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

The town clock strikes 3. Leaves rustle. Overhead is heard the whirring of a passing helicopter on its way to Pittsburgh. For a while, all is quiet again. Then there is a sharp report, as of a firearm, followed by the ping! of a .22 calibre bullet striking the scales of the Lady of Justice, which she is holding 213 feet (65 m) above Hooverville. There is a whoop of triumph, succeeded by the sound of running feet.

Wladislaw Winzekowski is not aware of the latest firearm achievement in Hooverville. Because Wladislaw Winzekowski is sound asleep. He is dreaming. Like most of his dreams, it begins with a musical overture. He seems to be in orbit.

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

This is all very soothing, and not particularly challenging. In fact, it is restful, which is what sleep is supposed to be. But Wlad is a Polish-American intellectual, and soothing, restful, and not very challenging are not really his thing. His subconscious gets to work.

The scene changes. Wlad finds himself at Yorktown, Virginia, on 19 October, 1781.

'Ah,' he thinks. 'The surrender of Cornwallis to George Washington. A key moment in the birth of this nation. The Polish-American cavalry was there.'

Alas, Casimir Pulaski was not, having been killed in battle in 1779. Still, the cavalry was his legacy.

The scene before him was epic, and familiar from Mr Sauer's 10th-grade history class: the two armies meeting for the surrender. Washington majestic astride his horse. Mr Sauer had a vivid imagination, and tended to embellish the events he described. Mr Sauer had also never encountered a conspiracy theory he didn't like. He personally believed that Aaron Burr was a French agent, that Edwin M Stanton was involved in the Lincoln assassination plot, and that any number of strange things happened on the Grassy Knoll. He was never investigated by the school board because his students, who found him extremely entertaining, would never turn him in. Oddly, Mr Sauer had no particular conspiracy theories about the American Revolution, whose myths he held as sacred as every other US History teacher.

But something about this scene was unusual. As is often the case with dreams, Wlad had trouble putting his finger on it…. A87954844 ….

Then he realised what it was. He walked up to one of the Polish cavalry officers.

'Excuse me, sir,' he asked politely. 'What is the meaning of this flag that looks like a rainbow?'

The officer gestured with typical Polish elan. 'Why, don't you know? It is in honour of the great, the incomparable Pulaski! Not only was Pulaski the father of the American cavalry – a hero for whom towns, highways, forts, even ships and a submarine will be named – but he made the cavalry the first LGBTQ-friendly military service in US history!'

Wlad nodded. 'I understand.' He did, too: recent forensic research has revealed that Pulaski was either transgender or intersexed.

The officer waved a military arm toward the flag. 'America owes its independence to immigrants and sexual minorities. 'Don't ask, don't tell,' my hat!' And he threw his plumed one into the air. As it came back down, the feather brushed across Wlad's nose. It tickled…

He woke to find Ignatz walking back and forth over his chest, waving a furry tail in his face.

'I really have to learn to say no to that second helping of Aunt Agnieszka's halupki,' he thought.

I killed my engine, took a deep breath and walked up to the rather gaudily painted clubhouse, taking in the very well-tended gardens and the unexpected 'welcome' mat at the threshold.

The clubhouse was a blaze of colour, neon bar lights jostling for attention with the exuberant flower displays arranged very artistically around the room.

The huge bartender waved a cheery hello and invited me to sit.

*Evening Brother, I'll have a Bud please* I held out my hand to the fellow biker.

*Erm, actually, we don't use the B word here friend, too sexist. Fluffy likes us to be clear on that!*

*Fluffy?* My hand remained outstretched and unshook.

*The lead-person, founding member!*

*Your President?*

*Oh, dear, I'm afraid the P word is out too, way too elitist!*

My hand decided it wasn't getting shook and retreated to my side.

*We Nite Pirates are trying.. no...we ARE changing people's perceptions of motorcycle clubs. Everyone is welcome, everyone is equal. Would you like a jacket, the design is a little dated but we're working on a more suitable one?*

To my utter amazement, the barkeep, who I saw from his colours tags was called 'Cuddles', held out a brand new club jacket. I'd only been there two minutes!

