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

"Slough," he replied and picked up the guitar, turned and left. As he walked away I saw that across the back of his silver suit was embroidered in colours that usually only exist in spandex, the words "Rolf Hergensheimer's All flying Blues Review and House Movers."

If my head didn't hurt from being concussed by the Fender, then that embroidery on a silver background finished the job. My head was getting a little tired of all the rough treatment I had subjected it to over the last week or so and had half a mind to leave me.

I went to my car, looking for the Valium I knew I had there somewhere. I couldn't find it, so I just passed out for a while right there, my head burried in a pile of old newspaper clips and empty cans.
When I woke up I felt better, and started thinking about the clues I had so far. Semchevsky was in a factory. I didn't know where that factory was or what he was doing there, but that'll wait for later. Now there was that strange man from Slough, with his embroidered silver suit and his incomprehensible metaphores... was he important? Was he put there to stall me, or was he just an innocent, though a little odd, bystander?
I decided it's time to solve all these questions. As I raised my eyes from "over the phone that night" and "carbohydrates: 330", I saw a sign. A big road sign with a big fat arrow on it, in fact, and the words "Dyson Factory".
"follow the arrows" I said to myself, and followed the arrow.

Some time later, I realised I was heading out of town, but entering an industrial area on the edge of the housing. I paused, I'd seen all the moovies, bad things always happened in run-down, decrepid industrial areas, and I didn't want any of the bad things to happen to me. I felt in my jacket, and found my trusty gun, loaded and ready. As I turned the corner I made out a large building with the sign above the door saying 'Dyson factory', I paused again, and noticed over to one side away from teh factory a low down dirty looking bar.
'my kind of place', I thought, and headed to the bar.
Thrusting open the door, I was immediately hit by the oder of stale beer, stale cigarettes, and the hum of electric guitars being set up ready for a gig.
Forcing my way through the patrons of the bar; largely made up of drug addicts, pimps and prostitutes, I landed myself a spot at teh bar, and after a brief scan of the clientell, decided a beer would best conceal me in their midsts.
The barman begrudingly gave me a beer, frothing over the sides of the glass, and I parted with a few coins, before the barman returned back to his position behind the bar, in a stool in teh corner, wrapped about a young looking girl of ill-repute.
I sipped my beer and carefully scanned the pub again.
It was dirty, not the kind of dirt that suggested 'this place needs a clean', but the kind of dirty that shouted 'this place hasn't been cleaned in many, many decades'.
Standing next to me a pimp was in an arguement with a fat man, but the arguement quickly ended when the pimp cut off the mans left ear, and the one eared customer left the joint, through the back towards where I guessed the toilets were.
I don't know how I'd missed it, but through the mists of teh smoke and steam hanging in the air, I clearly caught a glimps of the Fender-bearing spandex man, setting up with a couple of other gorrillas in the corner, the band were getting ready to play.

I slipped out right before they started playing, but the unbearable screech of their electric guitars was heard all around the place. It was now dark, and as I contemplated going back to my car to get a good night sleep at the motel I noticed three dark figures skulking around the door of the Dyson factory. A light was seen inside, and they entered.
Against the voice of reason, I decided to go in, making sure once again that my trusty 45 was loaded and ready.

Inside the dyson factory I found myself in a dimly light corrodoor, dusty, and with lots of pictures of old motorcars on teh walls. In one direction the corodoor darkened and disappeared, but in teh other a low light emerged, and so, with fear gripping my trouser leg, and insanity pulling my shoelaces, I headed off in that direction,glancing nervously from side to side, noting the pictures of old cars, and the ocasional door into who-knows-where...

Suddenly, I heard voices talking behind one of the doors on the right. I pressed my ear against it and listened, but the door was so old that bits of rust got into my ear, and I couldn't interpret what was being said. However, I did hear my name mentioned, which made me even more wary then before. Seems like they know I'm on their tail.

There was only one course of action, it was time for me to act.
I pulled out a nurses uniform from my case, and putting it on, entered the room, acting out a scene from The Nurse, a local favourate TV sit com.
It took them by supprize, I could tell by the way the three men inside staggered back!

