Until It’s Gone

I’m alone.  I’ve determined that this universe has no life.  Every planet I reach is dead.  I’ve scanned millions of them, and they are all empty, every single one.  You might think I’m being a bit silly here.  After all, there are so many universes that, statistically speaking, there will be a few lifeless ones.  It’s bound to happen, I’ll grant you that.

The problem is, this is my universe.  There were a few things here when I left, and I will admit to presuming that the vast intergalactic civilization (the one that I had left behind for a few minutes to get a soda from another universe) would still be here.  Obviously, I was wrong.  Statistically speaking, that’s bound to happen too, I know.

 

What makes me rather curious is that it only took a few minutes at most to wipe out every bit of life in this universe.  Minutes.  For every life in the whole damn universe.  Mind-boggling, even for an extraordinarily intelligent used spaceship salesman like myself.  At this point, there’s really only one question left to answer. 

 

How do I make a profit from this situation?  I have a few things in mind already.  For example, real estate.  There’s lots of available lots on these empty planets.  I could also sell the rights to use the natural resources of these planets to nice businessmen like myself in other universes.  Or maybe build my own combination casino and bordello planet.

 

So many choices, but all of the above is the only option for me.  No need to limit myself.  There’s a whole universe out there for the taking, and I’ve just inherited it all.  I guess the old expression is true.  You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

 

I start drawing up proposals and offers and contracts and deeds, and while I’m occupied completely with that, thousands of people reappear on the planets that were once dead shells of themselves.  Things start getting back to normal in my universe, but I’m so devoted to my new profiteering schemes that I don’t notice.

 

I begin performing some rough calculations, and realize that with an entire universe at my disposal, I could make approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 reso on my first day in business.  That would bring me enough wealth over the next five or so years that I could probably buy another universe and flip it for even more.  At that point, I’m set for life.  I’ll have more money and power than that 17-dimensional prankster some call God.  I’ll have so many women wanting me to impregnate them that my descendants will flood the gene pool.

 

Sadly, my reverie is interrupted by my wife trying to contact me.  She’s always doing something to get in the way of my career progress, from encouraging me to spend more time with my children to asking for money for food and clothing.  It never ends.  And then I realize, she’s supposed to be gone, along with every other person in this universe.

 

It turns out that I went for a soda in another universe just before everyone else went on their lunch break.  Apparently, all the other people in this universe decided to visit another universe for lunch, and so when I came back there was no sign of them.  I spend the next few weeks trying to convince everyone that we should sell our universe for profit, but no dice.  I guess they’re like me.  They won’t know what they’ve got until it’s gone. 

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2 Responses to Until It’s Gone

  1. this journal entry was so strange. i like it. i think.

  2. Nous_Apeiron says:

    @nyclegodesi24 – hehe.  My fiction tends to have that effect. 🙂

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