*Obvs synthetic, we do NOT advocate killing animals for leather, soz for using the L word!*

*I'm er..flattered, erm, Cuddles, but I'm already in a club at home, but thanks man*

Cuddles shook a meaty but very nicely manicured finger at me..*M word! Bit binary aintcha?*

Cuddles placed a beautifully crocheted beer mat on the beautifully polished bar and set down my beer.

*On the house, stranger, enjoy!*

*Thanks, Cuddles. If I could ask you and your, erm, siblings...a favour?*
I fished the photocopy from my leathers.

*Do you know anyone in this photo? Recognise the bikes? Know the riders?*

*I remember that pic! Beautiful contrast, point of view well considered, but the framing was a little off, in my personal opinion! Not judging of course!*

*Great, that's fantastic news Cuddles! Really really great!*

My finger caressed the girl on the red Harley, *Do you know this girl? Sorry for the G word, but do you know her?*

*Now you're just being silly!* He pulled out a small monocle and squinted at the photo, *We might be two percenters, but we ain't all backwoods Hoover ville-billies!*

*Sorry Cuddles, but it really is important I find her!*

*Sorry stranger...you know I really must ask your name...anyway, sorry, no I never seen her before, but you could try the Honker?*

He pushed the picture back at me, as though that explained everything. I noticed the 'Born to be Kind' tattoo on his forearm and decided I may just very well still be in a coma!

*Honkers...as in boobs?* I tried a friendly grin.

*Sexist! Smutty! Uncalled for! The Hooverville Honker! A respectable newspaper! That's where I seen the picture, now, I'm sorry to get all heavy, but finish your drink and leave, we Pirates don't want your type around here!* He made a show of moving the club faux leather jacket out of my reach before smiling apologetically, *No rush!*

Back at the Fire station...

Nice to do something artistic again. It's been a long while since I last practiced my calligraphy skills.
Where did I put the ink? Ah, there's some blue, lots of green, some red on the shelf in the truck-shed... Definitely not that bottle of red though. That's the ink Paula used for those auto destruct love letters. The one with phosphorus in it. Nearly cost me my moustache. Those were the days. When the ships were still made of wood and the men of steel...
I'll go with the blue. Now I need one of those geese, a knife and some paper...

Be quiet! I just need the one feather, OK? If you don't shut up I'll shoot you, take that feather and have you for breakfast!

That's better... You can have it back after I've finished writing, if you are emotionally attached to it.

(Bang)

Hang on, what's that? Someone else having uncooperative geese? Ach.. Let the police handle that one. It says fire in my job description, not fire-arms. Back to the office to write that short ad I dreamt of. What was it again? Oh yes, I remember.

Like it hot? Like it wet? Feeling smoky?
Join the Pros!
You can find us where the heat is...

Hmmmm..... that last sentence maybe should be a bit more specific.

Applicants call 911 and ask for Fred the fifth, H.F.D.

Yes, that's better.

I'll ask Anna if she can make some copies in the morning. With that brand new photocopy-print-scan thingy we carried into her new office last week.
Just wondering if there will be anything in the Hooverville Times about the grand opening of her unreal estate agency. Maybe they even share it with their sister newspaper, The Uranus Enquirer. Must ask aunt Ursula to check it out and keep it.

Sleep is what I need now...

[ Unless there are two newspapers in Hooverville, I propose we will keep the Hooverville Honker and scrap the Hooverville Times]

Pretty sure it was the Honker I the original set up?....but I could be wrong! I'll have to redo the promo image....bang goes that gag lol!

My fault. I was too quick.
Also just found out that the "Uranus Enquirer" should have been the "Uranus Examiner" (actual existing newspaper in Pulasky County, Missouri)

Good research, there, with the Uranus Examiner - and yeah, it's the Honker in the pic.

Sheriff Rowdybush was sleeping soundly, but the part of his brain that is alert to changes in the usual nighttime sounds registers some unusual noises. The 'vroom' of the fire station's vehicle is noted, but does not disturb the sleeping Sheriff as it quickly carries out its mission with no panic required. A short time later the 'crack' and 'ping' of the bullet being fired at the scales of the Lady of Justice is heard.

The sound of the firearm being discharged half wakes Sheriff Rowdybush up, as it is a relatively uncommon occurrence here. The 'ping', however, is a sound he has heard before, so his brain relaxes somewhat with the understanding of what has just happened. He hears the whoop of triumph and the sound of the running feet, and then the street is quiet again, apart from the sounds of the night that he was expecting. He knows that if there were any emergency that required his input in the middle of the night, the duty Sergeant would telephone, but for now the telephone is silent.

