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

You look chili, do you want a blanket? I have the thyme to spend here, I'll just put the Caraway. I like your new ginger hair, it looks just like Rosemary's. Who says? Sesame!

Narrowly narrowing my eyes, I spy, morris, a big guy, full bloke, in the region of 55th and 52, its that old situeation again, the agony, the pain, I take aim and fire, my 35MM SLR captures him, frozen in time, and space, and in the window of a retail store the name of which I forget, or do i? I can't even remember th e date, no doubt It will all come back later, much, much later, all that goes around comes around, all that goes around comes around, all that comes around is going around, and some people get sick, some people get old, but gby the grace of nighthoover and a large BK and fries we can make it

I can't remember the date of that day, but I remember the weather, It was a cold wintry days, the wind beating at the door of my office like one of the beggars on 35th Street, and the rain was leaking down from a crack in the ceiling right on my favourite derby hat. Not a good day to do any work, specifically not my kind of job. I took my 45 out of the drawer and examined it carefully. I hoped that it won't let me down this time, even though Morris Semchevsky was pretty slug-proof. A big guy, built like a refrigerator but clever like a weasel, and always surrounded by a bunch of his sleazy yes-men. I had a plan to get him alone, but no assurance it'd work. Dammit, I shouldn't have taken this job, if it wasn't for the money, and that guy with the steely eyes that kept smoking his pipe, not saying a word, just smoking his pipe and looking at me till I said I'd do it.
I have no recollection of anything else that night, but when I woke up I was 500 miles away, in a motel room in a town whose name I didn't know, with nothing but my 45, my hat, a fiver and a hangover. And a hideous purple rayon suit I never saw before. And an ice cube.

Which melted in a puddle when put to near the hot hoover.

But, 'fear bob' I thought as I awoke, and despite my finest snooting around the room couldn't find any decent clothing, Morris Semchevsky might be a tricky trout, but the tunna fish hadn't landed me in this herring for a low down dirty pilchard of a bass. I called room service, and asked the astonished and slightly frizzled young girl, if she could pop out and get me some cloths. I took the oppertunity to find out where I was, and I slowely pieced together the previous evening.
I began remembering.
At 5 in the evning, I'd left my officed, and hot-footed it over to Marvin's place, where I'd again met the pipe-smoking trout faced young old man with the wig, he'd gone through what he knew, and we drank Manhattans, till around 7, when I shot the joint and legged it over to the 'Mil Pond'.
Old man Cray was there, hacking away under the pink umbrella as per useual, and I probed him.
He had two broken ribs, but despite this I found out what I needed to know, and slinging a few cases in teh back of my '69 Mustang, fled out on the freeway, stopping only once to full up with gas, and buy four kilograms of extra strong mints; this would be a tough job, and bad breath was the last thing I needed.
It had been three AM the next day when I'd arrived in Hooverville, and had booked into the motel...
It was at this moment the girl returned, carrying my cases from the car, which she left on teh side of the bed, before throwing the keys at me.
The keys glanced off my shoulder, and I caught them as they bounched off.
I dismished the girl.
I'd known where to go, instinctivily, and had walked over to 'Joe's', my '45 in my jacket, and my extra-strong mints in my pocket.
He was there.
Standing in Joe's, properd up against the coat stand, and I eyed him contemptulusly as I slung my coat on to the stand besides him, and looked in the direction of the bar, before walking that way, closely followed by Morris Semchevsky.
Thats when it had all got dirty,

[ooh, looks like I somehow started another never-ending story... what on earth is going on here? oh well:]

and when I say dirty I mean real dirty, like those corners in the bottom of your fridge you haven't cleaned since last spring. Semchevsky wasn't alone. My plan was to get him to that bar and then finish him off as quietly as possible, but something failed miserably. I cursed under my breath when I saw who was sitting at the table towards which he was heading.
It wasn't the usual bunch of dog-faces that always followed him around downtown. It was a broad. And dammit, it was one of the finest broads I ever set eyes on. She had a kid with her too, a little three-year-old with gold hair that didn't shut her kisser for a single second. His mom was there, too - I knew his mom from the old days when Morris and me were kids together on Hoover Street. A nice old lady she was, and I started feeling bad about the whole job, which is the worst thing you can do when you got a job like that.
"Hey Morris" I told him, trying to look as sober as I could "I see you got the whole family here". He looked at me and smiled like a wolf, and I knew he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "We're on a little vacation" he said.
I went to the bar to order some breakfast before he could start introducing me to them. The barkeeper looked strange, fuzzy around the edges, like there was something wrong with my eyes, but I

Couldn't quite put my haddock on it.
Drawing myself back to the prsent, I opened my case, and drwew out some clothes and swiftly dressed, carefully checking my '45, before casting my mind back to eh previous evening.
Joe's had been dark, it was always dark, and I had a sneaking suspecion that it was dirtier than useual, much much dirtier.
And then, suddenly I remembered, I remembered what had happened!

