Aboard the Vogon ship,
Ford Prefect
hands out towels
to Arthur Dent
and Kvasir the Wise.
“I cannot use towels,”
says Kvasir.
“For I am made of spit.”
“Er . . . what?”
says Arthur.
Ford retrieves
Kvasir’s towel.
“Space travel,”
he warns the others,
“is unpleasantly like being drunk.”
“Like being
murdered
by dwarves,
having your bodily fluids
drained
into a cask,
honeyed
into a fine mead,
poured
into mugs,
passed around and
consumed?
That kind of being drunk?”
asks Kvasir.
Ford ponders.
“Yes.”
“I am comfortable with that.”
“Er . . . what?”
says Arthur
as the universe
turns inside-out.
Greg R. Fishbone
June 2020