His half-awake brain, now not paying as much attention to external noises, turns itself inwards and registers his bodily functions. His brain deduces that he is not very comfortable, even though he is warm in the bed under the blankets and his head is well supported on the pillow. At first he tries to ignore it, but then his brain realises he will be able to sleep deeply again more quickly if he does something about the discomfort. He shuffles out of bed and into the bathroom with just one eye open. There he drinks some water, attends to his bladder, washes his hands and shuffles back into bed. Thus relieved, he closes his open eye, his brain relaxes again, and it doesn't take him long to go back to sleep.

As the clock wended its way toward 4:00 A.M., Arsenio dreamed about the early days of his acting career. They were heady times. But reality gradually inserted itself between his hopes and the stardom he wanted.

At the auditions for "Wizard of Oz," he was told that he had a great voice and looked the part of the Mayor of Munchkin Village. There was just one problem: he was too tall.

A stage version of "the Hobbit" was being cast. Here he was the right height, and he looked right, but this wasn't a musical. Also, he was maybe a little too old for the starring role. "You'd be good in comic roles, but this requires some solid acting as well," they told him.

Finally he had great hopes for a starring role in "Man of La Mancha." The casting director raved about his singing and his comic instincts. "We've decided to offer you a starring role," the director told Arsenio.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed. "I knew I could be Don Quixote!"

"What?" the director exclaimed. "No, we're casting you as Sancho Panza. You have the part nailed."

So, Arsenio gamely rode his prop donkey across the stage for performance after performance, while the taller guy who was cast as Don Quixote got to sing the great songs.

But, it was fun being on stage, and he did have some fans. If there had been any money in dong amateur productions, or film offers, he might have stayed with it a while.

Arsenio smiled as he thought of these happier days. Then he found himself lying awake with numerous disturbing sounds ringing in his ears: the sound of a bullet going off, the whirr of helicopter rotors overhead, and the distant growl of what might have been a bear.

The distant clock chimed the hour once more. "All in all, my life hasn't been all that bad," he had to admit to himself. "I made some people happy, I avoided the stresses that come with being a superstar celebrity or bestselling author. I'm making a modest living -- for the time being. Let's see if Hooverville takes me to its heart. The people seem nice. Okay, if that was a bear I heard, I* hope it won't sneak into my shop and raise havoc!"

He fell asleep again.

The shot woke Hermione and she sat up in bed. When it was followed by a ping she groaned. Kids again, she guessed. They regarded shooting holes in the scales of the Lady of Justice as good fun. Of course, the parents should put a stop to this behaviour, but they were as bad. Some of them shot at anything that moved. She sighed. She would have to talk to the teachers at the local school, get them to run some lessons on treating other people's property with respect. The problem with the Lady of Justice was that she didn't belong to anybody. She belonged to the town, which probably meant that the townspeople felt they could do what they liked to her. The idea filled her with dismay. What would happen if someone painted the Lady purple, or gave her a pair of asses' ears?
When she thought about the latter idea, it made her laugh. Justice could be a bit of a donkey. That wasn't how she wanted people to think, of course.
Maybe if she could get the kids to think about justice, that would help. Hermione scrambled out of bed and found some paper and a pen. She started writing the outline of an address she could give to the school. 'Justice. What is it and why does it matter? ' She wrote a few words, stopped, tried again. What was Justice, anyway? The concept was not straightforward. In hope of enlightenment, Hermione started drawing pictures of Justice. Would she look like the statue? After a while, she had covered a page with pictures – fat ladies, thin ladies, black ladies, white ladies, ladies with scales and some with swords. Would Justice have a sword, or a big book full of rules? Did Justice have to wear a long flowing robe, or a crown? She tried dressing Justice in jeans, and giving her a hat. As the need to sleep reasserted itself, Hermione's pictures of Justice grew odder and odder. In one she had stiletto heels and a short skirt, while in another, she had grown big ears like an elephant. By the time Hermione fell asleep, her last picture of Justice looked more like a pregnant caterpillar.

