Whole Sort of General Mishmash

Arthur Dent was frustrated.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, as it likes to butt in on this sort of thing, has this to say about frustration:

"All sapient beings have different ways of reacting to what happens to them. It has since been determined that these reactions can be arranged into different levels, depending on how advanced the life form (or otherwise) is.

"The bottom level, exhibited by creatures like the mattresses of Squornshellous Zeta and the ape-descendants, formerly of Earth, currently of Nano (even more harmless), is emotion. These include reactions such as love, hate, happiness, sadness, joy and grief. These are best described as irrational tics that can cause all sorts of lapses in one's control of their bodily functions. This can result in shouting, crying, the wild flailing of arms, legs, and other things. In prolonged cases, it can result in war, theft, murder, and the writing of extremely bad poetry. It's not all bad, though. (See: One-Night Stand)

"The next level up is cynicism. This is when someone reacts to something in less volatile, but still apparent, ways. These can include reactions such as distaste, scorn, sarcasm, and frustration. Life forms that reach this level of reaction typically become galactic pains in the arse, one notable example being Wowbagger the Finitely Prolonged, or they become rock stars, such as Hotblack Desiato, the lead singer of Disaster Area. All in all, it's not a bad place to find yourself.

"Up from this is indifference. Creatures on this level mostly just regard whatever's happened to them as something that's happened to them, and they react accordingly. This is the most rational of all the reactionary levels, and it's shown best in races such as the Vogons and the Krikkiters. In short, utter bastards.

"The next level, commonly thought to be the highest, is froodiness. It's when a creature reacts to pretty much everything, whether it's certain death, planetary exile, or the prospect of being subjected to unspeakable tortures, as simply another new adventure to conquer. This is the level most should aspire to, if they want to survive in the galaxy. On the first level, the galaxy is scary. On the second, it's boring. On the third, it's just sort of there. On the fourth, though, it's incredibly awesome. Only the highest of life forms reach this level, including dolphins, and Betelgeusians, of which Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Galaxy, is an especially notable example."

Arthur Dent had not been frustrated for long. At first he had just been incredibly sad and angry, and thought that every universe that's possibly out there was just out to get him. His daughter, Random, who had reached the level of cynicism in her brash and acerbic youth, wished that he wouldn't be so damn histrionic.

Time passed, now that Arthur, Random, and (as of late) Ford Prefect were living on Nano with the other humans, off the Vogon's list of planets that need a swift demolishing. Ford insisted that he was only sticking around to wrap up this article about the planet, but Arthur thought he was mostly here to run up his infinite charge card on the planet's expensive spas and overpriced coffee, in his continued quest to bankrupt Infinidim Enterprises. Ford maintained that either was fine by him, as he sank deeper into his Fizzigreeb mud bath.

Not long after, Random was already on her way to university, boosted by a scholarship earned with her high marks in Galactic Political Science, Galactic Law, and her extensive knowledge of the love life of Flaybooz. Arthur was sad to see her go; he had become rather attached to her in the few years he had actually been her father, and he felt as though Random was coming around about him, as well.

Such are the trappings of first-level beings.

Now that she was gone, though, Arthur found himself alone. He kept accidentally making an extra sandwich that he would have to throw away, and the other Nanoans typically made for piss-poor conversation. They were like Golgafrinchans, without the charming aspect of being incredibly stupid.

It was in this state of continued loneliness, having nothing to do but ruminate on what was making him sad and aggrieved, convinced that, in all probability (literally), the universe hated him on a personal level, that his reactions to all of this rose to the next level.

At first, it was hard to notice. Initially, Arthur just went from being sad to being unhappy. This is considered the last 'emotion' before a creature advances to cynicism, but Arthur didn't think he was about to cross into a higher level of consciousness. He just thought he was becoming tired of being sad.

Soon, though, it progressed to frustration. Arthur's thoughts on the matter were no longer drowned out with crying fits or long nights at the pub. Now he was simply thinking about what had him down, and that he didn't like it.

And, for once, it wasn't that he didn't have a nice cup of tea.

