This Story Is Full of Scorpions: Seriously, Dude, Don’t Read It

According to Multiverse Theory, you, in an infinite number of universes, right now, are fucking Rick Santorum. All it takes for there to be a divergence is a decision, no matter how small: the second you make a choice, you go one way, and a universe where you make the other choice goes the other way. Another choice, another split. Every decision you make, from where to go to college to when to scratch your balls, is happening at that very same moment in an infinite number of other universes, and some of you are making one choice, and some of you are making another.

Or maybe the choice got made before you even got there. Maybe your great-great-great grandmother had a pickle for lunch one August Thursday, and that set off the chain of events that led to you, where you are, right now, reading this. Maybe if she’d had an apple instead, you wouldn’t be sitting here at all. Instead, you — or someone enough like you that it might as well be you — would be knees-up in some sturdy Pennsylvania Dutch four-poster bed, taking it like whatever you take it like from a former senator and presidential candidate in a sweater-vest. There’s even an infinite number of universes where he’s removed the sweater-vest.

There is, of course, an infinite number of universes out there where this is not happening. But mathematically speaking, infinity and infinity are the same — that is, you can’t have more of the infinity where a thing is happening than you can of the infinity where that thing isn’t happening. So if you could step through the thin membrane separating these universes into that next universe over’s version of you, odds are fifty-fifty that you’d find yourself on the receiving end of Rick Santorum’s glorious Republican penis.

Think about that next time you’re having trouble sleeping.


Across The Universe

by Oh, Kami (狼)
illustrated by quaedam and sairobi

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/79947.html)

Gwydion wove his way through the gorse bushes, stepping lightly on the sparse, dewy grass. His bare feet were chilled through and caked with mud, but it was too tricky to soften his steps in moccasins, riddled as the grasses were with tricks and traps that guarded the village. He wished that he’d thought to bring them anyway, as respite from the clear March morning. The sun was still long hours from rising and the moon had sunk low and fat on the horizon. It chased him from behind as he snuck across the moors.

One of his carefully placed footfalls started a family of quail into the air. He paused, his pulse throbbing in his ears, until he could be sure that no other creatures stirred as well. Dotting the vast horizon was the herd of wapiti he had been searching for. It wasn’t the main herd, which would have been grazing closer to the village, but the lonely group of young males.

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Guitar Hero

by Takiguchi Aiko (滝口アイコ)
illustrated by sairobi

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/67080.html)

illustrated by sairobi

You couldn’t even count the benefits of Roger getting clean but one of the unexpected ones was Jeremy got at least six hours of sleep a night, more or less uninterrupted. He’d had insomnia for as long as he could remember, and managing to drift off only to have Rog and those assholes from Up, Up and Away bring their coked-up groupies on the tour bus and smash the Playstation open with a hammer, do not even get him started. So having grown accustomed to the new order, he was less than charitable when Finn sat on his bed, basically only molecular repulsion between his ass and Jeremy’s head and said, “Get up, man.”

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Mike Dies At The End

by shukyou (主教)
illustrated by sairobi

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/61440.html)

Solving the following riddle will reveal the awful secret behind the universe, assuming you do not go utterly mad in the attempt. If you already happen to know the awful secret behind the universe, feel free to skip ahead.

Let’s say a hipster is chatting you up at an otherwise boring party — one of those homely types who’d have been shit out of luck had Weezer not brought nerd chic back. Anyway, he tells you how he once built a time machine. Nothing fancy, just a garden-variety thing. He went back about fifty years, hoping to get laid at Woodstock, and ended up sexing up this hot guy he picked up at a Joni Mitchell concert. This hot guy turned out to be the hipster’s dad, who, convinced away from the straight side of the Force, moved to San Francisco, started wearing leather chaps, and never met the hipster’s mom — and the hipster abruptly ceased to exist.

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Arizona Ford And The Golden Legend

by Domashita Romero (地下ロメロ)
illustrated by sairobi

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/57770.html)


“Archaeology is the search for fact. Not truth.” It was how Dr. William Ford began every one of his introductory undergraduate courses; it usually came followed by a rattle of how if any of his students were pursuing a career of adventure and treasure hunting, they were more likely in for a life of bronchial infections from inhaling dust, and back pains from hunching over the tiniest shard of something that might have been of interest to someone two thousand years ago. It discouraged some of them. Some.

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