That fuzzy barkeeper hit me on the head with a frying pan! Smiling like a maniac too, with those red ears and sharp eyes, or was it the other way around, eyed ears and red sharps?
No, that couldn't have been it. That Semchevsky must have slipped something in my drink when I was playing pick-a-boo with his little girl Megan. That was probably why it turned all green and fizzy.
I took out the 45 again and checked the ammunition. Four slugs missing. Did I do the job or didn't I?

Or did I forget to reload after the last job? I've been forgetful about things like that since the last time I had a run in with some of Semchevsky's usual goons. I never knew a haddock could do that much damage to the back of a head. Did I reload or not? I remember getting back to the office that night. It was supposed to be simple snoop and snitch job... a jealous husband as usual. Unfortunately for me, she was cheating on the sap... with Harry the Hammond Organ... Horrible rat that one. Just my luck the dame didn't like him smokin' in the room so he walked out and caught me peekin' before I could duck behind the corner. He would have beaten me to a pulp if I hadn't finally managed put a slug in his hip. I was just happy I was still wearing that disquise from the fancy dress party my secretary made me go to. There was little chance he would recognize me wearing gold lamme and a ...

Morris maniac marzipan minolta mini skirt, actually, now I came to think of It, I didn't even know where the mini skirt came from.
I looked over the table, and eyed Potsy through half closed eyes, she certainly was a

strange sheep, like they used to say in my parts back then. And what kind of name is Potsy anyway?
As I thought back I started wondering whether there was something wrong with my memory. I just couldn't remember how I got to that table with Potsy, or who she was, or if this was a table at all or just a random collection of pieces of wood.
Maybe I was still drugged. Yeah, that must be the answer. That would also explain why her earrings kept talking to me.

Suddenly I came round, and found myself again in teh room of teh cheap motel, my suitcase in my hand, and the clothes I was going to put on laying on the bed. I dressed, and attempted to work out what has happened, what hadn't happened, and why I kept going off on tangents and getting strange dilussional experiances whilst in this motel room.
Dressing, and putting the case back in the boot of my car, I tried to make sense of it all, who was potsy, had I yet met this guy, what was my job, and where was the cash coming from. As I wondered down by teh disused railtracks, sorting out the memories and dreams in my head, I suddenly realised I was being followed.
Not wanting to look obvious, I turned a corner, but then settled back in a doorway, to watch the individual pass by.
The walked by the door, without seeing me, and were clearly scanning the disused railway siding to locate me, but my advantage point gave me a clear look at them.
It Was* Pottsy, there was no doubt about it. But had I ever met here before? Was her name really Pottsy, was I hallucinating again? What was my Job? Wehre was I?

While I was trying to figure all that out, they spotted me. Pottsy turned and looked at me, and then took of her shoe and slapped me in the face, and trust me, being hit in the temple with a 5-inch heel can sort out for you whether you're halucinating or not better than a pink elephant.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she said. "We paid you to knock that Semchevsky dead, why is he still up and around? And why are you hiding here like a chicken?"
Everything was coming back to me. I tried to answer, but I only managed to cluck humbly.

Again she swung at with her shoe heel, but this time I ducked, not wanting a matching gash on the other side of my face. Being so causly dragged back to reality I found myself again, and leapt into action ploughing my body into that of Pottsy and sending her sprawling, I stood up and looked down at her, what a chick.
'Hay, babe', I began 'don't suppose you'd mind telling me exactly why you are following me?',
I walked around her, still laying on teh floor.
'Look, buster' she muttered, 'You know why I'm here, we want to know why Semchevsky is still live and large, and I do mean 'large'.'
I regarded her laying on the dust-covered earth.
'The reason, Pottsy, that he is now not dead, as you full know, is that the details of my payment hae not been fully resolved'.
I Kicked her
'Cut to the chase chick, who's really hiring me for this job, and where is the dogh?'
Pottsy stood up, and replaced her shoe, she turned and walked off down another siding.
'Follow'. She simply said, and deftly checking my '45 I began after her, eagle eyed all the time and scanning the multiple buildings and hidding holes that surrounded this area, and we walked.

