricity supply was restored after a power cut would rouse him to something approaching alertness, in case there was a problem he could help with.

But at the moment, he is sleeping soundly.

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

Whazzat? Wha? Dring?

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

Hang on, Dring. Yeah, dring.

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

Oh wait, Dring! Why didn’t you tell me in the first place!

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

Phonephonephone… Where is it? Nightstand? No…

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

Oh wait, turnout gear inside pocket. Who put that pisspot next to the bed? I’ll clean that up later.

dRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGgggggg…..

OK got it. Now big red button on home screen to turn of that bell and call Emergency dispatch.

Aaaaaahhhh, that’s better.

Dumptidumptidum…. Hi Suzie, It’s Fred from over at Hoover. What is it? Red alert? Fred alert?
Oh… CAT alert.
We have too many of those around here if you ask me.

So anonymous cat alert in Hooverville. Did they give a location Suzie?
No. Well, I’ll check it out anyway. I think I have a hunch. Let’s hope it doesn’t stick on my back.
Say Hi to Fred. Have to run.

Hmmmm where’s Paula?
I’ll call her from the truck. First get into that gear. She didn’t tell if the cat was on fire, but you never know with Suzie.


Oh, Hi Paula. Nice of you to have the truck ready already. That’s what I like about her. Always the first to be ready when duty calls. Don’t know how she does it. It’s like magic.

OK. Let’s see where the cat-astrophy is taking place. Judging from the noise I’ll go left.

Found it. But if that is a cat, I will personally petition with the Mayor to have all cats forcibly removed from this town. “Bear” does seem to fit the description a lot better, I guess.

But who in his right mind would fill a pumpkin with raw fish is beyond my comprehension… Maybe someone who wants to add some gore to Halloween?

We need a plan… ehrrrmmm, got one!

Paula? Could you please get your bike and drag that infernal pumpkin out of town. Yogi might want to follow that. Some people like the ecological way more than just shooting. Take it somewhere remote. You know where those ghostly flowers grow? That would be nice. Nobody up there.

I’ll meet you back at the station. I have an ad to write.

[Fred: do you want the fire siren?]

[Not for this minor cat-astrophe. Maybe later. Can't have everyone awake all night]

Minx woke up, stretched and jumped lightly onto the windowsill. He pushed at the curtain and looked out. Hermione knew that meant something was happening outside. It might be just a stray cat but she was now wide awake and decided to have a look. The Mayor wasn't responsible for cats, but she did tend to get blamed for anything that went wrong. Reluctantly, she scrambled out of bed, put her slippers on and peered out into the darkness. Her little house backed onto woodland, but there was nothing moving. 'Silly cat' she said and climbed back into bed.
She looked at the clock. After 2.00am. That meant that, back in Britain it would be 7.00am and her ex-husband, Arthur might be getting up. If he wasn't in bed with his latest girl. Hermione still felt a rush of anger whenever she thought about Art's behaviour. She had discovered, not long after their son Chris was born, that Art had a girl friend. They had rowed but Art had promised to end the relationship and they had stayed together for Chris' sake. However, the girl had been the first of many. In the end, they she and Art had split up and she had found a new job, working for a council, as a committee clerk. She had built a new life for herself, but Chris seemed more upset about the break up than she was. He had gone travelling and never really stopped. She got emails and text messages from him from time to time but she would love to see him again. She snuggled down in her bed and thought of her son as he'd been as a boy. Before long, she fell asleep.

While Wilhelmina is fast asleep – finally – Cassy, her cat, still roams the town. She chases after some leaves, someone looking out of a window would probably see her scurrying through the lights of the street lamps. She jumps up on fences and garden walls, gracefully walking on them like they are her personal stage. In the quiet darkness of the gardens trees stretch their dark, almost leafless branches up to the sky like bony fingers. Things rustle in piles of leaves that collected in the corners. Creatures wake up and emerge from small craks and holes. Others already retreat to their resting places. Shadows move, almost unnoticed. Cassy watches. They know she does.

A large rat rustles in a take-away bag of the local fast-food restaurant, which someone has thrown mindlessly in the street. Humans were awful like that. A racoon rushes by with a large piece of pizza crust, looking excited. In a nearby garden Blondie finds a half empty bowl which has been put out for the cat of the house. A good find. She munches happily.

