And Another Thing...

by Eoin Colfer

  Zaphod crossed the peace line and, for the first time since entering the bar, he felt scores of eyes on him.

  Don’t fret, Zaphod, he told himself. What happened between you was ages ago. He’s probably forgotten all about it by now. I can barely remember it myself. Something to do with an interplanetary incident involving an umbrella with mythical powers and the secret formula for a prize-winning ice-cream. Zaphod frowned. Nope. The umbrella/ice-cream cock-up was a completely different god.

  Zaphod could see his one-time friend now, sitting at a round table with his back to the crowd. And what a back it was, broader than the average glacier with knots of muscle the size of boulders and huge ridges of tension in the shoulders. His red hair hung down in a shabby ponytail and the horns of his helmet were stained yellow by long nights spent in this foul air.

  Zaphod was just thinking he might open with a little joke, when the silence was filled with a sudden uproar of sharp, helium-squeaky voices.

  ‘What? That’s it?’

  ‘That’s the big move?’

  ‘How many years have we been doing this? You haven’t learned a thing.’

  Zaphod stepped quietly into the alcove, sneaking a peek under the crook of Thor’s elbow.

  The Thunder God was being harangued by a set of golden chessmen on the opposite side of the board. His own pieces were wooden and seemed cowed into silence.

  The little golden knight was very belligerent. ‘Come on, Thor. We’ve talked about this. Never leave your king exposed. That’s fundamental stuff. Bloody kindergarten.’

  ‘Watch it,’ Thor rumbled and the sound sent shivers running along Zaphod’s spine. That voice, like a sleepy tiger growling from the bottom of a well; no wonder the ladies couldn’t get enough.

  ‘Or what?’ challenged the knight. ‘We are the ancient chess set of the Aesir. You can’t kill us, we’re as immortal as you are, and a lot older, I might add.’

  ‘I can melt you cheeky blighters down and make myself a little piss pot. How would you like that?’

  The knight laughed. ‘You can threaten us all you want, thunder girl, it’s still checkmate.’

  Thor drummed the table with his fingers. ‘You chaps set yourselves up again. I have a little unfinished business to take care of.’ And in a fluid motion he spun round on his stool and sent the very large war hammer that had been resting across his thighs spinning towards Zaphod’s head.

  The hammer froze half an inch from Zaphod’s nose, then backed him into a corner like a hound herding a sheep.

  ‘Nice hammer action,’ squeaked Zaphod. ‘I knew you weren’t going to kill me.’

  Thor turned his back. ‘Get out of here, Zaphod, before I let Mjöllnir do what he’s wanted to do since that first accursed day we met.’

  Zaphod tried to move forward, but the hammer butted him back against the wall.

  ‘Come on, old friend. I’ve come a long way to talk to you.’

  Thor grunted. ‘Do you even know why you’re here? Do you even remember?’

  ‘Not precisely,’ said Zaphod. ‘But in fairness there’s a gigantic hammer hovering in front of my face, and you know how much people love my face, so I’m a little distracted.’

  Thor’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. ‘People used to love my face. I was adored until you came along.’

  ‘You can be adored again. That’s why I’m here, I remember now.’

  ‘Go away, Zaphod. Take your life and get out of mine. The only reason I’m not killing you is that you can’t fill the hole inside with bodies. That’s something that I learned in circle time.’ He clicked his fingers and Mjöllnir sprang into his fist. ‘Now leave, Beeblebrox. I need to call my anger management sponsor.’

  ‘You can talk to us, buddy,’ said a golden rook.

  Thor rubbed his shining head. ‘I know that. I know I will always have you guys.’

  ‘Should we kill the mortal?’ asked a pawn. ‘Rookie can crawl down his throat and choke him.’

  ‘No. He’s not worth it. But I do appreciate the offer.’

  Since Zaphod did not possess any better judgement, he didn’t even hesitate for the half-second it might have taken to ignore it. He climbed first on to a footrest, then a chair, then up the rungs of a wooden backrest until finally he was standing on Thor’s table.

