Twenty one thousand seven-hundred and twenty two, twenty one thousand seven-hundred and twenty one, twenty one thousand seven-hundred and twenty; Zack sighed, today was going to be a long day…
Zachariah Thompson, an information analyst from the sleepy village of Shepperton, Middlesex (currently working in Isleworth, London), was very bored. So bored in fact that he had calculated how many seconds he had to count his way down through before he could go home. Bored enough still to actually count his way through them. This, as it turned out, was a terrible idea.
‘Twenty one thousand, seven-hundred and nineteen seconds…’
You see, now he knew exactly how many seconds he had to go through – twenty one thousand seven-hundred and eighteen – one at a time, and he was having to go through each and every one of them – twenty one thousand seven-hundred and seventeen – individually.
‘Just twenty one thousand, seven-hundred and sixteen seconds to go… I wish I was dead.’ Zack murmured.
‘Do some work mate.’ His colleague Mark whispered into his ear, smile on face but only half joking.
Mark, a portly fellow with a disarmingly quick wit, meandered towards the office kitchen with his tannin-stained mug as he does only one or two dozen times a day.
‘If people are seventy per cent water, then the other thirty per cent of Mark must be tea…’ The idea of a cup of Mark was not a pleasant one, he thought to himself.
Zack stared blankly at a blank Excel sheet and waited for Mark to return; he entertained himself in the meantime by shading the empty cells grey to make them look like everything else in his life.
Zack’s world was grey. Everyday he walked through grey streets under grey skies in a grey suit to his grey office where he sat at a grey desk spending eight hours staring at his grey computer surrounded by grey lights that made the grey air his grey co-workers breathed appear even more, well, grey.
Zack’s world hadn’t always been grey, it had once been full of colour. That was back when he was happy but that time was so far past that it felt like an anecdote that happened to someone else, kind of like a film you once watched late at night and could only now half remember.
By the time Zack was thirty he believed he would have made something of himself; he always had an overwhelming ambition that he was certain he’d realise. As a kid he dreamed of being a film director or great author. As an adult wanted to be a scientist made famous for unifying the Standard Model with Quantum Mechanics, or by inventing a novelty toothbrush. Now he just wanted to be dead.
In his younger days he thought he was going to be somebody, rich by making his millions from starting a company, or religion.
‘Starting a religion, that’s the dream.’ He was a great orator with tremendous insight so it stood to reason. ‘Instead I’ve done nothing, achieved nothing.’ Zack no longer wanted to be somebody, he didn’t even want to be a body, just a corpse rotting in the ground. It was fair to say Zack was depressed, his psychiatrist certainly did.
Mark meandered back past Zack’s desk and stood there a moment. Zack made a big show of typing four into the Excel sheet, and then a two. Mark moved on; Zack re-maximised his Internet browser. He was trying to click his way out of soul crushing boredom through pop-science articles.
‘Twenty one thousand six-hundred and ten.’ Zack sighed, ‘Why’s time so slow during the week?’ He silently questioned.
Clicking on the next link he came across an article on the anniversary of the Kings College Ununoctium fusion reactor experiment. This experiment, the article claimed, explained some of the biggest mysteries on time plaguing modern physics.
‘I wonder if science knows why the working week feels so slow…’ Zack questioned.
He read, ‘Space-time being considered as a superfluid was first proposed by the “colourful” Dr Adam Dewar of Edinburgh University in his doctorate thesis Building on General Relativity in regards to yada, yada, yada’
Zack skipped ahead to stop his eyelids from drooping. ‘This article is supposed to kill my boredom, not exacerbate it.’
He read on, ‘…in his now infamous speech at last year’s press conference. Infamous the prime adjective, starting as it did with the startling results Dr John Winstable presented to the eclectic roomful of reporters; results oft misreported by the redtops as “we will soon be able to build a time travel machine”*. It was Infamous too for how it finished, abruptly that is, with a scatter of screaming journalists.’
Zack skipped to the footnote, ‘*It is important to note how irksome this reporter finds the term “time machine”. A car is a “time machine”. It is a machine that you use to travel through space and time snort, snort.’
He skipped back up, ‘But in amongst the raining disdain (and punches) and eloquent expletives, Dr Dewar did enlighten us mere mortals (actually we felt more like molluscs by the time he finished patronising us) to the truth behind time dilation. And he explained it in such a way that one did not need an intricate understanding of the Lorentz transform.
Imagine if you will that you are standing on the edge of a record as it plays out its melodic Tune (perhaps Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off or some such). Now imagine a treasured friend is standing on the outer edge of the record and as it spins it appears to the two of you that you are travelling at the same velocity. You may be travelling at the same angular velocity but not at the same the tangential velocity. You are travelling faster than your friend; it stands to reason, you have further to go.’
