Contrary to his individual preference and sincere efforts to work against the relentlessly progressing entropy, chaos followed Larry everywhere. People he came in contact with could suddenly change their appearance, worldview or their station in life. On occasion, they would act strangely altogether, even to the point of losing any recollection of Larry. Sporadically, certain individuals would disappear from his life forever in a most mysterious manner, largely to his satisfaction.
There were several reasons for this, Larry’s bull-headed character, amongst others. Most importantly, there’s also a little extra detail which he was never to discover about himself. You see, Larry was a singular.
A singular denotes an object or a person that can only inhabit a single universe at a given moment. We all have doppelgängers leading independent lives in an infinite number of alternative universes. But not Larry. There’s been only one Larry in the whole multiverse W. Now, just because he was limited to residing within a single universe at a time, didn't mean he couldn’t switch to another one. Which he unwittingly did.
08/09/2022 (commonly referred to as the Intersection I-0°)
Larry’s consciousness catches up with him in the universe 74-W, seated by the living room table with his forehead tucked in his folded arms. Slowly yet steadily, he lifts his head. The spherical lump, holding the worrisome organ directly responsible for quite many of his life troubles, wobbles comically as if wanting to break free from its neck. Larry can't remember whether he’s only taken a nap. Or was it a whole night’s sleep? He never knows for sure. Ever since he started doing most of his work from home, all the days and nights amalgamate into a perpetual semi-conscious state.
Larry dawdles about the house with his eyes half-closed. The walls, painted in sophomoric colours, scatter the scanty light coming from a large ceiling lamp creating a scintillating effect. The furniture pieces, made of glass, metal and other glossy materials, reflect the spectral glare as if submerged underwater. Books and art albums tightly packed on the library shelves claim ownership over the wall space like a vine. An empty flower vase is set in one corner. An empty terrarium in the other one.
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star … Yadda, yadda, tic-tac-tic,’ Larry says, attempting to ascertain the time.
The living room clock shows 7:38. The clock in the kitchen shows 3:24. The small digital clock on the night table in the bedroom shows 11:05. The clock on the laptop is covered by a tiny smear, making it illegible. Habitually trustful towards the things closest to him, Larry goes with the wristwatch.
30/07/2021 23:58
The smug cocktail party at Tanko & Sons Publishing Group headquarters culminates with Larry hurtling about naked, his gelatinous belly jostling cheerfully from side to side. Nobody knows who he is or how he got here. But hey, the party is a blast, and Larry is a jolly good fellow. There he goes, with his head covered with dotty boxers. The boxers fly like a Flying Dutchman’s fore royal.
‘I am the captain of the ship, bitches, yarp!’ Larry darts forwards.
'Aye … Ayeee …’ A young and physically attractive woman — also naked — gives chase not far behind, awkwardly trying to get hold of the boxers.
Too late. Larry trips over a small object resembling a sculpture of a human penis with small wings at its base rolling freely on the floor. Instantly, he falls down a wormhole and vanishes with a melodious tinkle. Flung into a different universe, hundreds of years into the future, for a few milliseconds Larry upsets its delicate equilibrium, causing the unfortunate world to collapse onto itself.
Another melodious tinkle resounds and Larry reappears in yet another universe with a different office party going on. Nobody knows who he is or how he got there. But hey, the party is a blast, and Larry is a jolly good fellow.
I-0° 08/09/2022
Larry makes his way to the bathroom and immediately pops over to universe 60-XW. Having successfully answered the call of nature in a carelessly noisy way, he proceeds with shaving his already prickling stubble. Someone weeps in the living room outside the closed bathroom door. Or maybe it’s just wind? Or a cat wailing? Larry can’t say for sure.
‘I am the captain of the ship,’ he croons, sliding the shaver across his prominent chin.
It's not a cat, however. Or the wind. The weeping comes from Montgomery Petrovsky, a middle-aged art critic — just like Larry — who happens to own Larry’s home in universe 60-XW.