  The God of Thunder sat hunched over his beer like someone was going to steal it. His eyes were downcast and his face was clumpy with emotion. There was a storm brewing. And in Thor’s case this was not just a figure of speech; there was an actual miniature thundercloud boiling above his head, lightning bolts poking their heads from the vapour like lizards’ tongues.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Zaphod, perching on an ashtray. ‘It could do with a few big screens. Maybe a jacuzzi. Sometimes I like bubbles with my beer.’

  Thor picked up his own beer and slammed it on the table so the head foamed over the rim.

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ he said. ‘Bubbles and beer.’

  Zaphod took this suggestion, as he did most suggestions, at face value and quickly stripped down to his underwear, remembering just in time to pop out the batteries before vaulting into the tankard. He submerged himself to the larynx lump and spent several moments executing a three-armed backstroke while spouting amber spumes.

  ‘I like this place,’ bubbled Zaphod. ‘It has nice… what do you call it?’

  ‘Toilets?’

  ‘No. The other thing.’

  ‘Ambience?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the one.’

  Thor growled and the cloud over his head churned with electricity. ‘This is the Well of Urd, Zaphod. Where the demi-gods and bottom feeders hang out. I come here so no one will bother me.’

  ‘Bottom feeders!’ said a golden bishop at Zaphod’s eye level. ‘That’s a bit strong. You want to keep your temper in check, mate.’

  Zaphod’s attention was diverted by the flash of dozens of tanned, toned legs and hundreds of white teeth.

  ‘Look, I do believe that those athletic-looking ladies are waving at us.’

  Thor peered surreptitiously across the bar room through his fingers. A group of statuesque Valkyrie were washing blood off their ZugaNugget chest plates in slow motion with barrels of water.

  ‘Forget it, Zaphod. They’re out of your reach.’

  Zaphod clambered from the tankard. ‘Out of my reach? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about practicalities. Look at those girls. You couldn’t reach past their shin plates with a trampoline. Come to think of it, they’re out of my reach too.’

  Zaphod shook himself like a hound. ‘Come on! This is not the Thunder God that I know. I remember when my friend Thor disappeared for a weekend with a certain Miss Eccentrica Gallumbits and she ended up paying him.’

  ‘Leave it, Zaphod.’

  Zaphod quick-stepped into his trousers. ‘This is just what you need, old pal. Me and you on a bender with a few beautiful ladies. I’m going over there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I may be tiny, but I’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi.’

  ‘A certain what?’

  ‘I don’t know what,’ admitted Zaphod. ‘But that’s never stopped me before.’

  Zaphod had a glint in his eyes that Thor knew well.

  Guide Note: This glint was nothing to do with baby gloonts. Rather, it was a look of reckless romanticism which is similar to the one often found in the eyes of the Narcissifish of Flargathon, who are prepared to inflate themselves far beyond the elastic tolerance of their scales in pursuit of a mate. The male Narcissifish will cause himself to spectacularly explode if that is what it takes to impress the female. This is indeed an impressive feat and, in fairness to the female, she will appreciate the sacrifice and often be put out for several days before donning her best pearl necklace and heading back down to the reef.

  Related Reading:

  Love Will Tear Me Apart by Scaly Finnster (RIP)

  ‘Get back here, Zaphod. I’m warning you!’


  Zaphod strode across the table, skirting a spittoon. ‘This is what you need, Thor. You’ll thank me later.’ He turned his hi-beams on the Valkyrie. ‘Hello, ladies. You may not know me yet, but you’re gonna miss me tomorrow.’

  The Valkyrie’s puzzled semi-smiles were distorted suddenly by a curved wall of glass. Zaphod thought for a moment that a sudden rush of Valkyrie lust had superheated the air, but then realized that Thor had trapped him underneath a shot glass, which brought home quite forcefully just how tiny he was in this world. In fact, he seemed to be whatever size Thor felt like making him. Zaphod was sure he would not have fitted under the glass mere moments ago.

  ‘Come on, Thor,’ he cried, his voice bouncing back on him.

  Strange, thought Zaphod. The acoustics in here make me sound whiny.

  ‘You’re supposed to be my wingman,’ he went on. ‘We’re a team. Remember those anti-grav dancers in Han Dold City?’

  Thor dragged the glass towards him, skirting dangerously close to a complaining rook, and Zaphod was forced to dance along the table just to keep up.

  ‘I’ve never been to Han Dold.’