It wasn't long before, being able to actually think about what irked him, he thought he would have a solution. He stormed off to the local café, a man with a purpose, looking for Ford. He found him at a table, drinking from a tall wax cup, leafing lazily through a book called "The Encyclopedia Galactica: Why It Still Matters", occasionally making a soft chuckle.

"Ford!" Arthur called, as he spooted him. Ford glimpsed over, and waved to Arthur.

"Hey! Arthur!" he called back. "Take a seat."

Arthur sat down across from Ford. As he did, Ford took a long, deep sip of his coffee.

"Ah... can you believe this costs six quid?" Ford asked. "It's zarking hilarious. Can I get you one, Arthur?"

"Do they have tea?" he asked.

"Four pounds fifty," Ford commented, "you need to learn to be more ambitious. Hang on, I'll get you one."

"I take it with cream," Arthur said, as Ford was getting up. He went up to the counter, encountering a young, raven-haired girl in an apron and visor, tattooed where she wasn't pierced and vice-versa, mulling around behind it. Some things never change, Arthur thought to himself.

It's just never the right things...

Ford was soon back with the tea, piping hot in its little wax cup.

"They didn't have any cream," he admitted, "the Ameglian Major cows around here won't agree to be milked. They take it as a personal insult that anyone would rather milk them than eat them. Non-dairy creamer all right?"

Arthur took the cup. "Tea is tea," he grumbled, "it's fine."

"You look troubled," remarked Ford, "and this looks like a new one. Got some new bug in your shorts, Arthur?"

"I'm just frustrated," he answered.

"No kidding!" Ford exclaimed, his eyes wide. "You're moving up in the world, Arthur!"

"Ehh," he groaned, not sharing Ford's enthusiasm.

"What did the trick?" Ford asked eagerly, "was it that hyperspace jump that threw you onto that little beach planet the Vogons picked for a random audit?"

"No..." Arthur said.

"Was it that the Vogons made you do all the paperwork for the entire planet since you were the only creature there with opposable thumbs, even though you had insisted that you ended up there from a hyperspatial accident, and they made you fill out more paperwork because of that?"

"No..." Arthur said again.

"Ooh, I know!" Ford cried, "it was when you had to hitchhike on a Jatravartid junk freighter, and you kept passing out from all the aerosol fumes from the spent deodorant cans."

"No..." Arthur said again, becoming annoyed.

"Ohhh, I know what it is," Ford said, with a greasy sort of confidence, "it was when the freighter was passing by Nano and you had to use a teleporter to get off, but you didn't know it was one of those Sirius Cybernetic models that had that big recall, and it ended up sending you all the way back to the planet you started on!"

Arthur was rubbing his forehead.

"Why did I tell you all this?"

"You get pretty loose-lipped after a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster or two, mate," answered Ford.

"Right," Arthur agreed, "well, that's not it either."

"Was it when-"

"NO!" he shouted. "It was before all that."

"...What, when you saw that girl you liked for a second during the jump?" Ford guessed, sounding a little disappointed.

"Yes, that." Arthur said.

"Why was that what did it?" wondered Ford. "She was just a figment. She's like that little streak that appears in your eye when you look at a bright light and blink. She didn't make you fill out paperwork, she didn't make you have to sleep next to ten thousand spent deodorants, she wasn't even actually there. Why would that push you over the brink?"

Arthur gave Ford the stink-eye. He just shrugged.

"Well okay, fine, it was frustrating," Ford said, "what of it?"

Arthur looked up from his tea.

"What do you know about parallel universes?" he asked.

"The Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash, you mean?" Ford asked back. Arthur stared blankly at him.

"There's not much to know," Ford said, "it's all probability. Something happens or doesn't happen. The Mish-Mash is where everything that didn't happen, well... happens."

Arthur's expression somehow became even more blank.

"What?"

"Just look it up in the Guide," Ford dismissed, "it can explain it better than I can."

"Must I?" Arthur asked, "that smarmy voice it uses just drives me batty."