It's not a cat, however. Or the wind. The weeping comes from Montgomery Petrovsky, a middle-aged art critic — just like Larry — who happens to own Larry’s home in universe 60-XW.
‘It’s really happening. It’s all real … It’s really happening.’ Bent in half, Montgomery runs his fingers through the piteous remains of his skimpy hair.
What’s really been happening was Larry manifesting in universe 60-XW each time he entered the bathroom and reverting back to his native 74-W as soon as someone opened the bathroom door — be it Larry, Montgomery himself, Montgomery’s estranged wife, the police, the exorcist Montgomery brought over to expel the phantom apparitions inhabiting his house, the psychiatrist invited to dispel the voices of a guilty conscience, or a nice man he’d met getting drunk on the park bench and who’d promised to remove an alien probe Montgomery’s apparently been fitted with.
Having splashed the cologne rather profusely over his cheeks and neck, Larry enters the living room followed by two flies coming out of nowhere. The weeping stops immediately.
I-0° 08/09/2022
Larry reclines on the sofa coloured like dying tangerines. He had bought it, keen on finding a match for his favourite tie. The purchase turned out to be a match made in heaven.
‘Flies.’ Larry looks at the insects chasing one another around the ceiling. ‘Don’t last long.’
● ● ●
Quite the contrary. We’ve used many insects in the past to keep our research subjects under close surveillance. Small, energy efficient, and produced in great quantities, flies have proven to be the sturdiest and most reliable monitoring options.
02/09/2021 20:58
Larry reserves a whole balcony at Bleu Suprême with a stunning view of Paris. Lucretia — the lady chasing his flying boxers at the Tanko & Sons Publishing Group party earlier on — likes Paris. Larry does too.
'I never thought Paris was so big,’ Lucretia says.
'Yes, and they're adding new buildings every day,' Larry tells her, distracted by her dilated pupils.
Two lobsters and a half-bottle of champagne later, Larry presents Lucretia with an exquisite engagement ring, bending his knee like a knight. The diamond is as clear as morning dew and as big as a dove’s heart. The whole of Paris reflects in it. Succumbed to the magic of the pristine jewel, Lucretia knows she will stay with Larry forever.
21/10/2021 23:58
Lucretia runs out on a disaffected Larry in much the same way she came into his life — like a drunken tornado. She leaves his house in a state of incredible mess, his bank account wiped neat and clean, all roughly two weeks before their scheduled wedding.
07/03/2002
Larry has a great gift for making friends. He’s not as good at keeping them. Eager to remedy this somewhat discomfiting imperfection of his otherwise perfect character, Larry resorts to buying a substitute companion — a miniature desert tortoise, which he keeps in a shiny terrarium, a central piece of his shiny condo. The tortoise quickly becomes his best substitute friend in the whole big old universe.
Larry takes good care of his pet. He feeds him the greenest of all lettuces. Supplies him with Bouillonner — the crystal-clear mineral water from the very heart of the Swiss Alps. Exposes his tortoise to the rarefied world of Greek art and philosophy. Lectures the reptile on the subject of late Mannerism, early Baroque, the post-romantic polyphony and sound poetry, often preparing his long speeches beforehand.
The tortoise listens to Larry, pecking composedly at the greenest of all lettuces. Occasionally, he lets off a hiss or two. Every so often, the tortoise arranges small rocks, food leftovers and plants growing in his terrarium in mysterious patterns. As though he wanted to tell Larry something.
‘That’s completely ridiculous,’ Larry says one day, astonished he’s been considering such an absurd idea in the first place.
● ● ●
Here’s what the mysterious patterns meant: The universe is collapsing …
● ● ●
In scientific terms, the universe wasn’t actually collapsing. It was converging. Which Larry’s tortoise wasn’t to witness — having died on a certain beautiful morning, choking on the greenest of all lettuces. Leastways, according to Larry’s hasty diagnosis, upon the heart-rending sight of the twitching animal.
25/11/2021
Overcome with grief, Larry flushes his substitute-friend’s corpse down the toilet and relocates to a sumptuous residence in London suburbia. Screened from his neighbours by a hedge of an unusual height, he installs powerful sprinklers accidentally shooting jets of cold water at anyone walking by too close.
