Chapter 4 Chapter Four

If someone gave him a casual look, it would be hard to tell if he was drunk, sick, or downright crazy.But in fact, no one here will look at others casually. This is the Pink Old Dog bar at the southern end of Handowd City. If you stay in this kind of place, if you don't want to die, don't think about doing things casually.Anyone here who dares to look at others will have eagle eyes, armed to the teeth, with violent blood rushing in their veins, ready to do anything crazy to anyone they don't like. A depressing, pre-missile crisis tranquility hangs over the place. An evil-looking bird stands on a crossbar hanging in the bar. It usually screams and reports the names and addresses of local professional killers, which is also a free service item provided by the bar.

Now the bird doesn't sing anymore. All eyes, including some on poles, were on Ford Prefect. He was doing his life, and by doing so - trying to pay the equivalent of a small defense budget for drinks with an American Express card that no one recognized anywhere in the known universe. "What are you worried about?" he asked in a cheery tone. "Duration? Has anyone here heard of the New Theory of Relativity? This is a whole new field of physics that can solve problems like this. Time dilation effects, time reversal theories... " "We're not worried about expiration dates," said the man in front of Ford.His voice was a low, gentle whine, like the sound an ICBM silo makes when it opens.This is a dangerous bartender in this dangerous bar.A large, fleshy hand tapped the bar, denting the surface.

"Oh, that's good," said Ford, and he put away his little bag to leave. The finger that was slapping the bar stretched out and stopped Ford Chief on his shoulder. Although the fingers grew on a fleshy palm, and the palm grew on a stick-like forearm, the forearm didn't grow on anything.Unless you insist that it grows faithfully on the bar itself.This hand was originally grown on the former owner of the bar. Before he died, he inexplicably donated it to a medical research institute. bar. The new bartender doesn't believe in such nonsense, he just sees it as a good helper.That hand just lay there on the bar, taking orders, serving drinks, and slaughtering those who looked like they wanted to die.

Ford Prefect sat still. "We don't worry about expiration dates," the bartender repeated, satisfied to see Ford Prefect pay attention. "It's this piece of plastic that we're worried about." "What?" Ford looked confused. "This," said the bartender, shaking the Amex like a three-week-old fish, "we don't accept it." Ford didn't know whether he should just say that there was no other way to pay the bill, so he hesitated, and then decided to stick it out.The disembodied hand gripped his shoulder gently but firmly. "Don't you know?" Ford said, his expression changing from a little puzzled to downright skeptical. "It's an American Express card. It's the best way to pay your bills. You don't get any spam from them?"

Ford's cheerful tone, like someone blowing a kazoo in the deepest part of a war requiem, begins to irritate the bartender. The bones in Ford's shoulders began to creak and grind, knowing that this hand had learned all the advanced techniques of creating pain from a professional chiropractor.Thankfully he didn't carry his bag on this shoulder.Ford hoped to resolve the present trouble before that hand pinched the bone in his shoulder to the rest of his body. The bartender tosses the Amex, and the card slides down the bar to Ford. "We've never heard of this stuff." The bartender's voice was wild.

This is not surprising at all. Ford stayed on that planet called Earth for 15 years, and before he left, a fatal computer error gave him the Amex card.American Express immediately realized this serious mistake and wanted to go back in a panic.At this time, the Vogons wanted to build a new hyperspace passage, and the earth was accidentally completely destroyed during this project.So no one came to Ford for that card anymore. He has kept the card ever since, because he found it useful to carry a currency that no one recognized. "On credit?" he said. At the Old Pink Dog, these two lines from Ford are often used in this fashion.

"I thought," he gasped, "that you were a family..." He looked around. The bar was dimly lit, and the mob of thugs, pimps, and record executives were hiding in their cubicles, sitting in the shadows and looking around, looking away. Ford, and carefully began to pursue their conversations about murders, drug cartels and music distribution.They both knew what was going on and didn't want to delay drinking while watching this. "You're going to die, man," the bartender whispered to Ford Sheriff, with the evidence beside him.One of the signs hanging in the bar originally read: "Please don't ask for credit, lest you get a punch in the mouth." Later, for the sake of rigor, it was changed to: "Please don't ask for credit, lest a fierce bird tear you apart. your throat, while a disembodied hand will smash your head at the bar." However, the sign was cumbersome to read and there was no suitable hook, so the sign was taken down .The bartender thought people would know without the brand, and they did.

"I'll look at the bill again," said Ford, picking up the bill and studying it carefully.The bartender was looking at him savagely, and the bird was also looking at him sternly, digging deep grooves in the bar with its claws. The bill is a long slip of paper. At the bottom of the bill was a long string of numbers that looked like the serial number of those stereos you'd spend hours copying.He's been in the bar all day, drinking a lot of fizzy stuff, and he's been drinking all the pimps, thugs, and record label executives in the room on multiple occasions, although they immediately forget who he is .

He cleared his throat and patted his pocket, although he knew very well that there was nothing in it.He placed his left hand gently but firmly on the half-open mouth of the pouch.The disembodied hand tightened again on his right shoulder. "You see," said the bartender, his face shaking evilly in front of Ford, "I've got to think about my credibility. You understand, don't you?" That's it, thought Ford, nothing else.He has followed the rules, tried hard to pay his bills normally, was refused and now his life is in danger. "Okay," he said quietly, "if it's your reputation..."

He opened the packet with lightning speed, and slammed his own and a card from the authorities on the bar, which stated that he was a field researcher for the Guide and was absolutely not allowed to do what he was doing . "Would you like me to write it in?" The bartender's face stopped shaking.The bird's claws stopped digging.The hand relaxed slowly. "Here's this," said the bartender in a barely audible voice, parting his parched lips, "that's all, sir."