I had escaped the Top Secret US Military Installation after 29 years of captivity (I escaped my cell-like suite using what’s known, in physics, as “The Observer Effect”). However, soon after my escape, SWAT Teams, soldiers, and Military helicopters flapping overhead encircled me.
With their machine guns and rifles clicking to the ready, 30 red-laser-sights dotting my chest, “The Great Exterminator” entering the Earth’s atmosphere, All humanity and our Universe were in imminent danger of being totally obliterated by “THE GREAT EXTERMINATOR” whom is made up of anti-matter. If matter and anti-matter ever touched each other, they would annihilate each other totally. This annihilation would include the planet Earth, our entire Universe, and my Beatles record collection.
I decided to use my ability to create a “wormhole”, hoping the Portal would appear. I would face whatever dangers the Portal held rather than get taken prisoner again. But I was afraid. Then I recalled my 29 years of captivity in the Military Installation, never once being served a proper cuppa me! Oh, they made attempts; but their cups of tea were awful. This fact made my decision final! I conjured up my ability to create a “wormhole” thus The Portal appeared.
I would take my chances: I would enter The Portal I had created, and fight “The Great Exterminator”, then exit thru the opposite end of this “wormhole”. I would come out the other end in the 11th Dimension. The Bug People promised to be there waiting for me.
I entered The Portal. I stretched into a stream of atoms: every molecule of my being becoming one with everything: the trees, every human, rivers, every tree, and my brown loafers I had lost at Heathrow Airport 30 years ago.
Somehow, I became whole again. I was somewhere in the wormhole’s “tunnel”.
I examined myself. Every part of my anatomy was back in its’ proper place. I even still wore the daily wardrobe the Complex made me wear: a long sleeve gray shirt, gray pants, both made of rough fabric, white socks, and black-and-white high-top sneakers.
Directly in front of me, 25 feet away I came face to face (well, I think it was a “face”) was “THE GREAT EXTERMNATOR.”
His vile, slimy, repulsive body was 300 feet long and reminded me of a deformed, mutant Mollusk without its shell.
He had 2 legs but this ominous behemoth was unable to stand in the “wormhole”, which was rather small for a gruesome creature of his size.
Since “The Great Exterminator” was unable to stand in this wormhole, he had to “soldier crawl.” Lying on his stomach, legs opened so that the inside of his knees were in contact with the under-part of the tunnel. With his 4 elbows out, legs opened, he kind of crawled and slithered towards me.
His 8 protruding, bulbous eyes were dark purple. One of his eyes was missing, leaving a soulless black socket.
He wore a white house painter’s cap on his exposed brain. Yes, his large brain was on the outside of his mollusk-like head (well, it sort of looked like a head). His 4 arms had hands with fingers that resembled tentacles.
In one hand he carried an enormous old-fashioned Bug Sprayer with a pump handle and a can of deadly fluid attached to his “bug” sprayer. The long arm of the sprayer carried a logo “Harry Brand Sprayer”. He was to pull the plunger and push it back in quick spurts killing all living matter with the can’s deadly liquid.
As “The Great Exterminator” slithered closer, I could now see his cavernous mouth. His teeth: sharper than steak knives. His complexion was the ash gray of death (a few brown spots here and there on his slimy body). His nose was dripping with gelatinous yellow streaked snot. He smelled of raw sewage, rotten fish, and chunks of stale milk, urine, and disinfectant. He emitted such a sickening odor, I was about to faint or vomit, or both. I had to hold my nose.
It knew “motion” was only an illusion, so this thing was the slowest moving entity in space. This could be to my advantage.
I didn’t know what to do, so I started to sing a song made famous on Earth by Richard Harris, “MacArthur Park”. It’s a long song; maybe it will buy me some time.
Holding my nose, which produced a high nasal quality, I began to sing the song:
When I got to the part,
“McCARTHUR’S PARK IS MELTING IN THE DARK
ALL THE SWEET, GREEN ICING FLOWING DOWN,
SOMEONE LEFT THE CAKE OUT IN THE RAIN,
I DON’T THINK THAT I CAN TAKE IT
‘CAUSE IT TOOK SO LONG TO BAKE IT
AND I’LL NEVER HAVE THAT RECIPE AGAIN, OH NOOOOOOO!”
He stopped me right there, removing his house painter’s cap, scratching his exposed brain, looking perplexed, he spoke:
“It doesn’t make sense! Who left the cake out in the rain?! And why can’t he ever have that recipe again?! Did he lose it? Is it a top-secret recipe? Why did it take him so long to bake it? Can’t he bake another cake? Is he mentally impaired?!