However, a fourth man that was standing behind me was not so dumbfounded. Not expecting anyone other then the three I've seen before I was completely unprepared when this misterious fourth man grabbed me by the waist and whispered in my ear "so, what's a doll like you looking for in a place like this?"

Not to be purturbed, I turned to the man, and kissed him, saying
'why I'm looking for you babe', and shot him in the little finger.

That's when things got worse. Much worse. The blonde doll that was in the bar with Semchevsky came up to me and hit me with a handbag. The three men that I startled before got their act together and started singing a barbershop-quartet version of "Only You", with the fourth man - whom I now recognised as Semchevsky - joining as bass. I lost my consciousness for a while, and when I woke up I was tied and gagged and the room was empty. The situation definitely looked hopeless.

I stood, or rather hung, naked on the wall, and my prediciment seemed inexplicibably linked to the guitarist in that damn awful pub, could things be any worse.
Yes.
a lot worse.
Suddenly, the double doors at the far end of the room opened, and Semchevsky appeared, with the doll from the first bar, and Semchevsky was in drag, then, behind them, the three gorillas, Semchevsky hench-men? appeared, also in drag, well, hench cross-dressors obviously.
As they entered I saw what they were carrying, the doll had in her hand a Dyson; by the look of it the latest model, and she proceded to plug it in, as the three cross-dressing hench-men/drag-queens, began singing 'I've got a loverly pair of coconuts', for a couple of verses, before launching with a great degree of force into 'the cocacobanna'.
Things indeed looked bad, very bad, and Semchevsky looked awful... He was badly dressed, not a small framed-man, he looked somehow more frightening, in 8 inch stillethoes with a pair of fishnets, and red PVC mini.
But it was the top, or rather lack of top that did it, I pressumed it was 'padded out', but that was no excuese, it was the worse shade of 'lylic' I'd ever seen, and clashed awfully with his red lipstick, blue mascara and clearly powdered face.
He hadn't shaved very well either.
Boy, could I teach these bafoons a thing or two about make up, but there just wasn't the time.

The guitarist started playing. His guitar seemed to be plugged straight to the pair of headphones I had just discovered were on my head, and the effect was horrible. The screeching sound flowed through my body, and as I twitched and moaned and screamed with pain, the blonde turned on the Dyson, but she started looking blurry, as did everything else, which in the case of Semchevsky and his goons was actually a lucky break.
Then I heard Semchevsky's voice on the headphones, loud and clear in spite of the horrible scream of the guitar.
"Who sent you?" he asked, and I passed out again.

Time passed.
I was passed out, but time must have passed.
Time continued to passed.
I experianced many nightmareish dreams, in which Semchevsky's was dressed in that awful top and was making advances towards me of a most explicit sexual nature.
I came round.
I was back in my room in the motel.
I checked.
I double checked.
I rang down to room service and asked that they check.
It was the young boy from room service who asked why I was wearing womans clothes, I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't answer, I gave him the smallest of small tips, and sent him away to fetch coffee and food and that days papers.
He returned, and I then figured out I'd got the giving the tip thing rong, but well, he wasn't getting ought else.
I scanned the newspaper, and read the date.
'Oy, boy, you sure this is todays paper?'
He said it was, and I drank the coffee, and gawped open eyed at the headline

"Dyson Factory Takes Over Hooverville; Name Changed To Dysontown"

This couldn't be happening, I thought. This is horrible. Not only have I failed miserably, I seem to have done some serious damage. What information did Semchevsky get from me that night?

