Hehehe. . . I did this as an assignment for my stupid entry-level computer class. I'm not sure exactly what he was thinking, but our teacher decided to assign an in-class exercise on clustering. The word "computers" went in the central cluster, and we were supposed to branch out from there, stream of consciousness like. When we'd clustered enough, we were supposed to write a story around it. This is what I came up with* (if you want to see the thought process behind it, cliquez ici, s'il vous plait). It's very bizarre, and not a real story as such, but I had fun with it.

The Afterlife Is on Magrathea:
An Exercise in Futility? No, Just in Clustering
By Candice "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" Cullitan
(Profoundest apologies to Stephen Sondheim, the Douglas Adams estate, Tori Amos, the Astrid
Lindgren estate, and whichever members of Monty Python came up with the Knights of Ni. And
maybe to a few other unwitting contributors, but not the good people at Lipton. So there.)

"Down by the sea," she warbled. "Mister T., I just love this new homicidal computer, don't you? So much more efficient than your chopper."

"Not that it really matters, since we are both dead. Why is the sea magenta?"

"Oh, we're on Magrathea. In the catalogue. Custom-made planets, you know."

I think it would be beneficial to note at this point that I, the narrator, have no clue as to why Sweeney Todd and Nellie Lovett are on Magrathea. Stephen Sondheim plus sci-fi comedy? It could work . . .

"Ahem." Mrs. Lovett turned to the invisible narrator with a frosty glint in her eye. "As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted, oughtn't you to work on your speech, luv?"

"The purple one?"

"Erm, yes."

"It's taken an incredibly odd turn. This being dead rather gets to you after a while, I think." He hadn't come up with any other way to explain the bit about the manticore.

"Let's hear it."

"Oh, all right . . . 'In the springtime of his voodoo he did bring forth a manticore, and behold! It was good. Albeit purple. And then it did turn red, and it was surprising. After turning a few other choice colours, such as chartreuse, it promptly disappeared, causing a witch to proclaim that it had always been imaginary. Then he did bring forth a griffin, which an angry mob with torches and pitchforks did kill, thereby rendering it extinct. Then there came into being an angry swarm of bees, which did righteously sting the mob, thereby rendering it in great pain indeed. Which is why, my fellow Magratheans, you ought to vote for me to become your president. Thank you.'"

And behold, Nellie Lovett was verily confused. "That's all very nice, luv, but what does it accomplish? What does it mean?"

"Erm. It persuades each and every soul on the planet of my crackheadedness? Which would lead them to vote for me?"

"Ah yes. Where the sea is magenta there's no accounting for taste, is there, luv? When are you presenting this speech?"

"May 14th."

"Bastille Day? How could you? Why, you'll interrupt the festivities."

"No no no, it's part of the festivities, you see. One big jolly joke. And Bastille Day is in July anyway."

"No, May. They rescheduled it. Better weather, you see."

And yea, Sweeney did look verily bewildered, and not a little distressed. "But my Bastille Day webpage!" He cried. "It's wrong!"

"Now, now, don't cry, luv. It's a webpage. No one expects it to be accurate."

"But, but--they'll take away my amazing Technicolor dreamcoat! I don't want them to do that!"

When they started handing out A.L. Webber musicals as awards for informative webpages, I have no idea. Don't ask me, I just work here.

Mrs. Lovett glared at the self-excusing voice. "Then work somewhere else, missy. No one asked you to narrate us."

Behold, the lion is blue.

Sweeney sobbed. "And my speech! Oh my lovely, lovely speech! You're making fun of it, aren't you!"

No, no, no, it just came into my head. Random-like. Your speech is fine. Magnificent. Perhaps work on the transition between the bees and the bit about voting for you, but otherwise, it's marvelous.

"Would you shut up?" screeched Mrs. Lovett. "If you must narrate, narrate. But don't start conversing with us, for pity's sake."

All right, all right. Just adding some spice to my job.

"Well, you can add it by using your stupid fun phrases. Arctic plantains, or whatever."

Bananas.

"Arctic bananas. Fine."

Arctic bananas, Batman! Sweeney Todd is turning a fantastic shade of green! I'm not sure it altogether suits him, but it goes with the shrubbery quite well! Behold! There rides a Knight of Ni! And it does "Ni!" prodigiously, yea, verily!

"Ni! Ni! Ni! Ni! N-"

"Oh, put a sock in it," said Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett, and I did add my voice to theirs.

"Sorry, just doing my job," mumbled the knight. "Ni!"

"Well, do it somewhere else." And I did most greatly agree.

"Oh all right." And he did ride off into the frabjous sunset, reeking of myrtle and thyme.

Galloping geoducks! The spink does bounce up and down, yammering to close the story! But gambling gastropods, spinky, the story's not half finished! End anyway? Oh, I suppose.

And behold, the screen did fade to black, and the words "The End" did appear. A voice was heard. It was mine.

"No brains were seriously hurt in the production of this story."

And behold, a silence descended. It was nice.

June '01
*All right, I admit it; the apology and "The Afterlife Is on Magrathea" I did add later. But I did turn it in with "Candice 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter' Cullitan" boldly emblazoned acrosss the top. That should be worth something.

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