I-0° 08/09/2022
The universe 54-W is an interesting one. It comprises solely of Larry’s house floating in an infinite void of grey clouds, peeking from behind the hedge.
‘Concentrate … Concentrate …’ Larry opens his eyes as he jolts suddenly on his sofa.
Larry has just returned from a voyage through one hundred and four universes undertaken in just under two seconds. The unprompted expedition culminates in a total annihilation of several pre-universe nebulae clusters, the inexplicable political instability in the capital of Camelopardalus Mortiferum League of Planets in the universe 55-W, the abrupt death of King Volantus Lolligo XVII of the Saeva Polypus dynasty, followed by the souring of all coffee in the kingdom of Bablah in the universe 34-WY.
‘Need to work. Need to do … stuff.’ Larry sits up straight, pinching and pulling at his ear. ‘Need to concentrate.’
The flies darting over his head keep buzzing. The clouds plummet low; the skies grow darker. Larry’s laptop fills up the living room with an inspirational glow. There are several tabs open in the browser: literaryreview.com, artandbusiness.com, spankmeharder.gov and funkymonkey.ninja. Going back and forth between the tabs, Larry settles for the last one. He places the laptop on the coffee table and reaches for the napkins. Moaning in a hoarse voice, he ogles on, inserting a few misogynistic remarks in between. An instant rapture sends him back to the torpid inertia. He throws his head back and sighs deeply.
‘Concentrate, Larry, concentrate.’ Larry wipes his face with his palm.
He falls asleep immediately, reverting back to 74-W. The flies quickly follow through the temporary wormhole, restarting the blue axolotls’ evolution on the Viridi Mare gas giant.
I-0° 08/09/2022
Larry wakes up on the floor with his face tangled in one of his sleepers. Surprisingly enough, the smell isn’t as unbearable as he thought it would be. With the flies continuously whirling over his head, Larry scrambles back onto the sofa. Seated more or less comfortably, he switches on the TV and begins the painful routine of checking on his accumulated emails. This time around, Larry shifts through the surplus of candidates wishing to take part in the Scarlet Brook Art Festival residency — a show he accepted to curate whilst recuperating from one of his wrecking-ball wanderings around the multiverse W.
From: Krotsky12@pointermail.com
Dear Mr Patel, my name is Laura Krotsky. I’m an installation artist living and working in Brighton. I’ve been so excited to learn that you are the Scarlet Brook Festival chief curator as I’ve always admired your peerless expertise. I’d like to submit my candidature …
Larry hits delete.
From: Jared-B@techdec.com
Dear Mr Larry Patel, My name is Jared Berbelluch. I’m an award-winning painter from Bournemouth. I’ve exhibited my work in both the UK and Europe. I would like to apply for …
Larry hits delete.
From: someone@something.com
Mr. Larry Patel, good morning … My name is Hanna Volkovitch. I’ve just learned of this great opportunity …
Larry hits delete.
From: whatever … Dear Larry Patel, I’d like to …
Larry hits delete.
From: somebody else
LISTEN TO ME YOU STUP ID CUNT! This the fourteenttime I’m writing to you andyou dont even answer yes or no or goddamn anythin,g, uglyyou ugly stupid faucking selfcentred prick.I AM THE ARTIST REMEMBER THAT!!! Remember tht yuo ugly sn of a bitchcuntmotherfucker! Remember without me you qwouldn’t have work you live off me all of you, you parasitickind,i know you -i know yoall you canteven a nswer me,because what, Because you feell important? and why is tht exactly? stpid cunt! EVERY CANVAS I DO THERE’S MY BLOOD ON IT EVERY SCULPTURE I DO THERE'S IS MY BLOOOD ON IT YOU UNDERSTAND YOUCUNT?WELL FUCK YUO ALLyou’ll al be sorry when im fuckin g gloris Lizard!!! .And youll be will be sorry yuou didn’t even bother even to ans we r me yes or no or anything goddamnti it youselfish cunt1 CUNT!!!!Attached please find my artist portfolio in case you change your fuckingmind or have lost it already whichwouldnt surprise me a bit I SENTYOU THA TSIXTEEN TIMES ALREADY YOU STUPID UGLY CUNT DIE YOU CUNT FUCKINGCUNT!GEOFFREYMOTH
PS CUNT!!!!!!
