This plot-steal is based on Douglas Adam's masterpiece, with Eric Kripke's characters. I own neither the board nor the pieces, but am responsible for one's movement through the other. This is wildly, wildly blasphemous, and if you take Christianity seriously at all, it may be best not to read this. If there is a Hell, I am fully aware I'm headed there, so there's no need to leave flamey messages.
(-)
This is the story of a book. Or, to be more accurate, 'The Book'.
It is perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come from the Megadodo Publishing Company of Ursa-Minor Beta. It is more popular than "How Clean is your Hypercube", more informative than "Where Are They Now: God", and more popularly referenced than "100 more things to do in a wormhole". In many of the more theocratic societies across the southern belt of the universe, it has even come to surpass the "Encyclopaedia Galactica" as the standard repository of knowledge, which has been widely disputed as a dumb move, as the disclaimer on the back clearly states that almost all advice contained within The Book is at best inaccurate and at worst allegorical.
However, it does score over the older, more pedestrian "Encyclopaedia Galactica" on two levels; first, it is substantially more published and therefore cheaper (some people have taken to leaving them lying around rather than bothering to transport them, meaning you can find at least three in any room at any hyperport hotel), and second, it has the words "You are Loved" written in arcing, authoritative script on the front cover (and let's face it, it's hard to argue with something in that sort of script).
This book ('The Book') is the most well used, most well reputed book in the history of published words, with a version or translation of one edition or another on even the most primitive, under-evolved of planets in every galaxy.
This book is "The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment".
To tell the story of The Book, we must tell the story of a man. This man (human, Homo Sapiens of the planet 'Earth') currently has no more understanding of his destiny than the most poorly constructed apple pie does of its cultural saturation in English speaking nations, nor the symbolism attached to it through its appearance in various media.
His name is Dean Winchester. He is thirty two years old, and he has just gotten fired from his job as a director of sales and marketing. To top it all off, he has come home to find that his girlfriend has not only left him, but taken the front door keys with her.
"Shit… Son of a…" Dean debated his options concerning breaking into his own house, aiming a kick at the box of possessions he had been forced to evacuate the office building with. Dejected, he phoned his landlord.
"I'm a busy man, Dean…" Zachariah was not a pleasant man to deal with, even over the phone.
"Lisa's run out on me and taken the keys with her. Can you swing by with a spare?"
"Left you?" Zachariah's laugh sliced into Dean's brain. He should have guessed his landlord would use this to get his sadistic kicks. "Oh dear, what happened?" He asked with delight, not concern.
"She's been fooling around with some other guy, I told her to either break it off or get the hell out of my house. I guess she took option B."
Zachariah laughed again, which did little to improve Dean's mood.
"You really expected her to stay?"
"I thought it was… whatever, why am I telling you?"
"Oh come on, Dean. You've got no desire at all to spill your guts for me?"
The sadistic barb to Zachariah's voice made Dean flinch.
"None at all."
(-*-)
By curious coincidence, "None at all" was precisely how much of a clue Dean had that his close friend and (now ex-) co-worker Balthazar Angel was not, in fact, a human being at all, and nor was he from the inconspicuous British town of Guildford. Balthazar was, in fact, an intergalactic reporter from a small moon somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and his job as a reporter was currently very much on the line.
It was with that in mind that he was incredibly glad to find Dean at home in the middle of the day.
"Dean! Thank goodness you're here. You need to come with me."
"Yeah, in a minute, Balthazar, I have to wait for my landlord to…"
"No, you need to come with me, now. I have something very important to tell you and it is vitally important that I tell you in… that bar over there."
"It's two in the afternoon."
"Yes. But judging by the box of your possessions and the fact that you are sat outside of your house, I am guessing you won't turn down a beer or three."
Dean was sorely tempted.
"No, man, I have to wait for my spare key. I can't just leave my stuff on the street…"
"Oh, but you can." Balthazar grabbed Dean's arm and dragged him over to the bar that sat on the corner of the block.
