“That’s it exactly. That was enough to attract all the trendies who were desperate to find a place with atmosphere. They pushed out all the regulars.”
“Well, could I change it?” Offered Ford, apologetically.
“Nah, I hate these people and their trendy talk, but they don’t argue about paying, even though I’ve marked the prices up to silly levels. So you’d best leave it.”
Ford tried to listen to some of the conversations, but there weren’t any. There were plenty of opinions being offered about generally misunderstood subjects that bored everyone to tears, but no actual conversations. Ford decided to leave and find where all the former regulars were hanging out. At least he felt threatened and therefore relaxed in their company. As he left, he butted into one opinion with ‘Ah, but you haven’t considered the Vogons, have you?’, which enabled one rich young trendy to launch into his very personalised views on Vogon sociology.
Ford eventually found a suitably seedy bar, which is where we find him.
“But if you buy me a drink you can go around saying ‘Do you know who I bought a drink for the other night? Ford Prefect, that’s who. I won’t mind, I won’t even charge you repeat fees for my name.” It didn’t work. His hapless victim had yelled something quite obscene at a slab of a creature in the hope that the slab would ask him to step outside and repeat it. The slab obliged and Ford’s victim changed hands.
Ford’s attention switched to the large TV screen viewer on the wall. Between the alcohol stains, a newsreader droned on about Vogon riots. Apparently, three squadrons of flying police had descended on the riots, while media specialists debated the causes of the riots at great length. All the old reasons were dusted off and injected with topical incidents to improve credibility. No one asked the Vogons, who could have easily explained that it just seemed like a good idea at the time. The newsreader handed over to the social editor who Ford recognised as one of the greatest partygoers of all time. That was enough to make Ford listen. What he heard would have made a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster reach for something to steady itself.
“And of course, all the leading lights of the social galaxy are preparing themselves for possibly the greatest bash since Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon Six, had her coming out, in and many other permutations party. Yes, the invites have been printed for Zaphod Beeblebrox’s wedding….”
Ford tried to spin around on his barstool in an attempt to catch up with his head. He then made his mind up to get wrecked in celebration. Zaphod would have wanted it that way. He felt as though he wanted company during this hour of sorrow, so he decided he would not get wrecked and look for the girl. He would get totally sobered and look for the girl. He walked outside, over his former hapless victim and down the now peaceful street. This was because the police wars that had ruined the area had ceased, or, at least, a truce had been called. It needed the combined efforts of the fighting fractions to impose on the spot fines on the rich young trendies as they staggered into their bourge-mobiles to race home.
Ford peered into every doorway and saw plenty of interesting things, but not what he wanted. Just as he decided to get so wrecked he wouldn’t care which girl he found, he heard a familiar voice.
“Been paid for those two words yet?” It was backed up by the devastatingly shy but self-confident smile that had his emotions screaming for mercy.
“I’ve been looking for you,” was all Ford could manage.
“I’ve been looking for you, too!” She exclaimed. “I owe you my deepest thanks apparently. Since you put in your entry about the bar, this place has been inundated with rich people. I’ve made enough to give it all up for something more worthwhile.” She was hitting all the right notes with Ford.
“Good, how do you fancy going to the society wedding of the Omp?”
“Sounds good to me. We’d better introduce ourselves then. My name is Bolo”.