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And then he hit his head on a large Chesterfield and woke up to find that he was in the middle of Lord's Cricket Ground, St. John's Wood, London. He looked into his rabbit skin bag and exclaimed, "This isn't my towell!!"
Then, if memory serves, some alien-dude came out of a space ship and asked him some questions. And someone in the crowd died of a heart attack. Oh, yes, the alien wanted to meet everyone in the Universe.
Actually what happened was a herd of robots landed and stole the memorial ashes of the cricket stump burn to signify the "death of English circket." And the alien landed in the crowd to insult Arthur Philip Deodat. He called him a "no good dumbo-nothing". And then Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, and Slartibartfast escaped in the starship Bistromath. Which, incidentally, was Somebody Elses Problem.
A sword is a weapon, the art of swordsmanship is to kill, what miss kauro says is sweet and inncoent talk from those who've never killed, but to tell you the truth I like miss kauros better and hope one day it becomes the truth for us all
Then Bob descided that his story had absolutely no plot or logic or theme or character or substance, and pertained to reality not in the slightest sence.
That's ok though, since it was meant to be a totally ridicoulus story to be carried on for God knows how long. So Bob whent back to Mongolia were he had met the girl of his dreams, only to find the local warlord had given her as a sacrifice to the martians, who had just finished their thanksgiving dinner. Oh well, you win some, you lose some Bob thought.