I saw his exposed brain begin the bubble with lumps, bulging up and down.
“It makes absolutely no sense!” he screamed.
“The Great Exterminator” became so frustrated; he chewed angrily on one of his arms. The bubbles of his brain were going up and down at a faster rate.
“OK, calm down, will you? I can see this song is upsetting you. I’ll sing another song to cheer you up.”
Remembering Bob Dylan, still holding my nose, I began to sing:
“HOW MANY ROADS MUST A MAN WALK DOWN
BEFORE YOU CALL HIM A MAN?”
Again he shouted, his exposed brain throbbing with lumps going up and down, “Stop singing! Halt right there! “How many roads must a man walk down before you can him a man?” He appeared to be in agonizing puzzlement.
He then asked, “47 roads”? “No” I replied. “187 roads?”, I shook my head, “Nope.”
His brain was bubbling like cooking oil in a pot. Then his brain-bubbles began to make these sharp, loud, explosive popping sounds.
He continued to seek the answer: “5,000,176 roads”. “Wrong again.” I replied.
He began intensely babbling a series of random numbers: “789”, “9,854 roads”, “67”, “4,034”, “3 roads”, 2,897”, “12”, “432”, “678,000”…this went on and on, driving him into a puzzled frenzy of “how many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man?”
He was determined to figure it out as he yelled, “85 roads”, “21”, 706”, “54”…His guessing of numbers went on for quite some time. His large exposed brain bubbling and gurgling, while he fanatically kept blithering numbers: “90,876 roads?”, “2 roads” 73,123 roads”…. Suddenly, he shrieked in agony as his large exposed brain finally exploded, gushing forth his jellied brain matter (or anti-matter) all over the sides and top of the “wormhole”.
I heard, and smelled, his last dying breath: a nauseating odor. “The Great Exterminator” lay there, destroyed. His body would eventually decompose and each of his microscopic anti-matter particles will fly off somewhere in the Cosmos or a Parallel Universe. But who REALLY knows where? There is no anti-matter in our Universe. Where did it all go after The Big Bang? It’s a scientific fact that matter and anti-matter were created during The Big Bang. Matter and Anti-Matter should have destroyed each other, yet there is no Anti-Matter in our Universe. No scientists, astronomer, physicist has discovered anti-matter in our Universe.
Perhaps, in a Parallel Universe, there is a planet made of anti-matter, which acts as sort of a magnet for all anti-matter. Perhaps, some day, a physicist will discover this planet, which exist in a Parallel Universe, and win a Noble Prize. Regardless, “The Great Exterminator’s” burden was over. He lies dead inside the tunnel of the wormhole.
I had to gingerly tiptoe passed this giant creature, very careful not to touch anything that may be anti-matter.
I eventually came out the other end of The Portal where The Bug People were waiting for me, in the 11th Dimension, with a hover spacecraft. I was greeted with a hero’s welcome. An Official looking Humanoid Alien Bug Person pinned a medal on my shirt: a shiny medal shaped like a cockroach looking thing.”
One of his underlings handed me a galactic sewing-kit.
“What the hell is this?” The underling responded, “Now you must repair the tear you created in the fabric of space/time”.
“Look, mate!” I shouted, “I can’t even sew a button on my shirt and you want me to repair a rip in the fabric of space time.” The tear, which was THEIR entrance to The Portal, was about 7’ by 10’. “Sod it!” I glumly said to myself. “I’ll try.”
The sewing kit had an Adamntium sewing needle with a minuscule laser beam that emitted from its sharp tiny needlepoint. I was instructed to use the “graphene” as the sewing string. It’s the strongest metal in the Universe and they made flexible string from the “graphene.” But there was no sewing thimble for my thumb.
It took a few hours, but I had completed my task. I had sewed up this tear in the fabric of space/time, which I created when my wife left me. What would she think of all this? Would she be proud that I saved our Universe?
“Nah”, I can still hear her voice in my head: “Oh, big shot Mr. Rock Star repairs a rip in the fabric of space/time. But your dirty laundry is still all over our living room.” How clear I remember her voice. It had been nearly 30 years since I last laid eyes on her. I wonder what she’s doing now.
I had no time to ponder for long. The Bug People wanted me to enter their hover spacecraft and visit their planet, Kakrafoon.
“Where else am I going to go? I’m in the 11th Dimension holding a damn sewing-kit”. I then gazed at my handy-work. I felt kind of proud. I did a decent sewing job for a guy who can’t even sew a button on his own shirt.
I entered their spacecraft. We zoomed off and they served me a repugnant cuppa tea. I took a sip; it was awful. “Bloody hell,” I grumbled to myself.