HHGTTG Mafia - SCENARIO

Like most poorly conceived inventions, the wheel seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Though early versions did little more then roll down hills, when coupled with, say, a petrol engine, the wheel would come to allow millions to finally get away and take that vacation they had been going on about. This is, of course, overshadowed by the fact that the wheel’s inventor completely failed to take into account the subsequent, yet inevitable rise in car insurance, which many have seen as a raw deal. Wheel enthusiasts, determined not to let something like increased rates get in the way of their good time, continued to leave their homes in droves to search of exotic locals. Thus hotels began to sprout up in tourist locations across the galaxy if for no other reason then out of sheer necessity. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about hotels:

Hotels are by far the most enjoyable place one can stay while away from home. While a majority of hotels may be financially impractical for the average hitchhiker, they do come in many shapes and sizes, and therefore able to cater to a wide variety of guests. Thus, one should note, that all hotels are subject to their own socioeconomic laws of probability. For example: the less money you spend on your hotel room, the more likely you are to be robbed blind by the cleaning staff the moment you step out to grab a bite to eat. The most expensive hotel in existence, and therefore the one where you are least likely to have your personal effects looted while you are away, is of course the Hiltondorf Continental, which is suitably located on the resort planet of Bethselamin.

The following entry elaborates on this fine hotel:

The Hiltondorf Continental was created long ago, during the glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, a time in which Magrathea was still creating custom luxury planets, and absurd wealth and excess were the creed of everyone who lived (at least, everyone worth mentioning). The Continental has become renowned for carrying on this tradition of extravagance and waste through to modern times. For example, it is not uncommon for furniture, having been utilized by a guest, to be carted away and incinerated in order to make way for newer, more expensive furniture to be set in its place. Arbitrary squander such as this is just one of many features which have earned the hotel a rating of nine stars on a five-star scale, eclipsing the seven-star Royal West Centurion Omni-Palace, and even surpassing the eight-star Holiday Inn of Yuma, Arizona, which was regrettably lost when the Earth was demolished to make way for a much needed hyperspace bypass.

The Continental has rooms and suites of every kind imaginable, so as to suit the tastes of every conceivable guest. They also host to a wide variety of convention halls, available, for a modest fee, to accommodate nearly any kind of venue. The hotel itself is massive; so much so, that the planet of Bethselamin did not have enough available real estate to house it, and instead it was built in a pocket dimension that can be accessed through the drive-thru of a local dry-cleaners. This dimension, originally belonging to a hyper-intelligent strain of the flu, was the subject of much media attention, when the natives, after having mounted a heroic defense of their lands, were completely decimated by a healthy dose of penicillin.

It was to this very hotel that Bartimus Fizzbang now traveled. As a field researcher for The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, it was his job to seek out and explore previously unexplored locations. Not very much was known about The Hiltondorf Continental, because quite frankly, no one working for The Guide could afford to stay there for longer than 6 minutes. That was all going to change.

As a part of a massive advertising campaign, The Hiltondorf Continental was hosting what is being heralded as the biggest social event in recorded history: The 853rd Annual Transdimensional Travel Broker’s Convention. Travel agents from every inhabited planet would be attending to promote their planet, and make one last ditch effort to attract tourism before the galactic economy went back down the tubes. While the first 852 Annual Transdimensional Travel Broker’s Conventions were known to be comprehensive failures (mostly due to the fact that no one aside from the travel agents themselves had ever bothered to show up), this year, the brokers ravenously promoted the event, creating a brilliantly designed flyer in order to capture the public’s interest and speak to the common man:



Initial marketing polls indicated that the fliers were a phenomenal success, but due to a sudden, and unexpected rise in epileptic seizures, they were immediately recalled. Word, however, had gotten out, and hotel management were instructed to make arrangements for increased attendance. In addition, everyone associated with the press was invited to stay at The Continental free of charge for the duration of the event. This included representatives from the Hitchhiker’s Guide, though some circles thought this to define the term “press” rather loosely. More importantly, for Bartimus at least, they would all be allowed to partake in the free food.

Thus Bartimus found himself pulling his small, two-seater spaceship through the drive-thru of the Megawash Dry Cleaner’s building, and steering it into the dimensional rift that would take him to the hotel. As he passed through, his body disintegrated down to the molecular level, was shot across an infinite amount of time and space, and then recombined at it’s final destination. The whole process was rather like being drunk, which, as any glass of water can tell you, is not entirely pleasant. Shaking off his space-sickness, Bartimus pulled his ship into the valet station, got out, and tossed the keys to a fearful eyed, four foot tall blue green being in military fatigues and body armor, which is what passes for a valet’s uniform at the Continental’s carport. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy elaborates on the valets at the Hiltondorf Continental:

The only known structure which rivals the size of the Hiltondorf Continental, is the hotel’s parking garage, which, in the spirit of superfluity, is located in its own alternate dimension, this one inhabited by a community of werewolves. After facing massive public backlash for causing the extinction of the first alien species, the owners of the hotel decided not to repeat their mistake, and have left the werewolves alone. All hitchhikers planning on staying at the Hiltondorf Continental are advised to leave the parking of your spaceship in the capable hands of the valet staff, as to avoid any unnecessary dismemberment.

It should also be noted that being a valet for the hotel is regarded as being one of the most dangerous and lucrative positions available. Hiltondorf valets make enough money after one month to retire comfortably, though most are eviscerated by werewolves within the first week or so. This has, over time, become a contentious issue between hotel management and the valet workers union.

With his ship carefully tucked away amongst the werewolves, Bartimus strolled up the plush, carpet-covered stairs and into the hotel, eager to seek out the buffet and his fellow Guide researchers which would undoubtedly be gathered around it.