What information, indeed did I know?
It all seemed very weird and more than a little wakky pokko to me, here I was, again, in the motel room, it seemed that as each time I got close to something, I came right back to the beginning, here in the motel.
And, why was I wearing womens clothes? and, why had I been left here, with my gun, and not ended up in the bottom of a deep deep hole with lots and lots of earth on top of me.
I decided this time, that it was futile to keep thinking I'd decided what I was going to do, and rather, act, and actually do something, no more galavanting about in bars, no more drag-queen dancing routeens, and, if Bob was on my side, no more of that horrid guitar music.
I rose from teh matress, stripped off the womens clothing, and was startled to see writting on my body, I began to read it

[You know, I think if this story is ever finished we should put all the parts together and publish it in The Post or something. Twin Peaks step back, here comes Nighthoover!]

but it didn't make any sense. "Dyson raped and killed my wife", said one writing, which was obviously false as I didn't have a wife, and another one was just a number. I wrote the number down and went to the shower.
After I washed off the strange writings I picked up the phone and called the number. The voice on the answering machine was unmistakable - it was Pottsy.
The message on the answering machine was even stranger. it said: "This is the Personal Space of nighthoover. Unfortunately nighthoover doesn't seem to be here at the moment, but you can leave a message after the beep".
There was no beep.

Maybe pottsy knew more than she was letting on, I resolved to go and interigate pottsy, perhaps she knew of the spandex clad guitarist, perhaps she knew of the Dyson factory and what secretes lay within, perhaps she had a decent razor.
I tossed the blunt razzor into the bin, and within a few minutes I'd stopped bleeding, I wasn't exactly clean shaven, but it would have to do.
Dressing quickly, and checking my trusty 45, I loaded it up, and put a couple of spare clips in my jacket pocket.
As I left the motel room, I stopped, and as an afterthought, went back to my bag and drew from it, the double cross-bow, placing it inside my jacket, with the spare clips for the Colt, and the throwing knifes I always carried.
Outside the streets were strangely desserted, whipping cream, and hundreds and thousands littered the street, and many of the doors of the houses were covered in jelly,
'hmm, thats a triffle bizzare', I thought as I headed off to 'Joe's', to locate find, interigate and soften up Pottsy.

"STOP", I thought... Whipping creme? Triffle? Why is that flock of birds flying sideways and changing colours? It was happening again. I was in some kind of dream state again. Nothing was real. Well, the knots on my head sure seemed real. Ok, strike that, nothing was rational. I stood there in the middle of the street and closed my eyes. I relaxed for a few moments and emptied my mind. I then slowly opened my eyes again. The improbable birds were still there as was the dessert motif of this part of town. But something had changed. The gingerbread warehouse across the road had a very normal looking steel door in the side of it where only moments before there was simply a plain wall, albeit a gingerbread one but otherwise featureless.

I headed for that door. The questions surely lay in there. I wasn't ready for any answers yet. When you realise you are existing in the middle of irrationality you have to start off slowly.

Upon entering the gingerbread warehouse I knew I was now on the right track. Well, I wasn't exactly on the right track, I was on the platform for the right track. The inside of the warehouse was a station. A London Underground station, to be more accurate. It was an underground station that looked to have been closed for at least 5 years by the looks of the layer of dust on almost every surface. The only clean surface was that of the bench against the wall under some posters reminiscent of the mid 70's.

I sat on the bench and waited. If something rational was going to happen, then I was going to let it come to me. Everytime I had gone looking for trouble I had found it so far. This time let it make the effort.

I didn't have to wait long. I could hear a train coming for nearly a full minute before it arrived. It was sparkling clean and only had two cars. When the doors opened I got on and sat down inside. I had thought the car was empty when I entered, but now that I was seated I saw that there was someone seated across from me.

This was definitely the most indescript person I had ever seen. I couldn't tell if this person was male or female. Blue jeans, sweater, duffle coat. Medium length hair... sort of blond, sort of brown, maybe black. This person could be thirty or they could be eighty. This person was so 'average' looking it hurt my eyes. It wasn't that his or her (hir?) appearance was changing exactly... it was that it was not registering in my brain for more than a second at a time.

I was just about to ask "who are you?", when this person spoke. "I am nighthoover... I'm glad to see you've finally found me...."

(I was about to find something to write as an end for the story, but I think this honour should be kept for the high priest. Besides, my brain is not really cooperating at the moment...)

*waits anxiously for the high priest to give the story an ending*