‘Dr Dewar espoused that time is like the tangential velocity in space-time. Space-time being curved as it is, your velocity through the curve affects which edge of space-time you stand on. Simply put, time appears to slow when you take the shorter curve through space and time.’
Overcome with a sudden anxiety Zack looked up away from his screen, switched to the Excel document and typed a two, then backspaced and replaced it with a three. After a moment the boredom overwhelmed the anxiety and he flicked back to the article.
‘But it’s not just your velocity that affects time, Dr Dewar clarified; to quote the man himself (but not in his native vernacular), ‘gravity makes eddies in space-time’. Rather poetically put I might say, and slightly spoilt thereafter when he introduced himself to a Daily Mail journalist with a Glaswegian kiss. What terrible crime had this innocent *ahem* journalist *ahem* committed? Being tae English!’
Zack pondered this for a moment when his growing nervousness forced him into doing some actual work.
‘So time can effectively speed up and slow down depending on say, Earth’s tangential velocity through space-time? And that velocity perhaps changes if it’s a Monday or a Saturday? That’s it isn’t it! The universe has been constructed in such a way to make my life miserable.’ Zack slumped into his chair cursing a god he no longer believes in.
He skipped back to the article, ‘The trouble occurred when Dr Dewar proclaimed his belief that just like how a glass of water’s behaviour can be predicted through fluid dynamics, you can equally predict the behaviour of a superfluid, such as time; time therefore is entirely deterministic.’
Zack froze, he could actually feel his heart pausing and his blood running cold. ‘Deterministic.’ I.e. destined, fated; Science had just proven he was predetermined to be unhappy. There was no escape.
‘I knew it.’ he said as a tear formed in his eye.
A very long time ago Zack had denounced his faith in an act that he had long convinced himself was waking up to rationalism. It was actually due to Zack not wanting to believe in a God that hated him. His friends were certain it wasn’t a persecutory providence but purely unfortunate kismet. But Zack didn’t believe in luck. How could he? He didn’t have any.
So much life had happened to him over the last ten years, and all of it terrible. From being hit by a car on a pedestrian crossing by a rich boy in an oversized Ferrari, to going to court and the magistrates finding Zack guilty of getting in the way of the rich boy’s very nice Ferrari. He was still paying off his fine.
His holidays hadn’t fared much better. He went to Arras in France, and was mugged; he went for a camping tour through South America, and was mugged; he went on a day trip to the beach at Burton Bradstock where he bought a double-scoop ice-cream, and was mugged, for his ice-cream.
‘God I still hate that stupid seagull.’
In fact everywhere he went he was mugged, but all of that seemed like a nice day in the sun (which the trip to Burton should have been) compared to his love life. That had been a composite of unmitigated disasters.
After that ex his love life stuttered into a longer dry spell than the Sahara desert. When he finally had a date again, it was with an absolutely lovely actress called Rebecca who performed the miracle of restoring his confidence. That was the day before she got an incredible job in Italy which she ended up moving permanently for. Thereafter he had a lot more dates, some went well, most went very badly, and the tiny few of women where there was a genuine chemistry all – bar none – moved away due to work.
Zack became convinced the whole of the Universe was conspiring against him. It was either that or he was driving everyone he liked quite literally away. Just when he had completely given up on love he met her…
His anxiety started to spike again.
‘Twenty one thousand six-hundred seconds? Oh come on! You’re just taking the piss now.’ He cried at the seconds that were seemingly going as slow as possible.
There is a species that evolved somewhere in the darker regions of Deep Space, not so different from humanity (other than the giant tentacles obviously) that had a different theory as to why time slowed when you didn’t want it to. They believed nothing in the Universe was deterministic when it had freewill. Time was one of those non-deterministic things. Seconds, they believed, were actually alive, a living species kind of like a bug, or a Flubarraxx.
They thought seconds, much like the Flubarraxx, could feel joy and despair (which they knew from the many great and terrible experiments they performed on the Flubarraxx) and that seconds derived their joy from one thing, making the hours of the working day go as frightfully slow as possible. Conversely they believed seconds felt despair when beings were not at work so seconds took it upon themselves to speed their way through the betwixing hours. Seconds, they concluded, were spiteful.
As such they tried, for the good of the Universe, to destroy time; they only succeeded in destroying themselves (much to the delight of the Flubarraxx). In a way they were successful, in as much as they destroyed their own time, if self-elimination could be described in any way as successful.
Zack would have been quite delighted to find out this heretofore unknown species had destroyed the Universe. He was not a fan of the Universe, or life, and the religious idea of life ever after was an abomination to him.
‘I wish I was dead.’ Zack repeated as he did ten or twenty thousand times a day. ‘I wish the world would just end.’
He started to visualize of the Earth igniting into hellfire before his imagination slipped to a less enjoyable thought. As much as he didn’t want to he started daydreaming about her.
