- Age: 3 years, 10 months
- Species: Replicant
- Weapons: Artificially heightened strength and speed, Genius-level intelligence
- Special Attack: The Body Horror Special
- Excels in combat
- Singleminded in his goals
- 4 year limited lifespan
- Emotional immaturity
- Age: Unknown (multiple reincarnations)
- Species: Various
- Weapons: A thirst for revenge
- Special Attack: Being in the wrong place at the wrong time
- Continual reincarnation into random new life forms. Very random.
- A truly unenviable streak of bad luck
- Can't stop getting killed by Arthur Dent
By Tina Connolly
The blue-eyed man stands in the rain. He holds a white dove by the tailfeathers.
Dramatic music plays over the loudspeakers as the announcer calls the fight.
“Roooooooy Batty versus. . . Arrrrrrrrrthur Dent!”
The man waits. Drops form on his bleached hair, drip wetly from his rain-slick skin.
The dove poops.
It is washed away like tears in the rain.
A mediocre-sized white robot with an enormous round head waddles into the arena.
The man’s blue eyes light with fire. At last! He releases the dove into the arena. It dives for cover somewhere in the stands.
“Arthur Dent,” intones the blue-eyed man. “You have finally come to face me.” He leaps twenty feet in the air, lands gracefully next to the robot. Rain trails dramatically from his hands as he declaims. “I have seen things — ” he begins, but the robot interrupts him in a voice that says he is far too depressed to care about what the blue-eyed man has seen, not even if it is something most humans would find exciting, like attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
The robot looks mournfully at the blue-eyed man. “Wretched, isn’t it?” he says in a voice of utter hopelessness. “Doesn’t even have the courage to enter the arena. He has completely buggered off. Leaving this pathetic specimen in his place.”
“Things you wouldn’t believe — ” continues the blue-eyed man intensely, before realizing that he has the wrong audience for his dramatic speech. “Then who?”
The robot waves a sad arm at the figure of a skinny chicken, limping into the arena.
“Roooooooy Batty versus. . . Agrajag!?!” the announcer shouts in a mixture of excitement and confusion.
The audience cheers half-heartedly. It is very wet, after all.
The blue-eyed man seizes the chicken by its tailfeathers and speaks intensely to its beak. “I have seen the Ice Crystal Pyramids of Sastantua. I have wrestled with 42 Algolian Suntigers in the Marshes of Fallia.”
The chicken squawks in a way that means that it disbelieves this statement, as Algolian Suntigers are clearly not found in Algolia, and not in any Fallian marshes. Then it pecks the blue-eyed man’s hand. This makes the blue-eyed man’s hand bleed, which seems odd until you know that the chicken had a rather pointy nail in its beak.
The blue-eyed man grimaces, the cords on his neck standing out like C-beams near a Tannhäuser gate. He flings the chicken out across the stands. Sometime later it lands with a wet death-thump that would be louder except for the incessant drumming of the rain and the dramatic violins on the loudspeaker.
The blue-eyed man raises his fists in the air. He does not bother to remove the nail. Blood pours dramatically down one naked, well-muscled arm. “I have spoken to the brilliance of the Multicorticoid Perspicutron Titan Muller! I have been sneezed out of the nose of the Great Green Arkleseizure!”
In the audience, fingers point at the sky above.
A large potted ficus is falling through the rain, down into the arena.
Though ficuses usually do not talk, in this case it is very clearly heard to mutter, “Not again,” as it crashes against the dirt-packed floor of the arena, breaking its pot into a million pieces, cracking its trunk in half.
A sharp section of branch flies off of the ficus, pierces the bare ribcage of the blue-eyed man.
He ignores it.
The nailed, branched man kneels, cradles the leaves in his arms. “I have heard the sounds of Vogon poetry being read into my ear at 3am by an impatient Vogon lover. I have fed several grandmothers to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal. I have–”
A bright golden poison dart frog hops into the arena. “Every time,” croaks the frog, grumpily.
The man squishes the frog under his bare foot as he crosses stage left to declaim to the stands. “I have met the Lajestic Vantrashell of Lob!” His foot begins to swell and turn pink. It in no way affects his ability to list things he’s seen.
A giant squid humps itself along the packed dirt. “In every life I get another chance,” it vibrates in great annoyance as it wraps several tentacles around the man’s neck. “And then?”
The blue-eyed man knots the squid into a spanish bowline, dropkicks him out of the arena.
The poison has worked its way up to his hips. The man sinks to his knees as a new creature slithers in. The branch digs a little further into his dramatically naked chest.
“Always Arthur Dent,” shrieks the hammerhead slug (subtitle: world’s largest flatworm). The slug peers closer at the potentially finally-dying man. “You aren’t Arthur Dent, are you?”
“I have seen,” whispers the man. “So many things. . .” Surprisingly, he still has enough energy to ball up the slug like a wad of soggy kleenex and death-splat him against one of the arena walls.
The man’s blue eyes glitter in the rain. Violins sob.
An enormous, twenty-foot tall lion bounds into the arena. “Of course not,” it growls at the man. “You were supposed to fight Arthur Dent. And he has run off, causing me to get drafted into this ridiculous cage match. Which means he is responsible for my death. Again.”
“The night sky over the planet Krikkit. . .”
“Yes,” snaps the lion. “And I have seen a million Arthur Dents kill me in a million different lifetimes. And you don’t see me going on about it, do you?”
One gulp, and the monologuing man is in its jaws.
From the lion’s mouth, the defiant words trickle back: “I have seen Reg Nullify and the Cataclysmic Combo! I have been to the Maximegalon Museum of Diseased Imaginings!”
A crunch, a slurp, and the blue-eyed man is no more.
The lion spits out the ficus branch. Then a nail.
The dove flies forth from the arena, white wings against the black night.
The lion peers around the stadium, then speaks in the cultured voice of a Brantisvogan Civil Service politely insisting that you fill out your change of address forms in triplicate. “Do any of you know which way Arthur Dent went? I have a bone to pick with him. . . .”