That's That Then
There’s only so much one can do, only so many times one can say to oneself, “Yeah, imma do that today!” before one has done everything there is to do. You’re probably thinking to yourself that considering the unfathomable enormity of the Universe, it’s as near to impossible as makes no difference for any individual to have done everything, to have experienced everything there is to experience, to have surfed the corona of every single neutron star.
And you know what? You’re probably right. Or at least you would be, but I can say with a high degree of certainty, somewhere around ninety-seven point nine-eight percent, that you’re thinking exclusively in human terms. That’s your own fault, bro. That’s on you.
You see, humanity (and other similarly humanoid species) make up only the tiniest fraction of life which is why, when a member of the Dglsivst (no shut your whore mouth, there aren’t too many consonants in there) species, one of the oldest (though by no means wisest) species in the Universe who are quite literally free spirits; incorporeal entities capable of manifesting a physical presence for no more than a few hours at a time, says to itself, “I have done quite literally everything there is to do, and I’ve done some of those things twice - one or two of the things I really enjoyed thrice!” it really means it.
Christopher (not its real name, but its actual moniker is too far beyond the scope of human capabilities to comprehend, therefore Christopher will do) was, indeed, such an entity, For aeons, it had spent its time as, and this is by no means an exhaustive list; a goldfish in a bowl on the bridge of an interstellar warship, a cactus, a master yodeller, an inactive volcano, an active ice volcano, and a swimming instructor.
As you can see, it really had done everything.
But then it hit it. Not literally, I hasten to add, mostly because it’s actually quite impossible to hit an incorporeal entity, that which has no physical form, but also because it was a realisation that hit it, and as such it had nothing to physically or literally hit it with.
The realisation, the thought, the idea, if you will, that hit it, was that there was still a thing that it had yet to do, and by jove it was going to do it. Unfortunately, in order to do the thing in question Christopher was going to have to wait around ’til the end, the very last moments of the Universe.
But that was fine. If it had anything in abundance, Christopher had patience. It had it in spades.
And so Christopher prepared.
It acquired a copy of the Backstreet Boys greatest hits, a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes, and a t-shirt declaring its wearer to contain explicit content and that parental caution was recommended.
It gathered a single can of Mango Loco, Bad Apple, its preferred flavours of Monster energy drink.
It gathered its favourite copies of retro adult-themed magazines, featuring all manner of different species from all over the Universe, because one never knows when one might feel the need, nor what one will be in the mood for when one does.
By the time Christopher had done that and positioned itself in what it suspected, following an inordinate amount of research, would be the prime position from which to watch and enjoy the final moments of the Universe (a bit like Henman Hill at Wimbledon but y’know, on a somewhat larger scale).
“Huh,” it said, as the end of the Universe began. It lit a Lucky Strike, tapping its foot to Backstreet’s Back.
“Well, I never,” it mused as it leaned back, draining the can of Bad Apple in a handful of swallows.
“That’s that then,” it attested, glancing to its left where it had stacked the adult-themed magazines in preparation, should the mood take it, which it decided, with a shrug, that it did not. Instead it lit another Lucky Strike, breathing out plumes of sweet, sickly smoke, as it cracked open the can of Mango Loco. “I wonder what comes next…”