‘Beautiful, lovely NaTallie…’His thoughts drifted back to their first date and how painfully awkward it was. His rosy cheeks burnt red at the thought.
‘So what’s your favourite word?’ He had asked after a very charged silence.
In fact most of the evening up until that point had been held in silence, apart from the bits that were punctuated by awkwardness. You know it’s a bad date when you get hit on more by a stranger than your actual date, well this date was so bad he wasn’t hit on by anyone at all.
‘Um, excuse she?’ She answered, genuinely confused.
‘Apparently the British public voted serendipity as their favourite word but I disagree.’ He said a little too fast. He wanted to find a clean exit from this terrible, terrible conversation; none was forthcoming.
‘My favourite word is titillating.’ He announced wishing instantly that he hadn’t.
‘Really? Why?’ She asked a little perplexed; she did everything a little (she was quite short).
‘Er – because it means mildly sexually arousing, and it also has the word tit in it, which makes the word mildly… sexually… arousing…’ He paused, less for dramatic effect and more because he had nowhere left to go, other than home. ‘And now I feel like one.’ He laughed nervously.
‘No it’s alright, that’s funny.’ She said with a noticeable absence of laughter. She squeezed his hand in a way which he was pretty certain was pity.
‘I like the Welsh word for microwave.’ She announced.
‘What’s that?’ He asked.
‘Poppity-Ping!’ She declared smiling brightly.
‘That was the moment.’ He snapped back to reality, smiling a little (but not because he is short, which he isn’t, he’s quite average height actually).
That was the moment he didn’t want anyone else in this world. It was the moment Zack realised that a woman could never look more beautiful than when they smiled brightly, whilst saying the Welsh word for microwave.
The rest of that night was a delight. In fact the rest of the year was a delight, they were in love, or at least he was and he was pretty sure she was too. He was just getting comfortable when she announced ‘I’ve just been offered an amazing job in Ireland.’
It was her dream job, and like a goddamn idiot, like the sort of fool who loves another person more than themselves, he let her go.
‘You have to take the job.’ He encouraged her, holding in his stomach so his heart didn’t jump into his throat. Reluctantly she took it. Before long her love of her job outstripped her feelings for him and being the wonderfully pragmatic person she was (for she did everything wonderfully), knowing that long distant relationships never work, she let him go. That stung.
‘The only way I’m going to forget about her is by throwing myself into my work.’ He concluded. ‘Twenty one thousand five-hundred and four seconds left to go… bugger!’
Twenty one thousand five-hundred and four seconds, plus several commuting filled minutes later Zack was back in his most unremarkable flat in Twickenham. Over the day his anxiety hadn’t eased, in fact the unease swelled within him like a great storm sweeping into land.
Shutting the door to the outside world felt like locking out all his unknown problems. For the first time that day he felt safe and he did not like that. He did not like that the world outside of his small flat made him feel stressed. The thought of leaving his humble abode though made him feel physically sick. It was his instincts communicating to him like a great unspoken voice telling him ‘stay in, it’s dangerous out there’.
‘What if it’s not my instincts but the sound of predetermination?’ Zack thought.
He wasn’t being rational, but he didn’t want to be rational anymore, he wanted to tell predetermination to fuck off. He was sick of being told what he should and shouldn’t do, especially by great unspoken voices that just wanted him to be miserable. To the horror of the great unspoken voice (he knew it wasn’t happy because his anxieties were reaching hyperventilation levels) he stepped back out of his flat and headed for danger.
‘I don’t know where I’m going to but I know what I’m getting away from…’ Zack announced to the world and great unspoken voices alike, but mostly to himself.
He then silently stepped down the internal stairwell before standing outside the front door of his building and loudly declaring ‘This life!’
This unsurprisingly surprised a passing neighbour who hadn’t been privy to the setup.
‘I feel better.’ Zack thought, striding out onto his grey street before promptly vomiting into a mulberry bush. Nine thousand seven-hundred and twenty, Zack’s time was running out.
***
Fabien Swing was not having a good day: he was stuck on the toilet, singing, whilst three men stared at him. It wasn’t unusual for the famous crooner Fabien “King of” Swing to sing on the toilet, in truth that’s how he ended up in this predicament.
You will be glad to know however that it was unusual for him to sit on the toilet whilst three men (who were holding bolt cutters, a hacksaw and an oxyacetylene torch respectively) stared at him. The largest and most imposing of the three was explaining to Fabien how they were able to use these implements to best maximise discomfort. Yes, as days go this was definitely sat in the ‘not good’ section.
‘Look daddy-o, I shouldn’t even be here.’ Fabien stuttered.
He was right, he shouldn’t be and he knew it. Fabien had never once been flustered by anything that had occurred to him, he would just roll with the punches and make the best of it. For the first time in his fantastically eventful life he felt like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘…the torch,’ the big man continued ignoring the interruption, ‘can be used to burn the flesh off the bone, or slowly cook the skin like pork belly.’ He explained in a gruff New York accent. ‘We use the bolt cutters to chop off small appendages, like fingers, and the hacksaw to cut larger parts, like legs, off.’ He said adding an almost cheery flourish to the word “off”.