"If it's not there when we get back…"
"The whole street might not be there when we get back."
"What?"
"Nothing. Come on, I need a drink."
The "Encyclopaedia Galactica" describes alcohol as a liquid often imbibed by carbon based life-forms for the sake of intoxication, usually brewed or distilled. The Book describes alcohol as the reason carbon based life-forms are usually more fun, and recommends it as a must-have for any social interaction more stressful than, say, meeting one or more estranged relatives.
Balthazar knew that this was far more stressful.
(-*-)
High above the blue-green surface of the planet, disastrous black somethings hung. They hung, floating noiselessly through the sky, while being so incredibly big and bulky looking that the casual observer would be quite sure that "hanging", "floating" and "noiseless" were three words that most definitely shouldn't apply, suggesting that they were just so hideous that Physics had decided it wanted nothing to do with them. The disastrous black somethings collectively didn't give a shit about physics or the hypothetical casual observer. They moved silently around the blue-green marble, and waited.
(-*-)
Balthazar sat at the bar with Dean, six beers between them and the barman instructed to keep the coming.
"Dude, you got money to burn?" Dean watched Balthazar warily. Balthazar was prone to odd moods and strange decisions, and he'd frankly had enough "unusual" for one day.
"I have recently been informed that the U.S. dollar will take something of a dive… of course, so will every other currency on the planet…"
"Balthazar?"
"Dean." Balthazar pushed Dean's beer nearer his hand, before taking his own. "How long have we known each other now?"
"I don't know… two years? Three?"
"Right. So it would be fair to say that, at this point in time, we are rather firm friends."
"Yes…" There were many ways this could go, and Dean wasn't sure he liked any of them.
"How would you react if I were to tell you that I'm not from Guildford, or indeed from anywhere in England at all, or, even more indeed, from Earth?"
"I… have no idea. Why, is it something you think you're going to tell me?"
"I'm an alien, Dean. I came from the sky to stay on this planet and write a review of it."
Dean stared at Balthazar like he'd just grown another head.
"Right…"
"I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but I've received word today that your planet is going to be destroyed, and, well, the thought of you being totally immolated isn't one I'm comfortable with, so I thought I'd offer you the chance to jump ship with me."
"Yeah." Dean nodded, knocking back what was left of his beer. "Ok. Whatever. I'm going home."
"Dean…" Balthazar emptied his wallet on the bar, and ran after Dean. "Look, I don't know what else I can do to convince you…"
Dean was not a happy human as he pushed his way through the crowds of people who were all suddenly in his way. Everyone was just stood still, muttering to each other, and he wished they'd do their goddamned muttering someplace else when he was trying to storm dramatically down the street. Humans have something of a tendency for displaying their emotions through dramatics, and The Book tells us that they often need a fair amount of space to do this. Humans are funny about space.
Dean continued ignoring Balthazar as he continued trying to storm down the street.
That was when he saw it.
A bunch of teenage kids stood on his car. Actually standing on his car.
What the hell? Dean ran towards them, bumping and jostling through the small clumps of people. He was about to reach the car when he tripped over the box of his possessions from the office, and landed flat on his back. Winded, he groaned and clutched his head. He blinked his eyes open and stared up at the sky.
Or, to be more accurate, he stared up at the hideous black something that hung perilously in the sky, and suddenly understood what an ant felt when he read the word "converse" as it rapidly descended over him.
"Son of a bitch…" Dean managed to mutter, as Balthazar dragged him to his feet.
"Hold on." Balthazar grabbed Dean around the shoulders, grinning madly. "Bend your knees. The beer should have helped relax your muscles. Close your eyes and hold on." Balthazar gripped Dean's shoulders tight and extended his free arm…
(-*-)
All over the world, from some hideous, hyper-dimensional speaker system, came a voice.
