It seems that everytime I read the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, I’m struck with the notion of writing again. Paired with my nostalgic resurrection of Dongo Weener, this has resulted in the actual output of words stringed together to form sentences, which in turn were concatenated to form paragraphs. I’m sure that if I keep this up I’ll end up with something like a narrative, but I’m not making any promises.
Here!, see for yourself:
Explosions. Everone loves those things to bits, barring the things that get blown to bits in the making thereof, but they didn’t really have a say in anything to start with, so we won’t dwell on that particular aspect. Just look at any entertainvid and you’ll see an abundance of things getting blown up in spectacular ways, with more debris flying around than you can embed in your torso. Flash!, boom!, bang! Everyone gets all excited and point at the lovely devastation all around.
Nearly everyone, anyway; the Pascifists of Serenita XI don’t like explosions, but their idea of action involves spilling their coffee, which hardly makes for riveting viewing.
As with all things in the Universe, however, sometimes you get a species that just decide to take things that one little step too far. For example, humans managed to take the ability to post images of cats on the Internet to a level where no other intelligent life deigned to stoop to. Returning to the explosive subject at hand, we introduce the Garflaxians of Rghut IV.
A Garflaxian isn’t the kind of alien you’d want to bring home to meet your parents, considering that their idea of a formal introduction is a salvo of guided missiles armed with gigaton nuclear warheads. To the abject misery of the rest of the Universe, they’d finally grown tired of reducing their solar system to a handful of craters posing as planets, and had set their sights (literally and figuratively) on the rest of space.
And so, this is where our story begins.
I think it shows promise, and I intend on annoying my Twitter followers with choice snippets at irregular intervals. Poor bastards.