Fabien’s stomach turned. He did not need to or want to know what their predilections were. Worst of all, this conversation was making his singing voice go all wobbly and atonal. Fabien’s singing was not distracting the largest of the group the way his spiel was affecting Fabien’s singing though. The gentleman, for want of a better word, was in full flow as if he was giving a very well rehearsed speech. It made Fabien feel sick when he realised the man was in fact giving a very well rehearsed speech.
‘The hacksaw is slower and harder work but it has a much more dramatic effect on the victim. The key is to alternate between the torch and the hacksaw to keep pain at it’s most extreme. If you use one technique too long the victim gets used to the sensation, or passes out; we want you alert through the whole ordeal.’
Fabien focused on the shortest of three trying to work out if he was technically a dwarf or a midget. The little person suddenly held the bolt cutters aloft.
‘We use these bolt cutters…’ the big man continued, ‘when we get tired and want to take a short break from the hard work of slowly cooking you and cutting large bits of you off. Or when we want to cut off your scrotum. We’re going to cut off your scrotum.’
This last sentence made Fabien swallow hard, he very much liked his scrotum, it had proved itself on more than one occasion to be very useful. Then the largest and most terrifying of the men smiled in a way that Fabien had never seen anyone smile before and it made him feel like someone had just walked on his very soon to be grave.
This man, he understood, was called One-Eye; Fabien did not want to know how this man got this name for as far as Fabien could tell, he had two perfectly good and working eyes. Fabien knew there was not an innocent reason to this name.
Perhaps it would be useful at this juncture to explain how Fabien had got himself into this predicament. This, truth be told, is a very long, complicated and almost unbelievable story (or at least unbelievable to the sort of people who know little of such things). It is also a story that has many different ways of being told, with different beginnings, middles and ends. It, like almost everything in the Universe, is something that changes based simply on the way you tell it or the angle in which you look at it, which in fact is pretty much the same thing.
The easiest way to tell this story is to begin with Fabien, who is best described as a habitual philanderer. He is also a philanthropist and a philatelist but those were less habits and more hobbies acquired due to his love of the ph sound. He used it often, and not simply because he couldn’t pronounce the th sound. The majority of his more aware audiences believed that when he sang he was replacing the th sound with a f sound, but they were wrong. His real fans could tell the difference. The more complicated (and more correct) version of the story starts with Fred. It also ends with Fred but Fabien hasn’t reached that part of the story yet.
‘Why’s he singing One-Eye?’ the smallest of the three thugs called Biggs asked.
One-Eye, clearly irked at being broken mid-flow responded with a tart grunt that his diminutive colleagues knew meant something along the lines of “shut up, or you’ll be next.”
It was in One-Eye’s nature to make everyone look diminutive, not just in height but in personality. He was overwhelming in size and stature and he exuded the sort of authority where he could intimidate an entire congregation just by walking down the aisle. This is not an exaggeration – during the times One-Eye has walked down a church aisle (often for a funeral, sometimes a wedding, occasionally for the funeral of his recently departed wife) the attending priest and all sundry guests would be spotted doing an extra sign of the cross, on the off chance they had actually come face-to-face with the actual Satan.
One-Eye didn’t have to do much to make Biggs look small though, for Biggs stood at just four-foot three and was technically a little person. To Biggs the irony of his own name was not lost on him. How could it be when every new acquaintance noted this as the most hilarious act of serendipity ever by patronisingly patting him on the head? How intensely unamusing Biggs found this was not lost on his new friends either, or at least not after they found themselves at the bottom of the Hudson wearing concrete shoes.
It was a sign of One-Eye’s daunting demeanour however that he made the third of the trio, Leopold, who stood at a very reasonable five-foot ten, look far closer in size to Biggs than himself. Leopold was easily the meekest of the hitmen, which in his more forthright moments, blamed on his Christened name. As much as he wanted one, he was not allowed a nickname, it was in One-Eye’s nature to keep everyone around him feeling small.
Fabien didn’t want to find out all these details from his new acquaintances, but unfortunately he didn’t have much choice on that ever since they pulled him into a Pontiac Oakland straight off the sidewalk. They also rather rudely knocked Fabien unconscious. He woke to find himself on the toilet of a small ITallian restaurant in the Bronx, well, he actually found himself on the toilet of an ITallian restaurant in the Bronx.
‘You’re probably wondering why you’re on the toilet of an ITallian restaurant in the Bronx?’ One-Eye asked.
Fabien was. Clearly One-Eye had reached the Frequently Asked Questions portion of his speech.
