Oscar

The USS Bronson departed the solar system on the first Wednesday in October, carrying 420 tons of prime marijuana for trade on the rim. Its wormhole jumps were automated.

By the first jump, the crew, consisting of Oscar Slama, was baked. He sat in the captain’s chair with a bowl of chips in his lap.

In front of him, he appeared.

“Wha…?” he said.

“Don’t freak out,” Oscar 4-6 said. “I’m just more you, in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.”

“Whoa,” Oscar said.

“Got a light?” asked Oscar 4-6.

After a second wormhole jump, as the ship navigated n-space on its trip to the rim planets, Oscar 7-9 joined the others, who, using a bong, were now ozzy. He immediately commenced baking brownies, a smoking blunt held between his clenched teeth.

Croned, the three talked about the meaning of life with others who joined them subsequently.

“It definitely has something to do with this yup yup,” Oscar 64-66 said.

“Dude, it’s like … like … life,” Oscar 90-92 said.

“Having trouble finishing my sentenc… ” Oscar said. Oscar 99-101 refilled his bowl with organic, unsalted puffed peas.

“How many are me?” Oscar said. “I mean, how many of dimensions of me are they …?”

“Infinite,” said Oscar 19948892…

More wormholes, more dank. Infinitely more Oscars, steetched.

“Let’s all squeeze in together,” Oscar said. “Dudes, I am so fazed …”

“Dude, not out here in n-space. You got to stay spread out in n-space.”

“No, squeeze in,” Oscar said with the frown of the chonged.

They burned the crops. They squeezed in, all infinity of them.

The ship flew on, empty of Oscars and budda.

The Oscars looked around.

“Where are we?” they asked themself.

“In this universe, we’re God,” said the part of Him most lit.

“Dude!” they said.

for Microcosms

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