Chapter Text
Arthur Dent awoke for the first time in his new house. Unlike the London flat he’d been renting – which was cosy in the same way a knitted cover over a teapot trapped heat, damp, and various microbes – it was a comfortably spacious brick house, and even had a garden at the back. The garden was somewhat overgrown, the estate agent explained to Arthur, due to the elderly previous owner’s physical incapacity, but the rest of the house was well maintained. All in all, it was a deal too good to pass on.
After washing in the bathroom and putting on his dressing gown, he walked to the kitchen, filled and plugged in the kettle, and set two slices of bread in the toaster. He brought out a knife, plate, and jar of jam in the meantime.
A while later, a sudden muffled thump came from the direction of the garden. Arthur paused warming a mug with the freshly boiled water, but no further sound followed. Probably nothing urgent, he thought, and proceeded to steep a teabag and retrieve the toast.
Just as he set down his breakfast on the dining table, he heard a knock on the front door. Many more knocks followed, in a rhythm so offensive Arthur immediately understood the matter was both urgent and unpleasant. Resigned, he answered the door.
Beady eyes stared him down from either side of a pig’s snout, on what may have been a pig’s head, if a toddler sculpted it out of clay the colour of green mould, then dropped it on its face. This bold artistic debut sat on the shoulders of a towering, corpulent body dressed for a military parade at least two centuries ago.
Arthur opened his mouth to venture a question, but no words volunteered for the mission.
“Arthur Dent,” supplied the visitor, in a choked, wet voice.
“…yes?”
“You are due to serve the terms of your contract.”
“What contract?”
“The tenancy agreement with the House of Vogon, beginning after your first overnight stay on the property.”
“But I own this house.”
From the creature’s nostrils rushed an exhale deep enough to blow strands of Arthur’s hair down onto his forehead. “I’m just a messenger. Take it up with my boss after the salon if you have a problem. It’s right there carved in stone at the gate.”
Arthur brushed back his hair. “What gate?”
“The main gate. Next to ‘we shall not be held liable for any harm, loss, injury, or death on these premises’.”
Arthur closed his eyes. He opened them. The messenger was still in front of him. “There is no gate.”
“You’re inside the gate, so it applies to you, and I’m taking you to serve the contract.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Listen to poetry.”
Arthur pinched the back of his hand. He did not wake up. Such a realistic dream, he thought.
“I’m going to have breakfast,” he said, and tried to close the door, but a single green hand effortlessly pushed it back open. Alarm quickly spread across Arthur’s nerves.
"Stop right there!” came a shout from outside.
The messenger blocked much of Arthur’s view, but it was a familiar voice. “Ford?”
Ford Prefect ground to a halt by the side of the doorway. He looked even more wild-eyed than usual. He shoved his way between the messenger and Arthur, and Arthur stepped back.
“I have a competing claim on him,” Ford said.
“Under whose authority?” asked the messenger.
“My own.”
“Unless you represent a royal house, you'll need to make an appointment to file an appeal,” the messenger droned. “Expect to hear back about compensation options within 10 to 15 working days."
“I must warn you this man here has partaken in many, many libations under my influence.”
“Were those Earth-made libations served by humans?”
“And what if they were?”
“They don't count.”
“Ha, classic!” Ford smiled. “You do know your law.”
The messenger's jowls rearranged themselves around a tight smile in return. “We all learnt that on the first day of training.”
“There's no fooling you! You'll go far, kid! Unfortunately, it looks like all we can do now is–” Ford hooked his elbow around Arthur's and sprinted across the house to the kitchen, dragging Arthur with him out the back door and into the garden.
Ford pointed at a circle of small white mushrooms in the grass in front of them. “On 'three', we jump.”
Arthur gawked in disbelief. “What?”
“One,” Ford began, sternly. “Two.” The messenger's heavy footsteps on the indoor floorboards drew near. “Three!”
They jumped into the fairy circle, vanishing as soon as they hit the ground.
With a stumble, they landed in the middle of a room with a dark red carpet. Flowery wallpaper and gold-accented bas-reliefs adorned the walls.
On armchairs scattered across the room slouched people wearing powdered wigs and clothes of lace and brocade. Heads lolling, they paid the two intruders no notice, except for the least glassy-eyed specimen, an off-brand Marie Antoinette who still had the wherewithal to groan a bemused “Urrrgh?”
“Where...?” Arthur gasped.
Ford scanned the perimeter. “This way, I think?”
“Urrrgh,” Marie concurred.
Arthur had no time to catch his breath. Ford pulled him through an archway and down a corridor. Its walls were lined with marble pilasters and ornately framed mirrors that reflected a number of contradictory and enlightening images – which, in their haste, they failed to appreciate. As they ran, the sweet smell of baked goods wafted towards them. Reaching a half-open door that seemed to be its source, they barged in.
This room housed a wood-fired oven and was filled with pots, pans, and sacks of produce around a low wooden table. It was also populated by some hairy creatures not more than a few feet tall, sporting aprons and chef's toques. They regarded Arthur and Ford with suspicion.
“Just passing through!” Ford said, rushing Arthur out of the kitchen door.
They made a mad dash down a slope, along a dirt path that ended in a field. A group of grazing horses pricked their ears at their approach. Ford stopped in front of them. He rummaged in his ever-present satchel and pulled out an apple.
“Genuine Earth apple,” he declared. “Not a potato. For you to get us safely out of Vogon territory as fast as you can.”
The horses snorted. One of them sniffed the apple.
“And,” Ford went on, waving a few sugar cubes, “for you to jump all their toll gates.”
“They're horses!” said Arthur. “Why are you talking to them?”
“I'm on probation,” said the dappled grey horse who sniffed the apple. “Can't risk my licence.”
The chestnut-coated one beside it flared her upper lip. “But I can!” it said.
“Why are the horses talking back!” Arthur blurted out.
“No time for questions, let's move!” said Ford. The chestnut horse followed him out to the main road nearby. Succumbing to peer pressure, Arthur went along.
In the span of a blink, riding gear and a saddlebag materialised on the horse. Ford dropped his payment into the bag and clambered into the saddle.
“There's room behind,” said the horse.
“I've never ridden a horse in my life,” said Arthur nervously.
“Then do it now, or else the Vogons will catch up, and you never will!” Ford said, exasperated.
Helpfully, the horse floated him off the ground and onto her back before she took off down the road, at a steady elevation of a few inches above the road’s surface.
“Ford, did you just steal a horse?”
“Of course not, I'm an independent contractor,” their steed replied.
“What she said.”