You still sass that hoopy Ford Prefect?
That most wholly phenomenal book, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, has this to say on the subject of wormholes; They're a bitch. Especially when they lead to parallel universes. Best to try to avoid them altogether. Which is an admirable piece of advice in every respect. Except for one small problem. No one can accurately predict when or where one will open, or where the unsuspecting hitchhiker will be swept off to. Sometimes the experience can be quite pleasant, such as finding an alternate reality in which one has ginger hair, or is the sole dictator of a small, very wealthy, planet of nubile, young sex gods. However, they can also lead to horrible scenes of death, destruction, desolation, and advertising that would give even the most seasoned evil galactic overlord the willies.
And sometimes they lead to beaches.
That is apparently where a freak rip in the time space continuum had landed one of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy's roving researchers exactly one year and twenty-two seconds ago. He is a medium sized lifeform from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, roughly two hundred years old, confused, and bored out of his skull. One would think that, having spent fifteen years marooned on a backwater planet during an earlier part of his career, he would be better prepared to deal with this much more temporary stranding. That would be a prime example of why jumping to conclusions can turn out to be a fatal mistake for the novice hitcher.* Ford Prefect was, in fact, no more well equipped to deal with his current situation than a Burjelian tortoise is equipped to deal with great literature.
And, just as countless numbers of innocent tortoises had plummeted to their deaths off scenic cliffs upon learning they could not write the next great Burjelian novel due to their lack of opposable thumbs, Ford Prefect was considering suicide. Of course, he didn't want it nasty or too distastefully messy, but he did want it to be fun. If he was going to be shuffling off this mortal coil he wanted to do it in style. So, he had decided he would drink himself to death. And possibly start a nice orgy along the way if he could get some volunteers. It was going to be one hell of a self-murder.
But one of the galaxy's funnier quirks was the fact that Ford, like the Burjelian tortoises, was jumping to conclusions when he supposed life was no longer worth living. If the tortoises had only waited for evolution to take its course (or perhaps for the invention of the word processor) they might have never leapt to extinction. And if Ford had known what a great spot of fortune he was about to fall into he might have never tried drinking himself to death.
Although he may have still tried to get the orgy idea off the ground.
Heading to his pre-designated rock of copious alcohol consumption, Ford was just opening the first stolen bottle of island wine when his eye was caught by a bit of flashy advertising. It was a bottle of Ole Janx Spirit lying happily in the bushes, just waiting for him to rescue it. Ford pounced on it quickly, clutching it to his chest possessively before his eyes opened to the true majesty of the sight before him.
"Belgium..."
*One cannot actually jump to the famous bar Concl'sions from the spaceport on Alpha Metars 7. But, so many hitchhikers, fooled by a planetwide lack of perspective and proportion, have tried that the planet has set up a system of nets around the area. They aren't really working.
[OOC: Ford's NDPD gift and one year island anniversary. He got enough Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster making supplies to last him a while and he is one happy Betelgeusian.]
And sometimes they lead to beaches.
That is apparently where a freak rip in the time space continuum had landed one of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy's roving researchers exactly one year and twenty-two seconds ago. He is a medium sized lifeform from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, roughly two hundred years old, confused, and bored out of his skull. One would think that, having spent fifteen years marooned on a backwater planet during an earlier part of his career, he would be better prepared to deal with this much more temporary stranding. That would be a prime example of why jumping to conclusions can turn out to be a fatal mistake for the novice hitcher.* Ford Prefect was, in fact, no more well equipped to deal with his current situation than a Burjelian tortoise is equipped to deal with great literature.
And, just as countless numbers of innocent tortoises had plummeted to their deaths off scenic cliffs upon learning they could not write the next great Burjelian novel due to their lack of opposable thumbs, Ford Prefect was considering suicide. Of course, he didn't want it nasty or too distastefully messy, but he did want it to be fun. If he was going to be shuffling off this mortal coil he wanted to do it in style. So, he had decided he would drink himself to death. And possibly start a nice orgy along the way if he could get some volunteers. It was going to be one hell of a self-murder.
But one of the galaxy's funnier quirks was the fact that Ford, like the Burjelian tortoises, was jumping to conclusions when he supposed life was no longer worth living. If the tortoises had only waited for evolution to take its course (or perhaps for the invention of the word processor) they might have never leapt to extinction. And if Ford had known what a great spot of fortune he was about to fall into he might have never tried drinking himself to death.
Although he may have still tried to get the orgy idea off the ground.
Heading to his pre-designated rock of copious alcohol consumption, Ford was just opening the first stolen bottle of island wine when his eye was caught by a bit of flashy advertising. It was a bottle of Ole Janx Spirit lying happily in the bushes, just waiting for him to rescue it. Ford pounced on it quickly, clutching it to his chest possessively before his eyes opened to the true majesty of the sight before him.
"Belgium..."
*One cannot actually jump to the famous bar Concl'sions from the spaceport on Alpha Metars 7. But, so many hitchhikers, fooled by a planetwide lack of perspective and proportion, have tried that the planet has set up a system of nets around the area. They aren't really working.
[OOC: Ford's NDPD gift and one year island anniversary. He got enough Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster making supplies to last him a while and he is one happy Betelgeusian.]