Ford responded by reacing into his bag and pulling out his stout black Guide terminal, and passing it to Arthur. Reluctantly, Arthur took it and opened it.

The Guide has this to say, in its calm, deep, and confident voice, about the Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash:

"The Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash is the shorthand term for every possible universe and every possible galaxy, star, planet, and organism that could possibly exist. Space may be mind-bogglingly big, but just try to imagine every OTHER space there could be! (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Megadodo Publications accept no responsibility for cranial explosions, existential whiplash, or any related mental damage as a result of trying to picture the Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash.)

"The WSOGMM is formed by axes of probability. When something happens or doesn't happen, a new piece of the Mish-Mash is formed. Since so many things are happening in any given universe, it is likely that all the infinite universes in the Mish-Mash were created as soon as the universe began.

"Since the WSOGMM is basically where you are not, it is where everything that didn't happen, well... happens."

Arthur looked up from the Guide and gave Ford a harsh look. Ford shrugged again.

"Travel through the WSOGMM is only possible through Plural zones, and is not advised. It can only be achieved through hyperspatial or Infinite Improbability transit, and as such, is entirely random. It can be difficult or even impossible to know where your towel is when crossing dimensions, but if you're looking to go somewhere VERY exotic, few things are more exotic than a different universe."

The Guide ran out of things to say, and went to sleep. Arthur clapped it shut and looked up at Ford, annoyed.

"That didn't tell me anything," he whined, "why didn't your all-knowing source of information tell me how to get around the Mish-Mush, or what a Plural zone is?"

Ford lazily stirred his coffee.

"There's enough going on in this galaxy, Arthur," he told him, "that we're not in any big rush to go dimension-hopping. The Guide is written by travellers and vagrants; if none of them feel like discussing it, it doesn't make the Guide."

"I thought the Guide knew everything!" Arthur shouted. Ford gave his coffee a sip, and frowned.

"It's gone cold," he said, "I'll have to get another one."

"Ford!" Arthur yelped angrily. He looked up at him.

"I heard you," he replied, "do I need to show you the article on Earth again?"

Arthur slumped down in his chair. He remembered the entry. Two words, not especially flattering. He passed the Guide back to Ford.

"Well, all I know for certain is that I can't stand this universe," he asserted, "and I'd rather be anywhere else. Anywhere that has her in it."

Ford made a funny smirk.

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" he asked. Arthur leaned closer to him.

"That bird thing you found at the Guide offices," he said, "the Guide Mk-II. It knew about parallel dimensions, didn't it? It could go all over the Mish-Mash, couldn't it?"

"Well, yes it could," Ford agreed, "but it got destroyed; blown apart with the rest of the Earth. Wouldn't be any help now."

"Yeah, but you had it," Arthur argued, "you must know something about it."

"I didn't have it long, Arthur. I sent it to you, and your daughter ended up getting a hold of it."

Arthur snapped his fingers.

"When's the next ship out of here?" he said, suddenly. "I think it's time I paid Random a visit."

Ford's eyes bogged.

"You're really going to try this?" he said. The beaming grin on Arthur's face showed clearly that he was.

"Let me just make this clear, mate," said Ford, his voice grave, "you're really going to try and defy how the universe works? You're going to try and cross space and time, uncover the secrets and questions of creation that no one has dared to ask? You're going to put all of existence at risk while you try to turn it inside-out?"

"I guess I am," answered Arthur.

"Count me in!" Ford cried. Arthur stared at him.

"Really?" he said, "even after all that possibly destroying existence and such?"

"It sounds like a riot!" Ford exclaimed. "I've been on this bore of a planet too long anyway; I really need to cut loose!"

"Well, um, I'll be glad to have you along," Arthur said.

"Plus, Dine-O-Charge has a 600% fee on cross-dimensional purchases, Infinidim won't know what hit them!"

Arthur looked up at him, cock-eyed. Ford quickly got up, dropping the Guide back in his satchel.

"I'll be at the spaceport in twenty minutes," he said, "I'll see you there!"

Ford was gone in a flash. Arthur was gone in more of a flicker.