  ‘Really? I could’ve sworn… Must have been some other Asgardian. I’m flashing on a red beard. Are you sure it wasn’t you?’

  ‘I’m sure, Zaphod. I’m a god – we don’t forget stuff, which is part of the problem.’

  Thor lifted the glass and, as it went up, Zaphod fancied he felt himself grow until he felt more like Thor’s equal and less like his pet.

  ‘Problem? What problem?’

  Thor thumped the table, sending beer slopping across the planks.

  ‘What problem? What zarking problem, Zaphod? Are you serious? Are you actually asking me that?’

  Zaphod frowned. ‘That was a lot of questions. What problem… What zarking problem… What was the third one again?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no point,’ said Thor, swallowing enough beer to drown a herd of mammaloids. ‘Zaphod Beeblebrox couldn’t give two buffa-biscuits about anyone but himself.’

  This notion genuinely shocked Zaphod, as he believed that the act of sharing his personality with certain people was an act of love in itself.

  ‘That is a terrible thing to say. I was your closest friend for years.’

  ‘Until you persuaded me to post that video on the Sub-Etha,’ said Thor bitterly. Over his head the robust little thundercloud turned flaccid, releasing a light drizzle. It didn’t take a brainologist to work out the symbolism.

  Zaphod found that he was now only a head shorter than the god. He plonked himself on a neighbouring stool, and thought he might offer a little joke to lighten the mood.

  ‘I can never pass a nice stool,’ he said, drumming the table. Boom boom.

  Thor patted Mjöllnir’s head. ‘One more, Zaphod. One more.’

  ‘Can’t we forget that video? It’s in the past and let me tell you something about the past. That’s where it is, in the past. Remember that sentence about the past? That’s in the past already. I can barely recall it, except that it contained the phrase the past. The past is made up of memories, which are made up of dead stuff that can’t hurt you, like, say, a pointy stick could. Atoms and such. Quarks too, I shouldn’t wonder. But wasted ones, all lying there doing nothing to anyone.’

  ‘Do you have a point, Zaphod? Or is that in the past too?’

  Zaphod draped an arm around Thor’s massive shoulders. ‘My point is that maybe I made a bad call with the video at the time, but ticket sales were down and we needed something to get your profile back on to the A list. The candid video thing was all the rage and, in fairness, some people did like it.’

  ‘Some people?’ growled Thor. ‘Like that cult on the party ship? Those weirdos certainly lapped it up. Unfortunately, the rest of the Galaxy, the normal mortals, didn’t fancy the idea of their god trussed up like a backstreet deviant.’

  Zaphod shrugged. ‘There was some backlash, I admit it.’

  Thor massaged his temples. ‘Backlash… Back… I know how shallow you are, Zaphod, but surely even you must have noticed the fallout. My dad blew up that entire planet where we filmed. My beautiful temples were all torn down. I went from number four favourite deity to number sixty-eight, behind Skaoi. Skaoi! The god of zarking snowshoes.’

  ‘Snowshoes are important. Come on, old friend, can’t you blot the whole thing from your mind? I have.’

  Thor dragged eight fingers through his beard. ‘But that costume, Zaph? And those Pom Pom Squids.’

  Zaph, thought Zaphod. I have him.

  ‘Miscalculations, perhaps.’

  ‘And the things I said,’ said Thor, shuddering.

  ‘You were acting. Playing a role.’

  ‘Odin shat a kitten. Actually crapped out a live tiger cub. My own mother can’t look at me. She told Loki that all she can see is that latex bustier.’

  ‘It was art – not everybody gets art.’

  ‘Do you know how many hits that clip has had? It’s been the number-one video on the entire Sub-Etha for the past five years.’

  ‘You said it. The past five years. That video is in the past. Next year there’s going to be a new Thor video, one that puts you right back in the game, where you need to be.’

  ‘Oh really,’ said Thor glumly. ‘What have you got planned for an encore? Should I break out the Bounce-O-Jelly?’

  Zaphod leaned in close. ‘Oh no, my friend. No set-ups. This is the real thing. An old-school face-off. I have found the immortal who has your stolen ship and he’s challenged you to a showdown.’

  Over Thor’s head the thundercloud spewed forth a cluster of vibrant lightning bolts.

  ‘Go on, Zaph,’ said the god. ‘I’m listening.’

