DAY ONE - MAFIA/SK: Safe and Sound

Bartimus Fizzbang strolled merrily through the outdoor/indoor park of the Hiltondorf Continental. The park stretched for miles and miles in every direction, including up. It was classified as an outdoor/indoor park because it was so incredibly massive that the management decided to have a sun, weather, and gravity installed. While it was still inside of the actual hotel, it was an ecosystem entirely its own, and only with the aid of expensive equipment could one tell that you were not, actually, outside.

Bartimus carried a picnic basket packed full of goodies from the buffet in the convention hall. Due to the unique eating habits, Bartimus often took his meals alone, and since he was sharing a room with seven other people, the park was one of the few places left where he could be alone. As he walked down the path made of gold concrete, he admired the scenery. He was surrounded by lush green grass and tall, verdant trees. In the distance, just off the path, he spotted a picnic table made of fishsticks surrounded by little picnic chairs made out of solidified tartar sauce. While obviously meant for guests with tastes completely different than his own, it would serve. Furthermore, it offered a beautiful view of the mountain range in the distance. If he squinted, Bartimus could just barely make out being skiing down its slopes.

Bartimus seated himself in one of the chairs and placed his picnic basket on the table. He was practically starving and ready to eat. As he was undoing his pants, though, he heard a shuffling behind him, followed by a loud WALLUMPH, followed by blackness.

……

Bartimus awoke to find himself tied to his tartar sauce chair. Behind him, he heard a number of beings angrily discussing his fate, each one advocating a different method of torture. He heard one being say, “Come on, boss! Let me have this one!” The ‘Boss’ must have consented, because the being in question stepped up close behind Bartimus. He then heard the rustling of paper as the being rummaged through some sort of container, produced a book, and opened it.

“Now, Hitchhiker scum, I am going to teach you the TRUE MEANING OF PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!”

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about Poetry:

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of Azgoths of Kira. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about the embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.

What was about to be unleashed on Bartimus was a nearly unspeakable crime against everything that is right and good in the universe. I say “nearly unspeakable” because it was, in fact, spoken aloud. It turns out that the poetry of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings had not, in fact, all been destroyed. One poem had somehow survived out of sheer malice and spite.

“PREPARE YOURSELF!” the attacker cried; “The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.”

“Oh god, please no!” Bartimus begged, but his assailant continued.

“They lay-“

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

“-They rotted-“

“AAAAARRRGHHHHGHGILARGAAARGGHH”

“-They turned around occasionally.”

“OH PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP” Bartimus pleaded to the higher power.

“Bits of flesh dropped off them from time to time.”

Bartimus’s eyes rolled into the back of his sockets as he brain went into shock, mercifully rendering him unconscious. It was to no avail, though, as a solid smack to the back of the head brought him back around.

“And sank into the pool’s mire.”

Bartimus started crying for his mother.

“They also smelt a great deal.”

Just then, the beings gathered around the picnic table heard a sound not unlike a safe full of kittens falling from the sky. Bartimus noticed a shadow forming over his lap, and looked up. When he saw what it was, he merely said, “Oh, thank god.”

The kittens responded with mews of terror, culminating in a resounding...

THUD

----------

“Do you really think we ought to be doing this?” Arthur said, as he followed Ford’s lead and ducked beneath a length of glossy yellow tape, clearly labeled: CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS.

“Sure, do it all the time!” Ford replied.

The words did little to reassure Arthur, who was fairly certain that what they were doing was not acceptable behavior. Though the police had left long ago, Arthur had a nagging suspicion that, should they be caught, they would quickly be rushed off to whatever passed for a prison in the hotel. He was, of course, absolutely correct.

“I thought we were supposed to be looking for that Vroomtig fellow,” Arthur said, eying the grisly chalk outline that had been drawn on the ground not three feet from where he stood. The crumpled remains of what appeared to be a safe rested where the head would have been chalked out. There were tufts of fur and kitten jelly everywhere. “Is this the kind of place he’s likely to visit?”

“Quite possibly,” Ford said producing a manila folder from his jacket and handing it to Arthur. “Have a look at this.”

“What is it?”

“The police report.”

"They just gave you the police report?" Arthur asked warily.

"No," Ford answered, scrapping a bit of kitten off his boot along the edge of the safe. "Not exactly."

"You stole it?"

"If you like."

“Oh good,” Arthur muttered unhappily. “And here I was thinking that I might go through my entire life without seeing the inside of a prison cell.”

“Just read what’s on page fifteen.”

Arthur thumbed through the report, and eventually found the section that Ford was referring to between a partially finished crossword puzzle and an advertisement for wholesale taxidermy:

Name: Bartimus Fizzbang
Time of Death: 17:25 GST
Cause of Death: Act of God

“Act of God?” Arthur blurted out. He looked around at the scene before him and wondered just how much time the police had actually spent here. Certainly they could have come up with a better explanation then that.

“That safe had to come from somewhere,” Ford said, looking straight up from where it had landed.

Arthur followed his line of sight, but saw nothing but clear blue sky, a bright yellow sun, and puffy white clouds that instructed him, in large cottony letters, that there was still time to visit the complimentary buffet.