“Be fruitful, and multiply.” — Genesis 1:22
“Hey Oscar, 1 + 1 = 2  …  Oscar: Why?” – Overheard, Early 21^st Century

First in a multi-part account of two near-imperceptible molecular sequences helplessly intent on world domination.

But first the data (Evening April 17, 2020):

The number of confirmed U.S. cases currently exceeds 700,000. Here’s the question: Will the upward trend continue to 1,000,000 by April 30, or will a bend begin to appear before then. “THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER,” [MultiVac, “The Last Question,” Isaac Asimov, Science Fiction Quarterly, November 1956]. Current estimated fatality rate is about 5.28%, corresponding to over 50,000 deaths by April 30. The fatality rate continues to increase every week. This is unexpected. Reason is unclear at this time [See, MultiVac].

In the following account we find Larry and Larry attempting to discern their place in the universe. No, that’s a bit too grandiose. How about their place in nature. Nope, keep going. In the scheme of things? Not sure what that even means. That’s it! Wait, what? Confusion ensues. Entropy increases. And yet they survive. For some reason.

Larry and Larry’s Excellent Adventure – PART I

Hey.
Hey. 
Just got here.
Yeah. 
Guess l blend in, huh?
Yeah, with a billion others like us.
So, what’s the story with this guy?Snores.
Great. No rest for the wicked.
We don’t sleep.
I know. Just sayin’…
Cigars, too.
They’re the worst.
Yep. Every night. See over there?
That a mountain of ash?
A bunch of us are buried in there.
They okay?
They’ll survive.
Sometimes I forget how tiny we are.

Yeah. Sort of a David and Goliath thing.
So this guy – cigar guy – is our enemy?
Not exactly.
Well why would we go all David on him then?
We don’t do it on purpose.
Huh?
We don’t have any purpose.
Well that’s depressing. And slightly confusing,
We exist. That’s about it.
Sounds sort of nihilist.
Nietzsche would be thrilled.
I feel so much better now. By the way, name’s Larry.
Yeah, you and me and almost everyone else trapped in this muck.
I guess. That was sort of dumb, huh?
Can’t be dumb. Or smart. No brain. 
Well why are we here?
I don’t know. No brain.
So… what do we do?
Nothing. We wait.
We wait.
Pretty much.
What if we get hungry.
No stomach.
I don’t get it. Are we alive or not?
Yes.
Thank you for clearing that up for me.
No problem.
Why do we have crowns? Are we royalty?
In a way. We’re pretty powerful.
But we’re so minuscule.
Yeah, but we can do a lot of harm. Unintended, but still.
Why?
I don’t know.
To who?
To whom. Cigar guy.

How? We’re tinier than a gnat’s eyelash.
Tinier. 100 nanometers. Millions in a droplet of snot.
Nice imagery. Thanks. So how can only one …?
Royalty, remember?
So what?
See those spikes on your crown?
No eyes.
Well if you did have eyes you would see a ton of spikes.
On my crown.
Not really a crown.
You just said…
We’re not actually wearing crowns. It’s part of us. Porcupiny.

I beg your pardon?
Why am I trying to explain this? It doesn’t matter.
Nietzsche, I know. But what’re they good for, the spikes?.
If I had a mouth I would sigh.
Just tell me. Wait… no mouth… so how are we…
Never mind. Just listen.
Ears.
If I had nerves you would be getting on them.
Sorry. You were saying…
We hang around, waiting for a blob to float by.
A blob.
Yeah, like an enormous deformed water balloon. Wobbly, slimy.
Water balloon. Okay. And then?
We snuggle up.
I won’t ask.
We just do.
Right. Nietzsche. But our crowns, or spikes, or whatever, won’t they…?
Poke into the blob?
Yeah. Won’t we pop it?
Doesn’t work that way. We hook onto a little whisker.
The balloon blob thing has a beard.
Sort of. We find a whisker to clip onto.
Let me get this straight. We grab onto a whisker. On a slimy balloon.
And burrow in.
Wait, what?
We nuzzle right inside there. Nice and cozy. That’s the idea.
Whose idea?
I don’t know.
You’re scaring me. I’m afraid to ask: What then?
We wait.
Of course.
It’s what we do.
That’s disgusting. And distressing. If I could move, I’d scram.

It gets worse. Once we’re inside…
Wait. We?
Maybe. I don’t know how many of us needs to get in there. Maybe only one.
And we’re waiting to…
Split.
Leave?
Not that kind of split.
You mean – split, like in two? This is getting weird.
Sorry. If I had shoulders I’d shrug.
So that’s it, we split.
Sort of, yes.
Come on.
After you split there’s two of you, identical twins.
Two of me.
Right.
I split into twins.
Not so much split as divide and replicate.
This is getting very Rod Serling. I’m afraid to ask: Then what?
Another split — now there’s four of you.
Four. Of me.
Right. Then after a while the four split into eight.
I don’t like where this is going.
After lots more splitting there are a LOT of twins in there.
Wait, wait — at some point aren’t there going to be too many?
Yes.
Then? 
What do you think?
Really? Really?
Imagine (if you had a brain) that the blob gets completely full, bulging.
Okay.
And then everyone splits one more time.
Seriously?
Kababloom!

What happens to us? Are we still alive?
We’ve already addressed that. Alive, not alive, who’s to say?
Fine. And we all have crowns.
Identical. Almost every last one of us.
Just floating around.
Right.
Waiting… until another blob comes by?
Maybe.
What do you mean, maybe?
We could start hooking into that padded wall there.
Where?
Over there past the ash heap, see?
No eyes, but I’ll play along. Looks seriously mucousy. Hairy.
Now you’re being disgusting.
Sorry.
We hook in and…
…do the whole get inside splitting thing all over again?
Pretty much.
The whole exploding thing.
Yup.
Eventually there are so many of us that we become a real nuisance.
And then?
Cigar guy’s immune systems goes Defcon 4 — launches a swarm of flying monkeys.
Sounds bad. Not really monkeys.
Imagery, son. They usually do a good job.
Any of us survive?
Usually not. Sometimes.
And then?
We keep on hooking into everything in sight, splitting, the whole deal.
What happens to the blobby stuff, you know, its skin or innards or whatever?
Yeah, about that. It’s a mess.
What happens to it?
It… sort of… accumulates.
You mean all this gunk…
Yeah, starts collecting in cigar guy’s lungs.

That sounds bad.
Yeah.
How can he breathe, I mean won’t it start clogging up…
Yeah.
Oh.
Won’t he…
Drown in gunk? Pretty much.
Then what happens to us?
Mostly we, how shall I say, expire with him. Some of us might make it out.
Out? But then … wait … this could go on forever.
Yeah.
Wait though. What if cigar guy goes all Defcon 1. Massive reinforcements.
Could happen.
That sounds good for cigar guy, bad for us.
Not always. Sometimes the number of monkeys gets way out of hand.
So?
Millions of monkeys going all Rumspringa, start going after cigar guy.
Why?
Are we really going there again?
Fine. But… poor guy. So his odds are…
Not so good, nope.
But what abou … hey … hey, do you hear that?
No ears.
…what’s happening…?
I don’t know.
Something bad, I can feel it.
It is getting a bit breezy.
I’m outta here…
How? No legs, wings, or… uh oh … hold on!
To what?
— In a blink a billion beads of phlegm sneeze into sunlight —
How long do you think we’ll last out here?
We’re on a handrail. Should be good for a few days.
Well that’s encouraging.
— 37 seconds later Larry and Larry are schlepped onto a chubby finger —
“Flight 3141 to Fargo now boarding at Gate 59.”

— To Be Continued —