The wind blows away some clouds which have covered the moon. The milky moonlight sickers down into the dark back alleys and gardens. Shadows retreat. Stars twinkle in the sky. A doe shys away from a rustling bush. Cassy turns around, moves closer. She hisses, arches her back. Everything is as it has been before.

There is still light in a nearby house. Voices and the muffled thumping of music. People move behind drawn curtains. A Halloween party still going on? Maybe. The plastic skeletons in front of the house mindlessly grin into the distance. Cassy turns away.

On a park bench under a tree sits a small hooded figure. A child? Out at this hour? As Cassy approaches the figure looks up from its brightly orange bucket, which is still half filled with sweets. It selects a toffee, unwraps it, pops it in the mouth that is supposedly hidden somewhere in the shadow of the hood. Then it jumps up, gives the cat a short wave and skips away down the street. Cassy keeps looking after it until the figure turns at a corner and is gone.

She walks on, jumps over fences, listens to the sound of the night. To this sound also belongs some strange piano music coming from a nearby house. She sits down on the sidewalk and listens.

Wilhelmina meanwhile is fast asleep. She dreams of witches and bonfires, but also of cupcakes with lots of cream and glittering sprinkles and golden waffles with syrup. In the Waffelhaus leaves rustle and branches creak. Some hanging flower baskets sway gently.

"With alter egos like you, who needs enemies?" Arsenio Philpotts said to Arsenio 2, who had somehow materialized on the living room sofa.

"Do you take no comfort from the thought that once you have survived my advice, the rest of your day is sure to seem better by comparison?" Arsenio 2 said with a quizzical smile.

"The last time you gave me 'advice,' I found myself back at the exclusive writers' colony run by Faulkingway."

"Oh, yes, that reminds me. I mean to send you back there this time, too."

Arsenio found himself in a dingy classroom in Oxdorf, Louisibama. His professor had just handed back his latest story. It had a large red C- scrawled at the top.

"If I had listed all the things that were wrong with this story, my notes would have been longer than the story itself," the professor said with a weary grimace. "It seemed easier to just relate them in person. First off, you're supposed to do bad things to good characters, not good things to bad characters."

Arsenio blushed. "Sorry, I got that part a bit muddled. Anyway, the triple hatchet murderer was the richest man in Looserville, not to mention being descended from the town's founder. I couldn't send him to the prison in Albion..."

"So instead you married him off to a harridan who was sure to make his life a living hell," the professor said crossly, "but a hell that was more than bearable on an estate with manicured grounds, a private IMAX movie theater, and a three-star-rated personal chef."

"And I rewarded the whistle blower who alerted the authorities to the murderer's crimes," Arsenio said proudly. "Surely there's nothing wrong with that!"

"Yes, but the 'reward' was to marry him off to the murderer's daughter," the professor scoffed.

"But she was beautiful and virtuous!"

The professor's tone softened. "You have a point. the daughter's only flaw was that she became a manticore whenever the moon
was full. That would certainly be doing bad things to a good character."

A hopeful look crossed Arsenio's face.

"But, no, we have an exclusive program that only admits 10,000 would-be writers a year. You are taking up classroom space that some more talented writers deserve. So, you're out!"

The classroom melted away, and Arsenio found himself back in his bed in Hooverville, listening to the distant clock strike. "The writing career didn't work out," Arsenioin said sadly. "That, and many other things. All I have left is a china shop. I'm trying to learn how to make a go of it, but what if I can't?"

As ranger Wynken De Woordesmyth sleeps in his little tent, the life of the Misty Mountain State Park also winds down for the night. Not many nights are left before winter hits hard … still, due to the anomalous jet stream descending over the mountains, the park has a mild climate even in mid-winter. Especially mild where the orchids grow, in vagabond valley. Which is why so many homeless folks used to hang out there; the sleeping is far better than on the streets in town. Just pick a nice clump of ferns, cover yourself with your rags, newspaper and cardboard, settle in, and the night won't fight you too badly. But these days, the sleeping is better still in the homeless shelter, one of mayoress Schmidt's innovations. And thanks to the economic upswing of the last couple of years, there aren't that many homeless people left anyways.

