By Francis Chen
4:30 AM
Well, I wouldn't say it was a perfect morning, but then again, this is how it started:
It was 4:30 AM. Arthur Dent was dead. Dead as a door nail. He lay upon his lawn, thinking about his life. He thought about how it his life was over. He was pleased. He thought, "Well, isn't this convenient." As a matter of fact, it was. This is why:
It was 4:25 AM. In his most perfect country, England, staring at his very perfect English lawn, Arthur Dent was sitting upon his very favorite, and most important, chair, thinking about how he wanted to die. Looking up, he saw a little perfect falling star. He made a wish on how he wanted to die upon that star. Except it was not a star, but a large meteorite hurtling towards his perfect little country, setting a path to destroy his perfect little home with him along with it.
Back to 4:31 AM. Arthur Dent's dismantled, destroyed, and mutilated body sent one simple message up to his absolutely disintegrated brain. He was still hungry. This was all because of a simple little problem that occurred two hours earlier.
2:00 AM.
Ford checked his watch: 2:01 AM. It was getting early. Ford was a writer. Not a very good one. Being mostly harmless, he had once dreamed of being a fairly decent writer. Unfortunately, dreams are like rainbows: only idiots chase after them.
Ford stood in his very favorite English bar, holding his very favorite English drink, and he chugged it down faster than he could steal people's towels (which was alarmingly fast). Standing next to him was Arthur Dent. And he was very unhappy.
His house had been destroyed.
But that wasn't the reason he wasn't happy, the real reason was this: he had not eaten in 6 hours.
"Say, hand me a bag of peanuts, would you?" Arthur muttered. Ford turned to face him.
"No," Ford replied sternly.
"Why not?"
"Because you're acting like a real jerk. Probably the worst one I've ever seen in my life."
3 seconds past.
"No, you."
Ford lobbed the bag of peanuts at Arthur. It exploded, lobbing giant waves of peanuts upon the floor, crashing with a gigantic pitter-patter. The bartender, named Calhoun, turned to him.
"You're only allowed to throw glass in here, mate. Get out."
Leaving the bar, Ford and Arthur glared at each other. They had just been kicked out of their favorite bar. Clenching his towel, Ford prepared to slam Arthur in the face. Promptly, Arthur shoved him off the street. A sperm whale collided with the ground, falling from sky. The whale had just finished its thought, thinking: "…become friends with me?"
Arthur had just barely missed the whale. So had Ford. He had saved Ford. He wished he hadn't.
"I still hate you," he told his companion and he stormed off… not knowing what was to happen…