We turned a corner, and there was the bar.
"The others are inside," she said, "let's move".
The inside of the bar did not at all look like what I remembered, or thought I remembered, from last night. The wooden floors, the dim smoky lighting, the pictures of the owner with Elvis Presley, they were all gone. It was a cute little diner, with pink-coloured walls and plastic flowers and candles on the tables. I dispised it.
At the table were a couple of suits with a briefcase, who got up silently when Pottsy and me approached them. I sat down, getting a little nervous now. This was obviously the real deal. No more mucking about in dark alleys and then giving up and going back to the little filthy hole I call home when I can't think of a better name. Now I'm actually gonna do it. I'm going to track Semchevsky down and slip him one in the lungs.
"I'm going to track Semchevsky down and slip him one in the lungs," I started, "the moment I get my hands on the dough. How much is in there?"
"Fifteen G, like we agreed. And you're not getting it before Semchevsky has bitten the dust".

"Well," I said, "It looks like I'll take that fifteen G's now then. He ordered the key lime pie and that's been sittin' on the rack for over a year."
Pottsy wasn't amused, "You know what I mean. And I want proof. Either I watch the deed in person, or you bring me an identifiable body part."
Pottsy was getting wiser in her old age. Of course I knew that she was thinking of only two body parts that would satisfy her: his head or his left leg. Everyone knew what Semchevsky's left leg looked like ever since

The shark attack in teh municiple swimming baths in Wiggan, but that is another storey for another time.
I got up, ignoring hte pie, and glanced at Pottsy before walking out, and into the afternoon sun.
'Hi Ho, its a killing Semchevsky we go', I chirped as we went back toward the motel, I knew where Semchevsky would be, I just didn't wanting this Pottsy doll cramping my style.
I spoke to Pottsy, and she left, befoe I went up to my motel room, and after rummaging in the secrete compartment on my case, retrieved the knife, and hung it inside my jacket.
Re-entering the street, I scanned the local, all looked fine, and all being well Semchevsky would not yet have a inkling of his fate.
I headed off down the road to Joe's bar, a sense of reality gripping me like a twenty ton fraight train loco.
I entered 'Joe's'

again. The plastic flowers looked malvolent, but I ignored them and headed towards the barkeeper.
"Say, Joe," I said, slipping him a fiver, "you seen Semchevsky around by any chance? Big guy, was here last night with his family?"
The barkeeper gave me a strange look. "My name ain't Joe," he said, taking the money with a snap of the wrist like a professional card player, "and there weren't no strangers round here last night, besides you and that blonde doll". I had no idea what doll he was talking about, but I decided to figure it out later. Judging from his eyes, it was obvious that he was paid by Semchevsky.
"Can I have a word with you in privet?" I asked, and he followed me to a quiet corner where I held him against the wall and pressed my knife to his throat. He was gulping like a mad rooster before the big fight, and I knew I had him now.
"Semchevsky paid you to shut your trap, didn't he? How much? Where is he now?"
The barkeeper that was not called Joe mumbled an answer and dropped to the floor, passed out. I kicked the limp body out of my way and stepped back out to the street. I had a lot to think about.
What he said sounded a lot like "the factory". What factory was that? And what was Semchevsky doing there? Things were definitely getting stranger and stranger from the moment I entered Hooverville.
"We're not in Kansas anymore" I muttered as I went to find some more helpfull clues.

As I wondered off looking for clues, and contemplating developments it suddenly hit me. It hurt. For 'it' was a 1956 Fender Stratocaster in a 'hard' case.

I looked in the direction from which the 1956 Fender Stratocaster was thrown, and saw a large man with a red face running towards me. I drew my gun without thinking twice, and he stopped and stared at me.
"Whoa there," he said, "easy with that thing... I was going to apologize, Johnni over there was trying a new trick and the guitar just came flying out of the catapult in the other direction". As he said that he pointed towards Johnni, who was a thin guy with long hair that seemed rather uninterested in the whole affair.
I put the gun back and looked at this strange man in a silver suit.
"Tell me something," i said, "have you seen a Morris Semchevsky around here? Big guy, bold, ugly as hell?"
"Well, people have been talking about some for'ners over at the factory..." he mused "but like they say, if you're gonna shoote a dog you better make sure it ain't gonna rain."
"What?"
"Ah, you know... you gotta smack the rabbit on the head if you don't want to look as foolish as a cow in a flour mill. That's what they say where I come from."
I eyed him suspiciously, and then asked "And where exactly DO you come from?"