Up in the gorge above the valley, Wynken is having a nightmare. He's exploring Madagascar. Which is situated on the top of a hill a dozen or so miles west of Punxsutawney. After having crossed walls and fences, and fighting off a sword-wielding biker gang, he finally gains the summit… only to find that all of Madagascar has been turned into a hotel and a casino. No lemurs. No baobabs. No tiny leaf chameleons or flat-tailed geckoes. Just garish buildings, parking lots, fake palm trees and throngs of vapid-looking tourists. Some might even be zombies.

Zombies? Zombies! Luckily Wynken still has a sword he swiped from one of the bikers he had vanquished. Just in time he plucks it from the scabbard as the entire horde of zombie-tourists descend on him ...

But outside Wynken's little tent, and outside his little dream-plagued mind, the night and the world is serene and safe. A couple of hours more, and he will awake and enjoy a leisurely few hours of orchid-hunting before having to return to the office. No zombies out there. Only the occasional hobo or spaced-out mushroom hippy, and those Wynken can deal with. In his twelve years of rangering, he has not encountered much that he couldn't deal with ...

Crash! Bang! Groan! Growl!
Lola wakes up with a start. Again. She takes a look at the alarm clock on the night stand. Ten past two. Hurray, she's managed a whole quarter of an hour...
Growl again!
She sighs, takes her pillow and pushes it firmly onto her head.
The growling outside still gets through.
Grumble grumble, she throws the pillow across the room, lights her bedside lamp, takes another look at the clock (eleven past two), then gets out of bed, for what seems like the hundredth time since she first went to bed in the evening.
She slips her left foot into the left bunny slipper. Slips her right foot into... nothing.
Rubs her eyes, tries again.
Nothing.
Right slipper? Where are youuuu?
She drops on all four, slides under the bed. Sees the elusive slipper: it has wandered off to the other side of the bed.
Drat. Gets up.
Or rather, tries to and fails.
Instead, she hits her head against the underside of the bed. Swears. Slides out from under the bed, and manages to get up.
Fetches slipper number two, slips it on, and trudges to the bathroom for a wet cloth to put on the back of her head.
Ah, that's better.

She takes off her slippers again, climbs back into bed, reaches for the covers, and remembers why she got out of bed in the first place.
She climbs out of bed again (for what seems like the hundred-and-first time), and walks to the window. Barefoot. Slippers are too much trouble.

Squish.
Ah, it seems the wet cloth fell off, and is now residing under her left foot. Grumble grumble.

Vrrrooooomm!! The growling hasn't stopped, but a new sound has joined in.
Like a car, but bigger, and redder. (Yes, of course, sounds have colours. Who doesn't know that?!).

Hu, oh. Her special, handmade, Hallowe'en jackfish lantern is gone...
Well, not gone, per se.
... More like going, going, gone.
... Into a bear.

And now a truck pulls up. A fireperson gets out, and... what?! Steals the jackfish lantern?! Why? What is wrong with those people?!

You come to live in a foreign country, try to respect and even adopt their customs, and they just steal your stuff?!
That is Not Right.
She'll be sure to write a terribly passive-aggressive letter to the local newspaper in the morning.
... Well, she'll only be sure if she remembers. Better write that down on a sticky note and put it on the computer.

Squish.
She bends down and picks up the cloth, chucks it back into the basin, and sticky-notes her vengeful intentions.

Walks back to bed.
Climbs in, lies down, pulls the blankets.
Pushes them back again. Grumble grumble.
One hundred and two.
Plods all the way to the distant corner of the bedroom, grabs her pillow, and plods all the way back.
Climbs in, lies down, pull the blankets, adjusts the pillow.

Ah.
No more grumbling.
For at least five minutes, with any luck.

Today's prizes go to Willem, for coming up with a place name even Pennsylvania hasn't stolen, and to Superfrenchie, for Most Unusual Misunderstanding of a Folk Custom.

No prizes for the bear?

The bear got a .

It bears to be seen what happens next in the backcountry.

It's intriguing to think about a bear in a china shop.