Larry stares vacantly at the laptop screen until the letters dissipate as if afflicted by Saint Vitus’ dance. He straightens himself and pulls up his underwear. He throws his arms into the air in a circular motion. The gymnastics don’t live up to their promise, at least as far as his back is concerned.
‘Die, you cunt, fucking cunt,’ Larry sings aloud to a popular pop song, heading back to the kitchen for yet another dose of caffeine.
As he pours aromatic blackness into a yellow mug from an electric kettle, Larry’s eyes go dim for a split second. Time slows down suddenly, then speeds up again.
‘The universe is collapsing.’ Larry blinks a couple of times.
The buzzing of the flies lingers in his ears.
‘Motherfucker!’ Larry screams having scalded himself with the hot liquid.
I-0° 08/09/2022z
‘I am the captain of the ship.’ Larry cools his hand under the sink tap, splashing the ice-cold stream with his wiggling fingers.
The pain relents. Larry turns off the tap and wraps a towel around his trembling limb. The feeling comes back, along with the burning sensation. Resolved on teaching Mr GEOFFREYMOTH a lesson, he slogs back to the sofa. He throws his legs up on the coffee table and types on his laptop with one hand.
Appalled as I am by such a disproportionate effusion of gratuitous profanity … I’ve just had enough of this kind of petty impertinence … I will not stand for this kind of insolence... Larry taps at his nose with his index finger. Time decelerates. Larry keeps tapping at his nose tip, then deletes everything.
Now, you listen, you stupid twat … Larry starts anew, rubbing his eyes. But words don't come to his mind.
twat … listen … stupid … twat … twat … twat … Larry keeps typing automatically.
Time slows down again and his thoughts drift away. There’s a party going on. Larry hurtles about, completely naked, in slow motion. His head is covered with dotty boxers. I am the captain of the ship! Larry can hear himself shout. Time slows down to about a half of its customary speed. The TV maunders on. Two flies circle around an invisible gravitational centre right above Larry. The deafening buzz overwhelms every other sound: the birds chirping outside, the television babble, the water running in the kitchen which Larry forgot to turn off.
‘… Yarp …’ Larry says in a grotesquely long drawn-out voice, and starts typing:
Dear Mr Moth,
It is with great pleasure that I would like to invite you to take part in our art residency programme and subsequent exhibition at the 26th Scarlet Brook Biennale of Contemporary Art. Enclosed, please find the forms required for the artist participation.
Thank you for your interest in the 26th Scarlet Brook Biennale of Contemporary Art.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
Best regards, Larry Patel
Larry hits send. Time suddenly jumps back to its regular tempo. The flies break away, zoom off in different directions and the window opens spontaneously. Larry throws the laptop onto the coffee table. A strong static-like noise growing in his head dissolves gradually as a fresh gust of air surges through his house making faint whistling sounds. He listens on for a short while, then hurls his coffee mug against the beige wall with all his might. The mug smashes to smithereens without any sound. The coffee splashes all over the wall, creating an irregular Rorschark splotch right in between two oil paintings in shiny frames.
‘Will anything ever make sense again?’ Larry observes the coffee trickling down the wall in thin strands.
Eventually, Larry picks up the laptop and types hornyhornet.co.uk into the address bar.
● ● ●
A short answer to Larry’s quandary would be that things made sense all the time, although seldom from an individual’s perspective. Little did Larry know that the stupid twat he had just extended the residency offer to and whose works he didn’t even bother to see, was chiefly responsible for expediting Larry's disorganised peregrinations across the multiverse W. That, and making the greatest inter-dimensional portal ever that Larry has just enabled him to create.
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