There's an American who has been mentioned once or twice around here in times begone. He went by the name of Hugh Everett with an III to go with it. A brilliant mind, his many-worlds intrepration of quantum physics remains a player in the pursuit of the ultimate in knowledge - a unified theory of everything.
Who gives a fuck i hear some ask, and you may be correct, but as a morbid byline to a future movie, Hugh left instructions that his ashes be pegged out with the trash - after his demise. That demise came early in life - a victim to a lifestyle that required no thought into what one might do to their own body via the excesses of life.
A few years after his death, his wife, herself a somewhat tragic figure, duly obliged, and Hugh was pegged out, his final wish no longer obliged on her or anyone else.
As it should be.
You might imagine the surprise when a small little padded envelope arrived in the door about a year ago. A Joe Lumley, Solicitor, business card and a small, clear, zip-locked plastic pouch with what looked like dust inside. On the back of the card a few words -
Your bit of Larry. Do as you will.
I like that.
It took me a few days to get to the bottom of it. I couldn't make contact with Joe myself, but he had left word with his secretary to say that science had finished with Larry, what was left was to be distributed among named beneficiaries and I happened to be one of them.
'We get weirdos a lot,' she said over the phone.
Several months passed and what was left of Larry was itself gathering dust. I tried to think what he might have wanted done with his last remnants. He was a loner once politics rejected him, so throwing him to the wind seemed like a cop-out. He'd have appreciated a Big Lebowski moment, but living miles from the sea, counties from a cliff, and a continent away from such a soulful evening in that scene that gives a certain clarity too - perhaps - ones own odyssey on this blue, soon to be blazing sphere, fizzing through mostly empty space at a phenomenal rate of speed.
Perhaps many spheres, hey Hugh?
'Smoke him,' my foreign neighbour suggested, blowing leaves into my yard, not a care in the world. Not sure if he was serious or not. Humour gets lost in translation sometimes.
And no, we didn't!
I finally decided what to do with my ounce and a half of what's left of Larry. I'll tend to that soon. Maybe after the rain.
Things are kind of slow round here with secret dealings being done in the corridors of power so that vested interests can take the scalp of national ones for a little longer. Doesn't seem right somehow, it being 2016 and all. Not sure how anyone else feels about being Irish, but I sense we have lost our way.
Think i'll bury Larry's absurd play in a desolate place, along with what's left of his matter. I wonder what the other beneficiaries did with their dustings?
The Ashes of Larry Mulligan. I can see it now. Up there in cobalt neon, somewhere in Dublin.
Who knows, if i vacuum pack it, then triple-wrap it in heavy-duty industrial plastic, encase it in a water-tight thingy and bury it deep enough, it might be found by another generation of wanderers who might be able to bring ol' Larry back to life. I should put a coin in too. While they're still tender. And a nail. For devilment. You know, for the metal detector enthusiasts of tomorrow. At the very least they might perform Larry's play in some far off cave in the future. Hovering around some cosmic energy source lost for centuries within the Vatican vaults.
For the last time, the typo-laden, predicatively naive, one act 'play' by Larry Mulligan.
Bailout - A Short Play