Tevun-Krus #42 - Oh, and ANOTHER Thing...

HOW'S MY DRIVING? - A Short Story by @MadMikeMarsbergen

1

"Positive you can 'andle it?" asked Douglas Adams—renowned comic author: dead in some universes, still alive in this one—as he handed over the royalty payment.

"Oh, I'll handle it," said the hitman, a young acne-stricken lad named Garian who looked as though he still believed Santa Claus was dead. He had a tuft of what appeared to be mandarin-orange pubes growing out of his chin, and a few stray hairs attempting to escape from the area beneath his nose. "Handle it like I handled your mum last night. CAN I GET A PIECE OF THAT!?" he suddenly shouted, raising his cashless hand high.

Douglas coughed respectfully, but didn't give Garian a piece of anything except his mind. "'Andle it like you 'andled those inflamed sores on your cheeks, or...?" He let the insult hang over them like a cloud of laughter from a crowd. What kind of name was Garian, anyway? Not the name of a quality hitman, Douglas felt certain of that. Not really a name for anyone.

The sting of tears in his eyes, Garian looked away. "I killed the pimples, didn't I? I killed them good, right?"

"Er—yes, I suppose you did."

The hitman turned to face Douglas once more. His eyes were full of fire. "And I'll kill The Cosmic Cutie, too. I bet my life on it." He went to his knee and bowed his head dramatically. "You have my sword."

Douglas sighed and glanced around to make sure nobody was staring. "Yes, yes, and you 'ave my axe and my bow. Now get to it!"

They went their separate ways.

2

Douglas Adams ambled from shop to shop, feeling on top of the world now that his dreams had finally been set into motion. He'd just hired a man to kill his arch-nemesis, The Cosmic Cutie. They had a long, sordid history together. He'd hated that spherical green bastard for as long as he'd known him.

Ever since his first novel had been published, and his American publishers had claimed the American people would be too stupid—"too dull-minded, sluggish, imbecilic" were their exact words—to realize his brilliant plans to write a five-book trilogy of six novels, that they'd have to connect them somehow, visually, with an iconic character. So the publisher had cobbled together a dream team of marketers—truly the best and the brightest—to brainstorm who would be said iconic character. It would have to be easily identifiable but also simple, like the dumb Americans.

So they'd settled on a stupid-looking, grinning green circle with hands, and dubbed it "The Cosmic Cutie."

They tried to get him to write the bugger into his stories. He'd swiftly declined. Many, many times. And yet they still pressured him, still made The Cosmic Cutie the centre of the marketing campaign.

Not Marvin the Paranoid Android.

Not Zaphod Beeblebrox.

The Cosmic bleedin' Cutie.

That was bad enough. But then Douglas learned the bloody bastard actually existed. He wasn't even a marketer's wet dream—he was a living, breathing being.

Douglas ground his teeth as he remembered their first face-to-face meeting. He'd been married at the time. Not for long, though. Not after The Cosmic Cutie made advances on his woman and stole her from him. He'd caught Joleen going to the green side in the backseat of his Ford Prefect, The Cosmic Cutie shouting "How's my driving?" over and over while he railed her up the tailpipe. Douglas had divorced Joleen, sold the car, and cried every time he wrote about Ford Prefect the character.