Not!

by Cheshire

Sometimes, on really bad nights like this, I start thinking.

It's really bad when I start thinking. When I think, this puny brain of mine starts to throb.

When it throbs, I scream.

When I scream, I scare these skittish humanoids.

When I scare the humanoids, they panic, and they call the police.

Yeah. And eventually, before you know it, I'm in the physciatric ward, explaining why I scream at void air molecules for no particular reason, and being charged seven bucks a night for the mediocre food they're going to serve me for the next week.

That's happened twice now, by the way.

You'd think after the first time, I'd stop screaming, but I'd thought I'd go back and see what dessert was like on Thursdays.

The whole reason I start thinking, is because I'm bored to tears.

All I can think about, is 'whaddamIgonnadoafterwork?' (I've been thinking it so much, I'd thought I'd downsize and make it an entire word, like it? Yes, my friend that bored)

Well, no screaming for Ford Prefect tonight!

I've found the ultimate solution to all my boredom problems!

I'm gonna lie!

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking. "Yeah? So what? I lie everyday, hell, I even did it just now on my tax returns!"

But you see, I thought I'd try a different take on lying. You see, it's not like I lied a lot back on Betelgeuse, but that lying was different. It was fibbing.

Tonight, I'm going to lie to every human I see, just so I can see firsthand what their humanoid reactions are.

Okay. 9:14. Time to hit the bar.

I walk in and see this really pretty girl standing at the bar waiting for her drinks, so I strut on over to her, and put on a semi-frightening smile.

"Hey," I say smoothly.

She coyly looks up and smiles briefly. "Hi."

Okay, Ford, just lay it down. First lie that comes to mind. . .

"So . . . I started this fire yesterday."

The girl looks up at me with huge eyes, and just when I think she's going to ask me more, she turns to the bartender.

"Are your Saturdays usually like this?"

The bartender looks at her, and then me, and then back at her.

"Try back on Fridays. Not really a big difference, but it's somewhat better."

"Uh huh. . . right. Er. . . I'll be going now."

She turned on her heel and left.

Bad reaction; 1 Good reaction; zip

Perhaps a more subtle lie, Ford. Yeah.

I sat down on a stool, and turned to the guy next to me.

"You know, I'm a podiatrist."

What the hell was that?! That wasn't subtle, that was stupid!

"Really?" he sounds genuinely interested. I nodded.

"Yup. Born and raised."

"Could you take a look at this, then?"

The man pulled off his shoes, and to my utter revulsion, his socks, and shoved his foot in my face.

"It's been there for a while, I think it's a wart. But is it a seed wart or what?"

I coil my nose.

"Yes. That's a seed wart."

Okay, so that one didn't work out too well. Let's try this with someone else.

I turned to my left and smiled at the woman next to me.

"Hi."

She looked me up and down, before dipping her cigarette into a nearby ashtray and then putting it back in her mouth.

"Hey, kid."

"I'm not actually a doctor. I'm actually an ax murderer."

Whoa boy! Down boy, down!

She looks at me and grins a putrid smile.

"Is that so?"

NO!

I shrug. "Yeah."

What the hell am I doing?! Wait, nevermind what I'm doing! What the hell is she doing?

She nods thoughtfully, and then slurps up her beer.

"You know, I married three ax murderers."

Score one for good reactions!

"Is that so?"

"Killed one of em myself too."

I suddenly found my lungs had stopped working for some strange reason.

My new friend noticed this, and rolled her eyes.

"Relax skip, it was joke."

I gave a breath of relief.

And people think I'm weird.

"You're a strange little boy, aren't you?" she added callously.

I ordered a beer, and sighed.

"Lady, you have no idea."

"Well, you know. I like strange little boys." She winked at me.

Eh, I might as well.

"Don't get too close ma'am. I've been known to burst into flames from time to time."

"I get angry too sometimes, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No, seriously. It's a medical condition, I have severe burns under all this prosthetic make up, you'd be repelled by my crispy flesh if the doctors ripped all of the latex off."

There was a pause, and I waited.

"I like my critters crispy."

Hmm. . . interesting. Let's see just how far this could go.

"I give off signs of severe homosexuality when I'm depressed."

"Who doesn't?"

"I eat pickles with peanut butter and butterscotch ice cream."

"I like a man with eclectic food tastes."

"I mugged a church guy for his clothes so I could go in and steal holy water from the holy fountain."

"So you're a little eccentric."

"I read transsexual magazines and then leave them on the floor of my bathroom stall to scare other people away."

She touched my hand.

"I have problems with intimacy too."

What the hell was wrong with this woman?

"I collect teletubby merchandise and tape their show when I'm at work."

"My kid likes em too. Think the purple one's really cute."

"I lied. I am a podiatrist."

"A man with a foot fetish. . . I like this. . . "

By this time, I noticed the bartender and everyone at the bar was staring at me. I guess it wasn't anything out of the ordinary considering what they had just listened to, but I noticed something; the bartender was holding a phone. And before I could even start thinking about the numerous possibilities about who was on the other line, the bar doors were slammed open.

Six men decked out in black, padded, combat suits with bats, huge rifles, and shields over their faces burst through the doors.

"Alright, everyone, don't move. Which one's the sick pyromaniac, podiatrist, self combusting, homosexual, weird eating, priest mugging, transvestite?"

I raised my hand meekly.

The woman cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Don't forget the teletubbies."

I hated this room.

I've been in here twice now.

And let me tell you, it reeks of bad guys.

I'm not a bad guy.

I'm just a scientist trying to figure out just how far you can push humanoids with lies.

Guess not that far.

"Alright, sicko."

What a bad cop, but where's the good cop I saw in the movies?

"Um . . . "

"Shut up! Okay. Now, you can explain yourself. Who are you?"

"Ford Prefect."

The guy looks at me and then sighs while rubbing his forehead.

"Sure, you name your kid that, and no wonder the turnout. Okay pal, you tell me what the hell this is all about?"

I sighed.

"I lied."

"About what?"

"Everything."

"Okay, so what's your name."

"No, not that. I'm not a podiatrist, I'm not gay, nor a transsexual, ax murderer, teletubby fan, mugger, weird eater, self combusting, freak. I'm just a normal guy."

The policeman's eyes tightened and then released.

"How many beers have you had, Mr. Prefect?"

I shrugged. How could I count? Last year I had about ten thousand, and he wants me to remember all the beers I've had?

"A lot." I said lazily.

He glares at me feverently.

"Tell you what, I'm gonna lock you up for the night and check out your records. If I find out you're lying to me about lying about all that sick crap, I'm gonna be pretty angry. If you're telling me the truth, I'll let you out in the morning, and try my best to forget about it."

"What an ultimatum." I muttered.

"What?"

"Er. . . "

No more lying, Ford.

"I said, what an ultimate bargain."

Okay, I guess this is one of those exceptions.

So I spent the night in a lonely, cold, and damp cell, promising I'd never lie to another humanoid about anything again.

Er. . . well, that's a lie too.