‘The reason is three-fold. One, it is quiet, there is no chance we’ll get disturbed here. Two, the tiles makes it easier to clean you up afterwards, we normally make a mess. Three, so will you.’ One-Eye did that smile again that made Fabien go all cold and tingly.
‘Wait, what?’ Fabien asked a little confused.
Biggs made a hard snap with the bolt cutters and Fabien promptly vacated his bowels.
‘Oh…’ Fabien said realising as he looked down below. ‘She swings, a string, of pearls in the corner…’ he swiftly sang stronger and louder than before.
‘Why is he singing One-Eye?’ Asked Leopold.
‘How should I know? Why don’t you ask him?’ One-Eye snapped sarcastically.
‘Why are you singing?’ Leopold asked Fabien.
‘Because the acoustics are great in here Daddy-o – she darts from the eyes…’ Fabien responded in singsong.
‘Oh…’ Leopold accepted, as if it was obvious when you thought about it. ‘He said he’s singing because…’
‘I know what he said.’ One-Eye growled.
‘He’s pretty good.’ commented Biggs.
‘Yeah, I wish more of our hits serenaded us like this.’ Leopold responded as he started tapping his toes.
One-Eye didn’t say anything, he just looked at Leopold’s tapping shoe then at Leopold’s oblivious face before overtly turning on the oxyacetylene torch. Leopold stopped tapping his shoe. One-Eye then turned his attention back to the man on the toilet.
‘And roll cross the wet street, as she bends to chase the pearls.’ Fabien sang out loud and proud.
The true beginning of this story starts as every good story does, and that is on the toilet. In 1954 in Chicago Fabien found he was singing, which he did often and did very well. On this occasion Fabien was singing on the toilet during his morning ablutions, a thing he had never done before (the singing on the toilet not the ablutions). That’s when Fred chose to visit.
Another version of this story starts in the summer of 1929, when Fabien was in New York. This actually happened after the incident in Chicago but what some people fail to understand is that it’s all just a matter of how you look at it.
During that summer that Fabien started an affair with the wife of a Godfather of one of the five New York Mafias. Fabien was not sure which Mafia that was, he didn’t think to ask, but that’s only because he didn’t care. Fabien didn’t need to care, he had a Fred, and when you had a Fred you didn’t need to worry about consequences, Fred sorted that stuff out.
Fabien’s philanthropy was what first attracted her to him, it was his philandering that got Fabien involved with her but it was his philately that got him in trouble.
‘Hey, hey, hey, this is like crazy, man.’ Fabien stuttered.
‘Why’s he speaking so funny, see?’ asked Leopold, he did not get an answer.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ Fabien pleaded.
‘No, we don’t. But we want to.’ One-Eye said flatly. ‘Plus we owed the boss’s wife a favor.’
‘She’s the one that ordered this?!’ Jason asked shocked. Normally women didn’t want to kill him until after they’ve found out he’s been having affairs.
‘The lady doesn’t like being stolen from.’ Biggs explained
‘Wait, all I took were some stamps… She ordered this because of some stamps?’ Fabien shouted shocked.
‘She had some very important letters to send.’ Biggs said as seriously as he could muster; he was trying to supressing a smirk.
‘Bu-bu-bu-but that’s a ridiculous reason!’ Fabien stuttered.
‘We, are proud members of Murder Inc.’ Murder Inc. being the name the press of the time had bestowed on the Mafia’s congregated group of hitmen. ‘We do not murder frivolously.’ Biggs lied. To Biggs killing was infinitely more fun when it was frivolous.
‘Come on Fred – the sack breaks and out comes the Siamese twins – please, come on Fred please!’ Fabien sang to any and all Fred’s that were listening.
***
Fred was floating in an empty region of space in the Andromeda galaxy, and also in the Mayall’s galaxy. Fred was out of place. Fred was firing virtual particles from one part of space into another part of space. Fred was depressed. Fred was lonely. Fred has always been lonely.
Fred was very old. In fact Fred was the oldest. The Firsts called Fred, Leavangiana Rumpledidledidee because that was a fine name. Fred has had many names. The first human to spot Fred through their telescope called Fred a Wormhole. That was a terrible name. Of the hundreds-of-thousands-of-millions-of-trillions of pieces of matter Fred has transported through itself, not one of those things has ever been a worm.
Fabien Swing was the first human to meet Fred. He called it Fred because to Fabien a topographical tear in the fabric of space-time just looked a bit like a Fred. Fred thought this was also a fine name. For a while Fabien made Fred feel happy, in the way that semi-sentient cosmological vortexes can feel things, in that they can’t. Now Fabien made Fred feel depressed, well not depressed exactly, negative energy connections between two regions in space and time don’t feel depressed, they feel hollow.