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Meanwhile, a being raged with rage, while its enraged companions looked on..
“How DARE THEY not invite us!” it screamed. “WE, the researchers for [i[The Encyclopedia Galactica[/i], are infinitely more qualified than those schmucks from the Guide! We seek knowledge, truth, and enlightenment while all they seek is fun and free food. Those BASTARDS will pay for this! The Guide has long been a scourge on the galaxy, filling it with useless and nonsensical knowledge. More importantly, it really irks me that they are getting free food. They must die”
Amidst rousing applause, the researchers for The Encyclopedia Galactica hatched a plan: They would pretend to be researchers for the Guide, sneak into the convention, eat all the food, and then, after a nap, get to work on killing the researchers for the Guide. Brilliant.

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“What an extraordinary place,” Arthur said as he and Ford Prefect walked amongst the myriad of travel brokers who were setting up their booths on the convention hall floor. The hall itself was one of the largest Arthur had ever been in, and as he looked down the rows of vendors, he was quite surprised to see that the booths eventually faded off into what appeared to be the horizon, which didn’t quite make sense to Arthur seeing as how they were still very much inside the hotel.

“Yes,” Ford replied. “Now keep your eyes open, and try not to buy anything if you can help it.”

“What are we looking for again?”

“Not what, who. His name is Vroomtig the Inordinately Fortunate.”

“The Inordinately Fortunate?” Arthur asked with his usual incredulousness. “How on Earth did he come be called that?”

Ford looked at him with the kind of patient, self-composed expression one normally reserves for infants and misbehaved pets. Sometimes he wondered how Arthur’s ancestors had ever managed to make it down out of the trees in the first place.

“He’s not from Earth, he’s from Omicron Six,” Ford said matter of factly as he looked about at the various booths they were walking past. “They call him that because he is inordinately fortunate. Quite possibly the luckiest cuss ever born.”

“I see,” Arthur said, even though he didn’t. “So what does he look like?”

“He, she-- no one knows,” Ford said. “Vroomtig changes his appearance on a near weekly basis to avoid the lynch mobs.”

“Lynch mobs? I thought this guy was supposed to be lucky!”

“He is,” Ford sighed, poking his head into a particularly large booth that was selling discount tours to the unfashionable end of the galaxy. “So lucky,” Ford went on, “that he doesn’t leave much for anyone else to use. Any chap who is unlucky enough to be in his immediate presence usually finds themselves involved in some highly unexpected, and improbably fatal accident.”

“And you want to find this person??”

“Yes.”

“What ever for!?”

Before Ford could answer, there was a loud crash and a bit of shouting that seemed to be coming from the hotel lobby. When Arthur turned around, he was surprised that, though they had passed what had seemed like dozens of booths, they were still only a stones throw from the entrance. Ford, hopeful that his search would bear fruit early on, and eager to graze the complimentary buffet, rushed back into the lobby to find a large, and angry mob of customers facing off against a rather timid looking hotel manager.

“If you will all just have a seat,” the manager managed to get out between shouts. “I’m sure everything will...”

He couldn’t squeak any more out before the shouts rose up again. Ford and Arthur, with some effort, managed to push their way through to the front of the crowd. “What’s the problem here?” Ford asked above the unhappy din.

“It’s the valet staff, they seem to have gone... missing.”

“Missing?” Arthur asked. Ford closed his eyes and imagined that he had brought Trillian or Zaphod instead.

“Yes,” the manager replied. “Well, not exactly missing. They left a note.”

The manager produced a small pink slip of plasti-paper and handed it to Ford, who unfolded it and selfishly read it to himself. Arthur, who didn’t particularly enjoy being left out of the loop, crowded close to get a better look.

“Well?” he asked. “What does it say??”

“Sod off,” Ford read aloud.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what it says,” Ford said, holding up the note so that Arthur could see the text for himself. “Sod off, signed: The Valet Staff”

“Oh,” Arthur mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed. “What do you suppose it means?”

The hotel manager quickly swiped the card back out of Fords hand and looked anxiously towards the front entrance to the hotel. “It means,” the man answered softly. “That we’re all stuck here. Without anyone to go get the ships from the car park, there’s no way back to Bethselamin.”

“Can’t we just go at it on foot?” Arthur asked.

“You can’t just walk through a hyperspace portal, even with a pressure suit.” Ford said. This was, of course, a fact that most sentient beings learned in very early stages of their development. Arthur, however, being of ape decent, and born on a planet that still thought digital watches were a pretty neat idea, hadn’t the benefit of a useful education, and wasn’t expected to know much of anything. Everyone else in the hotel, however, knew that if flying through hyperspace was unpleasantly like being drunk, walking through hyperspace was unpleasantly like being dead-- precisely the kind of condition Ford had been looking to avoid on this trip. “Without the ships, we can’t leave.”

“We could go get them ourselves, couldn’t we?”

“You’re certainly welcome to try.” There was something about the subsequent smirk that spread across the managers face that told Arthur this wasn’t the best of ideas.

“Well, what about incoming ships, deliveries and the like?”

“Unfortunately,” the manager answered, “the hotel is entirely self-sufficient, and we aren’t expecting any new guests until after the convention.” Then, as if eager to derail some distant train of thought that had begun to travel from the cloudy center of Arthur’s brain, the manager added, “The phones wont do you any good either, a long distance call was made not two hours ago, and we’re in the process of tearing out the old lines. They wont be back up for days.”

Both Ford and Arthur looked at the man with a mixture of quiet admiration and utter disbelief. The routine wastefulness of The Hiltondorf usually took a good week and a half to truly sink in.

“So we’re stuck here,” Arthur noted with just a touch of the obvious.

“Stuck,” Ford replied, looking up at the high vaulted ceilings of the Hiltondorf lobby. “In a nine star hotel.”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

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