If one were to drop by Lola's place right now, one might assume she had decided to get up for the hundred-and-third time, and attack the bookshelves with a chainsaw.
One would be wrong.
Lola is fast asleep, and still in her bed.
One would be forgiven for thinking of a chainsaw, however, for Lola is snoring.
Loud.
So loud it would probably scare a bear away, if the fire truck hadn't done that already.

It took her a little while to go back to sleep, what with the lump growing on the back of her head.
She twisted and turned a few times before finding a comfortable position, but once that was achieved, nothing could hold her back any more.
And now she is snoring.

So loud, in fact that one would probably not hear the "ping" coming from the general direction of the Town Hall.
One would still hear the "whoop", but one would wonder what that was about.
It doesn't really matter, though.
One has no business dropping by Lola's place in the middle of the night.
One is not a peeping tom.
Nor an eavesdropping tom, for that matter.
The bedroom being upstairs would make the peeping quite dangerous.

Lola is sleeping.
She is dreaming... or is she remembering?
Narrowly missing the bus to Uni.
Seeing the love of her life for the very first time, while running to catch it.
Him stopping rather abruptly to let her board.
The teenager in the aisle tripping and falling onto the old lady's lap, almost crushing her tiny dog in the process.
Everyone getting back on their feet (or backsides, for the ones already seated), no harm done, no casualties.

Going on a first date, and a second, and some more.
And then being all alone for what was supposed to be their anniversary, because he had come to pick her up after work, and had met her neighbour.

Having her heart broken in a "ping!".
And letting out a "whoop!" when the neighbour dumped him as unceremoniously as he had done to her.

Lola is sleeping.
Snoring.

Starting awake.
The snoring has got out of control.
She briefly fantasises about going to the other room for the end of the night, but even in her foggy mind, she realises the snoring might follow her.
So she twists and turns and finds a different, albeit just as comfortable, position.
Ah, yes, lying on her side may just help with the snoring.
Or rather against it.
Or maybe it won't.
One will see about that.

No.
One will go home and stop spying on people.
Lola can see about that for herself, thank you very much.

In her dream Wilhelmina is still baking. Cake this time. The largest cake she has ever baked. She will have to ask Mrs Smith from the 3rd storey if she can put up the top layer from her window. She picks up her grandmother's recipe book again.

'Ein Schuss Rum'

BANG!

Wilhelmina jumps up from her bed.. Is there anyone else baking a cake? No! No! That was an actual shot. A gun? A pistol? Who knows? Or was it just fireworks? That was pretty close.

Now Wilhelmina also notices the helicopter. A police helicopter? Running feet outside in the street. She rushes to the window, the cold wooden floor under her naked feet. She pulls back the curtains.Two people running down Main Street! They are gone. Too fast. Fighting gangs Hooverville? A bank robbery? Pleasant motorcyclists fighting for equality? Someone stealing the ice cream machine from the fast food restaurant? (No loss, it never works anyway).

Wilhelmina listens, waits for a police siren, anything... nothing. She yawns and waits for a few more minutes before she returns to bed. Should she call the Sheriff? But he must have heard it, too? She lies down, but still goes on listening for a while until she falls asleep again.

Cassy meanwhile is on her way again. As she sees the lights of the fire truck in the distance and decides to go to that direction. She soon reaches the fire station, but they have geese around the house. Cassy doesn't like geese, they are vicious birds. Worse than watch dogs, as they say. Cassy knows it is true. She isn't sure why there are geese at the fire station. Maybe the firemen are afraid of the Gauls.

Carefully Cassy approaches the fire station. The geese are strangely agiated. She hears the shot in the distance, her hair bristles. She makes a jump, but as she is distracted by the shot she notices the approaching goose too late. It is almost there. Cassy jumps as it suddenly chatters loudly, threateningly raising its wings. Fast as lightning and silent like the wind Cassy bolts in through a window in the garage, which is open just enough for a cat to slip in. Unnoticed she dashes below the fire truck.

After a while Cassy dares to move again and silently explores the station. There is a small puddle of blue paint on the floor. Cassy accidentally steps into it. When she notices, she looks at the paw prints she leaves on the floor she finds them quite intriguing. Cassy goes on making patterns until the paint on her paw is dry. She spends a moment, sitting on a shelf, looking at her work, content with what she has achieved.

Cassy leaves the fire station again, at the same way she got in.

Tavaron wins the day for Best Proxy Use of Pet for Mayhem.

thanks