The issue was, from the instance Fred began existing as a singularity, it had found a sort of purpose in moving matter and energy from one point in space to an entirely different point in space. Fred began by experimenting with hypothetical quantum particles before moving onto dust and gasses. Fred inadvertently started the formation of some of the earliest stars in the Universe. Fred liked stars.
Fred then destroyed a couple of those stars when it wanted to see what happened when you move something so big off its axis and onto a different axis. Fred found out that it causes a giant rip in the fabric of Space. Fred also found out that Space is a sort of fabric. Fred moved a few asteroids in front it to hide what it had done. Fred is glad no one has as yet noticed.
Unbeknownst to Fred the fabric of Space is very highly prized in some cultures for its mystic qualities. Such cultures believed that if you wrap Space around yourself you will become invisible, you can bend and stretch it to travel faster than the speed of light and commune with it obtain all the secrets the Universe possesses.
The Kurkleburts of Kurklegark paid upwards of seven thousand Kurkleberries for clothing made out of the fabric of Space, despite the inconvenience of having to drag round the whole of the Universe with you when you wear it. Humans too were close to discovering the fabric of Space in the 19th century when the greatest minds of their generation postulated over Luminiferous Aether. But then a little known scientist called a Mr Albert Einstein came along and ruined it all with his theory of General Relativity. He alone pushed back the exploration of human discovery (and their galaxy) by a good two hundred years.
Fred’s enjoyment (for want of a better word) of moving matter from one place to another place led it to experimenting moving amino acids to different massed filled solar systems with large water sources. To count, Fred has been responsible for starting of life on thirty-four planets, and the destruction of life on six. Fred, of course, does not know what other forms of life are. To Fred, Fred is the only living thing in the Universe. Everything else is just a series of complex molecules moving through space-time in the most peculiar way.
Fabien was the most peculiar set of complex particles Fred had ever encountered. For one thing Fabien could communicate to Fred, in a sort of way. What frustrated Fred, if a hole in the very nature of Space-Time could feel frustration, which it can’t so that’s a moot point, was that Fred couldn’t communicate back.
Fred first became aware there was something in the infinite expanse of moveable things when it felt Fabien’s melodic singing, which due to the unique frequency generated by his vocal chords and amplified by bathrooms’ acoustics, reverberated throughout the infinity of Space-Time.
Fred, out of a sort of quantum curiosity (quantum particles are the most curious of all the particles), appeared behind Fabien whilst he was serenading the universe from his porcelain seat. Fred moved Fabien three-hundred years into the past and two miles south of his house. Fabien was surprised, you could even say he was caught with his trousers down, but you shouldn’t.
From that point on in the infinite continuum that is existence Fred followed Fabien like a puppy on a lead. Fabien was the only bit of moveable matter Fred wanted to play with. As such Fred was always there at his beckon call and would randomly move him to where there were other seemingly similar but ever so less special gyrating particle structures.
Fabien, on the other hand, seemed far more interested in the other gyrating particle structures, especially the ones with the two bobbily sticky out bits and the one flappy, dippy in bit. After a while Fred felt that Fabien was only after one thing, to be transported through Fred so Fabien could get a chance to go in other things (the ones the bobbily and dippy bits) and that made Fred feel alone in a way that only singularities can.
Fred wanted to fold in on itself, but it simply couldn’t. So weighted down in this hollow feeling it expressed its bad mood by firing virtual particles into other virtual particles. Fred was doing this sort of angrily, but not angrily because negative-energy holes are unable to feel anger. The virtual particles on the other hand were bloody furious. They weren’t supposed to be able to collide with each other but Fred was giving them just enough temporary mass for it to hurt and boy did it hurt. The virtual particles were screaming at the top of their non-existent lungs, in that they were vibrating at a very pissed off frequency.
Another frequency of sound wobbled across the fabric of Space, crinkling it a bit in some places and smoothing it out in others, like a university student trying to do the ironing. The virtual particles stopped vibrating, suddenly soothed by wavelengths. Fabien was calling Fred. Fred was not interested. Instead Fred loaded up some neutrinos with a neutron star’s worth of mass and fired them into the cheering virtual particles. The virtual particles scattered into the deep dark beyond, screaming in pain and fury.
Fred felt a little less hollow but the captivating vibrations that kept washing past him wouldn’t abate. Fabien must really want Fred. Fred was glad. But Fred was not going to chase after him this time. Fred was not going to chase after him anytime, in any space, anymore. Fred was going to find a new set of peculiar particle structures to move, and then move them.
***
Zachariah Thompson didn’t want to go home again, no he did not. In fact, he wanted to get as far away from home as his credit card would take him. That, as fate would have it, was a quiet corner of the Mulberry Bush pub in Waterloo, which was not very far away at all.
Zack didn’t want to be in a pub in London, he didn’t want to be in London, in fact he didn’t want to be. Zack didn’t want to kill himself per se he just didn’t want to be alive anymore. Life wasn’t an enjoyable experience, it was hard work, stressful and lonely. All he wanted to do was sleep, dream and drift away into nothingness.