  Hillman Hunter

  Hillman Hunter was more than just a stereotypical Irishman, he was a stereotype Paddy from a bygone era, as imagined by an ex-patriot Celt with emerald-tinted spectacles and a head full of whiskey and nostalgia. Atop Hillman’s head sat a nest of curly red hair, his face was scattershot with brass penny freckles, his bow-legged walk suggested a youth spent in the saddle of a thoroughbred, and a gold crucifix nestled in the V of his open collar. With regards to diddle-ee-aye Irishness, Hillman Hunter was the whole bag of potatoes. When Hillman walked into a room, it took real effort not to greet him with a hearty begorrah, thank God for the soft day and enquire after the health of U2. Even his voice conformed to expectations, and why wouldn’t it, since Hillman had based his accent on that of Barry Fitzgerald, a twentieth-century Irish actor who was old when television was young. The rest of the hackneyed package was equally studied. Hillman had been dying his hair since it turned grey at age eighteen. He’d also become quite the wielder of curling tongs and his fair complexion was freckled by long hours under the sun bed.

  And the motive for all this subterfuge? Simple. Something his Nano had told him a long time ago.

  ‘People buy comfort,’ she had said, slitting a pig’s throat with a corn sickle. ‘If you make them comfortable, then they will buy whatever you are selling.’

  The combination of wisdom and arterial blood spray was irresistible and Hillman never forgot his grandmother’s lesson.

  Make people comfortable then sell them whatever you like.

  So the young Hillman transformed himself into the beloved actor and set about selling expensive stuff to rich folk. He hawked cars and yachts, before graduating to horses and overseas property. He was a natural. Gifted. People loved his oldy-worldy spiel and were charmed by his gifts of miniature diamond-encrusted shillelaghs. By the age of forty, Hillman was a millionaire on commission alone. By fifty, he was halfway to being a billionaire and was commuting between residences in a Jaguar and walking around his estate with the help of two bio-hybrid hips that were better than the old ones and would call the manufacturer themselves if they broke.

  There was more money to be had, Hillman realized, if a sharp person could figure a way to round up all the rich folk in one place and keep them shelling out for stuff on a daily
basis. But how to achieve this? The answer came to him in a flash of TV news headlines. Times were hard and the short-staffed Sisters of Occasional Succour were being forced to auction off one of the church’s properties; specifically, the island of Innisfree.

  Hillman got so excited that his left hip put in a call to Japan.

  Innisfree. The island inspiration for Nano’s all-time favourite movie: The Quiet Man. The celluloid home of his own personality template. Fate was dropping him a wink, destiny was slipping him a brown bag, providence was beating him over the head with the hint hammer.

  Hillman outbid a shadow corporation, which could have been traced back to a leisure group on Barnard’s Star by anyone with Sub-Etha capabilities, and purchased the island, complete with permission for a retreat that the nuns had been planning to build for weekend sherry parties.

  And on that first misty morning, as he putted across the Sligo’s Lough Gill on an outboard-powered skiff, Hillman Hunter knew that he had found his crock of gold.

  ‘Bejaysus,’ he’d sworn softly and in character. ‘’Tis the promised land.’

  Instead of a retreat, Hillman built Ireland’s most luxurious spa residence and, to ensure that he attracted only the richest patrons, he’d invented a religion and thrown that into the brochure too.

  Guide Note: Though Hillman Hunter had no way of knowing at the time, Who’s What Where magazine had twinned him with Kar Paltonnle from Esflovian, another smooth talker who had managed to persuade several gated communities that it was simple logic that they would be chosen to survive when Armageddon arrived. His career was kick-started by extraordinary good fortune when Armageddon actually did visit Esflovian in the form of aggravated nuclear encounter therapy. Mr Paltonnle earned quite a few piles of currency as cult leader for hire, but he made his real fortune in software when he patented a program called God Guru, which allowed any would-be me-vangelist to type in a few facts about the community he intended to provide spiritual guidance for and the computer would think about it for a minute or two then spit out an appropriate catechism, complete with the desired number of commandments, justification for any prejudices and a divine hierarchy. The deluxe package gave the buyer the option of registering himself as an official god using a legal loophole to bypass the usual three-miracle requirement.