"People of Earth. Good afternoon. This is Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley of the Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force. We have been contracted to inform you that your planet is currently surplus to requirement, and for that reason I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go. It's no good crying about it, this hurts me as much as it hurts you, so on and so forth. Now, if you would all please just hold still for a moment…"
The hyper-dimensional speaker system went silent. As the meaning of Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley's words filtered through the unbelieving brains of the world's populace, everyone suddenly began to realise this was probably something they should make a fuss about.
And fuss they did.
People screamed, wailed, wept, attempted to reason, to threaten, but the hideous black somethings or, as they were now identified, Rahptoor spaceships, paid them no heed. Great beams of light and energy tore through the planet like pens through a sheet of paper, brining a terrible roaring shriek to join the screams and wails.
Then, the Rahptoor spaceships stopped, and floated away as quietly as they had come, leaving nothing but a few wisps of what had once been referred to as "ozone".
Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley ticked a box on a rather complicated pink form.
(-*-)
On the other end of the galaxy, the Prime Minister of the Universe smiled and waved to the crowd of scientists, engineers and reporters, a smug grin firmly in place.
The "Encyclopaedia Galactica" tells us that the title "Prime Minister of the Universe" is a somewhat redundant one, as the Prime Minister called pretty much all the shots and acted as a President. However, the last King of the Universe (His Most Emphatic Majesty, King D'Nadam the fourth) made sure his last official ruling on his death bed was to be placed under eternal medical care in a time-suspension coma, and in that way he could never be killed or impeached. People have tried to fight it (on the basis that the medical bills alone have decreased standards of living throughout the entire universe) but as he was, or, is, King of the Universe, there's not very much you can say against it.
The Book tells us that the Prime Minister of the universe is usually one of nine different kinds of "completely unsuitable for the job", but that did mean that they usually threw the most memorable if not enjoyable of parties.
Prime Minister Gabriel Angeles was incredibly unsuitable, also inappropriate, unfaithful, dishonest, didactic, egocentric and ever so slightly drunk. As he continued to smile and wave at the assorted crowd, he reasoned that he'd need to be, for what he was planning.
"Hey, how are we all? Brilliant, lovely…" He approached the microphone, one hand in his pocket as he delivered his speech. He shot a wink down into the crowd at a black-haired, blue-eyed humanoid, who was not impressed.
"Right." Gabriel continued, with a dazzling smile. "I have been asked to come here and say a few words on the unveiling of this revolutionary new ship. The Impala is a beautiful design; sleeker, more efficient, faster… a feat of the best engineering minds the universe can produce. And look at that paintwork, huh? But the real talent, the real killer, is that sexy little Soul Drive you kids threw together. Leap Of Faith warp drive promises to leave all probable and improbable propulsion drives in the dust. But hey, look who I'm telling."
He shot another winning smile around the crowd.
"So yes, I was asked to come here and say a few words. But… I don't want to do that." He looked down, and saw that the black-haired blue-eyed humanoid was no longer in the crowd. He shrugged, shooting a slightly less winning, slightly more wicked smile.
"I'd much rather steal it instead."
His hand flew out of his pocket, propelling an Insta-Freeze grenade into the crowd. Screams were cut off almost before they'd begun. In the resultant frozen still, Gabriel plucked the keys from the hands of the head engineer and commandeered his new ship.
(-*-)
The insides of a Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force Ship were something only the most masochistic of beings would ever complain about not seeing. The servant sleeping quarters were squalid, dark and mouldy, while the main Dæmon portion of the ship was terrifying, purely because it was full of naturally disgruntled Dæmons. Common sense told you never to get on board a Dæmon ship, and it was reasonable to presume that, if you were on board one, things had gotten pretty damn bad already. In fact, the only way it could be worse would be if you were suffering from some incessant yet ultimately not debilitating pain.
"Balthazar." Dean groaned, as consciousness slowly returned to him. "What just happened? And speak slowly, I have a killer headache."