‘They say life is a gift, I just wish my parents kept the receipt.’ Zack bitterly sputtered as he sulkily supped his pint.
‘You need to go home’ an internal voice silently whispered at him.
‘I need to have another pint.’ Zack loudly whispered back.
‘But you’re not safe out here’ the voice seemed to cry as it made knots out of his lower abdomen.
‘Good!’ Zack spat as he clumsily went to buy himself another drink. He was trying his best to be rebellious. ‘Drinking three pints on a Wednesday, I’m such a maverick.’ No he was not being sarcastic.
Up until recently Zack didn’t really consider his place in the world, and more importantly, how he placed himself in his own world. Through years of cultivation Zack had developed a sort of fantasy realm in which he existed, that mirrored reality almost exactly except in his world he was on top. Reality was something he knew was there but should never be examined too closely, like his bank balance, or that mole on his arm.
In Zack’s fantasies he would soon, somehow have everything he wanted from life, and as long as he kept running forward, those desires would eventually be realised. He had been running for ten years and now he suddenly felt very tired. This exhaustion had made him stop running for a bit and observe at where he had arrived. Boring job, single and feeling desperately alone, it’s not where he wanted to be at the bitter age of thirty. But it was worse than that,
‘Mary McCarthy said we are the heroes of our own story; hell, I’m barely a background extra in mine.’ Zack sighed.
‘God if I knew I was going to be perpetually single I might as well have become a priest…’ Zack sighed. ‘of my own religion!’ He said inwardly.
‘The trouble with people is…’ Zack suddenly said outwardly to no one in particular. Then realising there was an actual person to declare it to, adjusted his declaration to the bearded man awkwardly trying to avoid Zack’s attention.
‘The trouble with people is men are brainwashed by society into thinking they have to sleep with as many as possible.’ Zack slurred. Zack wasn’t sure how he got onto this point, but he’s damn well going to see where it was taking him.
‘Mmm-hmmm…’ the bearded gentleman agreed in the hope this might expedite the end of the mad man’s rant.
He then followed this up with his best polite but passive aggressive I don’t want to talk to you stare at his newspaper, which was ridiculous as the newspaper wasn’t saying anything. It couldn’t, it was a newspaper. And even if it could it would probably just say something along the lines of ‘Aaaaargh! I am a newspaper! Why am I self aware? This is a terrible life.’
‘…but women are programmed by society to feel ashamed of having sex. They’re not supposed to sleep with anyone! Lest they be called a slut.’ Zack said.
Zack gestated wildly trying to make a splash on his disinterested audience, which he did, with his pint. The stranger angrily brushed the beer off of his arm.
‘And it’s the women who choose! They choose who they want to sleep with, well men choose too but it’s only the women you choose, women are the ones who make the choice on whether you’re actually going to have sex or not.’ Zack explained
‘I see.’ The stranger sighed giving up on his newspaper and instead focusing all of his attentions on trying to force some sort of out of body experience; it was not working.
‘So what do we have? I’ll tell you!’ Zack started.
‘Please don’t.’ The stranger meekly pleaded.
‘We have no one having sex, or rather they are, but not as much as they could be. Because women who really hold the choice feel like they can’t, or that they shouldn’t, or if they do they have be conservative about it, because society will judge them otherwise. And we’re here, two blokes, sat by ourselves, instead of in someone else’s bed doing the most fun thing you can do with at least one other person.’ Zack lectured.
‘Err, where are you going with this?’ The stranger asked feeling slightly more uncomfortable than he felt just one moment ago, which was very uncomfortable indeed.
‘There wouldn’t be all this prejudice and homophobia if we were all a lot more liberated and mature about sex. We should be out there, men and women, or men and men, or women and women, being able to have a nice chat, and at the end of it say “Would you like to have sex?”’
Zack let that thought hang in the air like an unpleasant bodily emission before continuing,
‘And, and they could say “Yes that is a lovely idea”, or “no thank you but I appreciate the offer.” and then you just have sex, or not. And that would be a whole lot better than having all these barriers and rules. Like why do people wait until the third date? Why is that a thing? Why not four or two?’
‘I don’t know…’ The stranger said.
‘It’s arbitrary!’ Zack complained
‘Yes it is.’ The stranger agreed, finally worn down enough to engage with the conversation.
Zack stopped ranting and left another awkward silence hang in the air.
‘Would you like to have sex?’ The stranger broached.
‘Exactly! That’s what we should just be able to say to people.’ Zack confirmed.
‘No, I’m asking you, would you like to have sex?’ The stranger repeated.
‘Oh God no! You’re far too hairy!’ Zack spurted.
The hairy stranger felt rather suddenly and soundly rejected.
