Schuldich's Ultimate Hitchhiker Guide: Part I [Katakana Asylum]
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In honor of Douglas Adams ,who passed away not to long ago, I have begun this fic. If you want the real story it's called "The Ultimate Hitchhikers Guide." Remember your towel and your babel fish at all times.
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Hello. My name is not important. In fact, I don't have a name. But if you must call me something, call me Schuldich. I am here to inform you that I, Schuldich, am not from your planet. And I am sending this as a transmission from Miami, which isn't on your planet either. So there!
If after you have read this small amount of drivel, you decide that you must leave this planet, there are four minute steps.
1. Phone NASA. Their phone number is (713) 483-3111. Explain that it's very important that you leave as soon as possible.
2. If NASA does not cooperate, call anyone you know in the White House-(202) 456- 1414-. They should have something to say on your behalf to NASA.
3. If you have no friends in the White House, call the Kremlin (ask the operator for 0107-095-295-9051) I doubt they have friends in the White House either (or at least that they will admit) but they do seem to have some influence.
4. And lastly, if no one wants to help you hightail it, flag down the nearest flying saucer ,and explain how vitally important it is for you to leave before your phone bill arrives.
Chapter One -Part 1: Schuldich's Guide to the Galaxy
A house stood on a slope at the edge of the village. It wasn't a substantial house by any means. It was about thirty years old, squarish, made of bricks and uncommonly dull. It failed to please the eye. The only person who even gave a rat's ass about the place was Bradley Crawford, and this was only because he happened to live in it. He had lived in it for roughly 5 years, ever since he had moved from New York because it made him irritable. Then again, what didn't make old stick-up-the-ass Crawford irritable? He was about thirty as well, tall, dark haired and never quite at ease with others.
On Tuesday night it had rained profusely, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Wednesday morning sun was bright as it shone on Crawford's house for the last time.It hadn't quite registered with ole' Brad that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.
At ten o'clock on Wednesday morning Bradley didn't feel very well. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered about his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stormed off to the bathroom to wash.
Toothpaste on the brush- scrub.
Shaving mirror- pointing to the opposite wall. Adjust. For a second it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window, however once properly adjusted it reflected Brad's stubble. He shaved them off, washed, toweled, and stomped off to the kitchen to eat.
Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.
Bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect it with.
The bulldozer outside the kitchen was rather large.He stared at it.
"Yellow." He thought before storming back to his room to get dressed.Stopping by the bathroom he stopped to drink a glass of water, and another. He began to think that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he gotten drunk the night before? He supposed that he might have been. He glimpsed at the mirror. "Yellow."
He stood and thought about the pub. Holy shit, the pub. He remembered being angry about something that seemed of importance. He'd been telling people about it, at length it seemed. He dazedly remembered the glassed over looks in the people's eyes. Something about a new bypass he'd just heard about. It had been in the pipelines for months only no one seemed to have known about it.
It'd sort himself out.
No one wanted a bypass.
He looked at himself in the mirror and stuck out his tongue. "Yellow." Another futile attempt at making a connection.
Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a large yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.