Chapter 10: "June Bugs, and other ufo's"
If it's not bitter and not sweet, not hot and not cold, not tangy and not bland, then this must be space.
It dawned on Rex that he had located Mona, and could collect the rest of his fee from Larry. The only problem was that Mona was afloat in space in a thousand disconnected pieces, as of course was Rex himself. Lawrence was now playing a forgettable rendition of "Send In The Clones" on accordian as the fleet of space appendages floated dreamily in the undisturbed darkness.
Yes, they could all taste it. RAMona's lament was that it didn't taste like cigars OR oysters: in fact, she lamented that it didn't taste like anything. Her brain, floating just over there, was having a hell of a time computing the fact that this taste didn't have any taste. Meg's brain was busy contemplating possible patent applications for the taste of no taste that tickled her pink tongue, back there, somewhere to the left of Rex's elbow. Rex's little bundle of brain was wondering if this taste had anything to do with the taste of success, which he'd heard so much about, but never personally had the good pleasure to experience. He could verify, however, that it wasn't the taste of defeat: that taste he knew all too well, indeed.
The black light neon strobe of creation hovered above it all. The neo sub-atomic conjurer of molecules mingling waited patiently in the wings. The divinley impossible breezes of deep space held their collective breath. Even God held back a gargantuan fart that had in it the possibility of "Big Bang 2: before the begining, again" (yes, friends, we are the result of a spicey diet).
Time did not stand still, it sat down.
"Welcome to nowhere; you're table is right over there."
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Chapter 11: "Odder Than July" - Pragmatic Donuts
No, this certainly wasn't the "resturaunt at the end of the universe".* This was more like the Winchell's at the edge of time; a slightly greasy place, inhabited with tired loners and fidgity sugar freaks. Of course, this close to the edge of time, even the simple act of gulping bad coffee (no "skinny double lattes with sprinkles" in this neck of the cosmos),smoking stale cigarettes and gumming sickeningly sweet donuts took on a different look entirely, even to a disheveled, disembodied, disconnected bunch of involuntary space cadets. To Rex's eye, everything seemed to be moving at an agonizingly sloooooowwwwwww pace, and indeed it was. Nothing was relative here - all was absolute, and it was absolutly absurd to each and every one of our little crew.Their Various body parts floated in a Dali ballet utterly ignored by the motley patrons gathered there-in. Only teeny-weeny litttle Larry had a clue as to the true nature of this place and these people, as he had floated into the ear of one of the donut munchers and found his way into the brain via a little trap door in the labyrinth. It was pretty much as Larry had guessed: these were the brains, bodies and boredoms of the lower- middle class working gods. The gods who did the grunt work ; thems what kept the wheels 'n gears of the great cosmic whirlygig greased and spinning, not entirely without friction, but spinning never-the-less. They were trying to get themselves awake enough with extreme doses of caffeine, sugar and nicotine to do the job. A BIG job today: THE BIG JOB! Time had been speeding up, outside the donut shop, in a furious fashion. The number 27 universe was galloping to a grande finale, fueled on the various elixers that humankind had discovered to keep them awake, "with it", and ahead of "the game",as though this one little pea in this one little universe was obliged to get somewhere faster than any other pea in any other universe. You'd have to admire their frantic spunk if it weren't for the absolute folly of it all. Oh well, it was entertaining, and the Bigods were nothing if not fools for cheap entertainment. They loved games; the more meaningless, the better.
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(c)'97 inevitability press
*DOUGLAS ADAMS "The Resturaunt At The End Of The Universe"