‘But thank you for the offer.’ Zack followed a little apologetically. ‘I’ll tell you what, I sometimes wish I was gay, in some ways it would just be so much easier. Society telling men they’re supposed to have as many partners as possible, and society telling women don’t sleep with anyone, it’s like someone set this up as a hideous joke. It’s a conspiracy!’ Zack complained.
The stranger nodded in that way someone nods when they’re not listening to what you’re saying and they don’t want to have to repeat not listening to what you were saying for a second time.
What neither of them knew was that this time Zack was right, it was a conspiracy. In the Earth year of 1597 a cabal of some of the richest, most influential individuals in the world concocted the rumour that women should not make hot cookies lest be called a strumpet, and men must try and plant their turnips in as many fields as possible, otherwise they would be known to be really lame. And the reason for this conspiracy? To sell alcohol; it remains the most successful act of viral marketing attempt to this day.
Zack stood up to leave, and slightly staggered his way past the tables. The bearded stranger was a little taken aback that the crazy man had left without even a polite bye.
‘I need a shave. This beard has brought me nothing but trouble…’ The soon to beardless man thought to himself. ‘Do you want to have sex? I’ll have to try that more often.’ He said to himself with a chuckle.
The clean shaven version of that man did in fact try that line and after a six month dry spell went on to become the world record holder for STDs.
Zack wandered out of Waterloo station in no particular direction feeling suddenly quite good about the world.
‘Please turn round and go home, now.’ The knot in Zack’s lower abdomen turned to a sharp stabbing pain.
Zack ignored the great silent voice, he was feeling too good about life. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t care, he just wanted to have adventures and his next adventure could be just around the corner.
As it happened what was waiting for Zack round the next corner was less an adventure and more a tall man in a hoody, jacket and cap. This gentleman was holding something.
‘Gi’me yo wallet.’ The man grunted.
‘Sorry?’ Zack asked, as he was one to often inappropriately apologise.
‘Give me your bloody wallet.’ The man said tartly, deliberately improving his enunciation.
Zack suddenly realised the rather rude man was holding a knife. ‘Oh not again.’ his brain cried.
‘No, you give me your bloody wallet.’ Zack’s mouth cried, much to the shock and horror of the rest of Zack.
The mugger looked just as shocked and appalled.
‘You what?’ The mugger asked incredulously.
Zack’s brain started to demand Zack’s mouth to apologise.
‘I said no, you give me your bloody wallet.’ Zack’s lips repeated ignoring the command.
‘Fuck off.’ The man spat, ‘Give me your bloody wallet.’
‘I said no, give me your bloody wallet.’ Zack’s voice countered again.
Zack’s big mouth was getting him into trouble and continued to do so over the next five minutes, which is how long this argument lasted for. That was until the mugger, who, as it has been established was in possession of a knife, remembered said knife and decided it might come in handy, or in chesty, or in any part of the human anatomy he pointed it at.
Zack’s survival instincts kicked in and they were as honed as you would expect for an information analyst from Shepperton, Middlesex, in that he grabbed wildly at the blade. Fortunately for Zack he ended up grabbing was this mugger’s hand. The mugger in turn grabbed at Zack’s shoulder and they began to wrestle. To any passers-by it would appear as if they were ballroom dancing, they were certainly better dancers than they were fighters. Zack was the first to get advantage and he did this by biting the mugger’s cheek.
‘Stop biting my face!’ The mugger screamed.
‘Mmmmnnnoo!’ Zack argued back through chewing teeth.
The stranger jerked his left hand and Zack instinctively bit down harder, piercing the skin. The mugger pulled back in pain and ran away screaming and crying like a little child who just had her cheek half bitten off.
Zack stood proudly at this victory, breathing it in. Then he noticed his right side hurt. He had a sharp pain in his stomach. Zack reached down he felt hot wet, through his trousers.
‘Oh God I’ve wet myself.’ Said Zack worried, and then more worried that he hadn’t.
He looked down to see a large red patch running its way through his clothes. That stabbing pain he felt had turned out to have been caused by an actual stabbing. His back hit a wall which he slid down in shock.
‘Nine-nine-nine, fire, police or ambulance?’ His phone said.
‘Please he me, I’ve just been stabbed.’ Zack pleaded.
‘Sir this is for emergencies.’ The exasperated voice rattled. ‘Which service do you want? Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Ambulance.’ Zack answered chastened.
Zack explained to the next voice he had been stabbed and he was bleeding and that he was pretty sure he was dying. Within what felt like a blink of an eye the phone call was over and after what felt like a century of waiting no one had arrived to save him. Weakened, cold but growing quickly numb Zack let his eyes drop. He no longer worried about the steadily growing pool of blood that surrounded him, he no longer worried about how much the dry cleaning of his suit was going to cost him, he no longer cared about anything. The world was quiet and he felt at peace. He let his head drop. He was finally able to rest.
The NaNoWriMo Poject 