Yet another Disclaimer: I own nothing, Douglas Adams owns everything.

To Disclaim this disclaimer: I own everything but that which is listed in the above disclaimer including the disclaimer itself, which I own without owning any of its contents.

To explain the above disclaimers: I own nothing.

Zaphod's newly acquired cruiser, Betelguese 746, was a flashy green affair which was very shiny and well attired. The autopilot was highly competent, and this was fortunate because Zaphod hadn't bothered to check it before turning it on. He was far too busy drinking to bother driving.

To pass the time, he was playing an old drinking game with himself, and his left head was losing badly. This was probably because the first drink he'd had had been a gargle blaster, and he was too dizzy to pour his right head a glass.

The computer beeped away happily as it navigated across interstellar space. It had no idea where it was going, and neither did Zaphod, but the computer was still happy simply because it had been programmed that way.

"Mr. Beeblebrox?" the computer bubbled happily, in the same cheerful voice that all shipboard computers seemed condemned to possess.

"Yes?" groaned Zaphod, wondering if there was a sledgehammer nearby with which to hit the computer.

"I've got some terrible news!" said the computer, practically jumping with excitement and happiness, completely ignoring its lack of legs in the process.

"What?" growled Zaphod.

"We've run out of fuel!" the computer told him excitedly. "I'm so very glad to have been able to give that announcement!" It sounded as happy as it said it was.

Zaphod took a moment to comprehend the computer's words, and then realised their meaning.

"Holy Zarquon!" he cried, racing for the panel. He stumbled several times on his way, and at one point had to turn around and go back towards the control panel, when he realised he'd been going the wrong way.

The screens showed a strange blue-purpilish planet before them, which Zaphod's sparky new ship was on a collision course with.

"Computer, what's happening?" Zaphod asked deliriously.

"I'm very excited to tell you we're about the crash land on the small planet of Hoovooloovia!" The computer simmered happily.

Zaphod swore vehemently, and stumbled back towards the lifepods. Realising he didn't know where the lifepods were on the strange new ship, he swore again, and ran over to the sub-etha wavelength broadcaster. He had time to send one final message before promptly crash-landing on an alien planet.

*FROODY TRANSITION*

Trillian had immediately been placed under arrest following Zaphod's escape, under the charge of harbouring a known fugitive. She wished she could blame Zaphod for it, but sadly it was actually her own fault for once—she had been the one to bring him along to The Guide's headquarters.

Maximillian Frodslewanser had smiled at her with evil intent as she was handcuffed to a chair in his office. Now the police and security guards that had placed her there had left in search of Zaphod, leaving her alone in the room with him.

"Well, Miss Astra," Frodslewanser leered, "I think it might be time for your initiation into our company."

Trillian strugged, but the handcuffs held tight. "Before you hire me, Mister Frodslewanser, I'd just like to make it clear that you are the most repugnant..."

A guard rushed into the room, looking exhausted and horrified.

"...pile of horse-shit I have ever seen."

The guard looked down at Trillian queerly, and then turned back to Maximillian.

"Mister Frodslewanser, it's an emergency!" he declared. "You've been fired!" He waved a fax in the air, as if trying to use it as a fan.

"WHAT?" thundered Frodslewanser, and snatched the fax off the guard. He scanned the page with his eyes, and gaped in horror.

"WHAT?" he thundered again. " WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS?"

He carefully read the page aloud, to make sure he hadn't interpreted it incorrectly. "YOU ARE FIRED ON BEHALF OF THE PRESIDENT. ZAPHOD BEEBLEBROX WISHES IT TO BE KNOWN YOUR POST MUST BE VACATED IMMEDIATELY. YOU ARE TO BE REPLACED BY... WHAT?"

"You mean, 'WHO?', don't you?" Trillian corrected.

"No," Frodslewanser explained, "I meant, 'WHAT?' As in, surprise and horror."

He showed her the paper, and she was amazed to see that the fax, sent by Zaphod, promoted her to the head of The Guide, by presidential decree.

"WHAT?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, now you've got it," agreed Frodslewanser. She gave him a death stare.

"Well, Mister Frodslewanser, it seems you are fired," she told him, and then turned to the guard. "Un-cuff me. I've a business to run."