“Oh yes, Spartacus,” howled Spartamatrix, white teeth glinting like daggers, “PENISES SHALL BE LASERED!”

Jerry stood stock still.

That had sounded like his own voice.

His hands went back to his breasts. Still enormous, still singing to the Gods like the smooth perfection of alabaster, but now held in a smooth black leather bodice. He looked down.

Just as he was Spartacus, he was Spartamatrix. A cool black Electron-Whip danced and sizzled in his hand, ready to strike the life from Spartacus. From himself.

I’m the whole puzzle piece, he thought.

His mother’s blue-black hair, Spartamatrix’s fishnets, Spartacus’ polka-dots, Sarah Palin’s glasses… he wore them all. The battle over the end of space-time was being fought entirely within him, entirely by him.

I am the entire puzzle piece!

He tried to picture himself on the STC Diagram. Which puzzle-piece was he? An edge piece? Perhaps a corner? Where did the world end?

He stepped forward, as Spartacus toward Spartamatrix and as Spartamatrix toward Spartacus, wrench and Electron-Whip raised in his onion-layered alter-ego’s hands. His body prickled with excitement, for he knew in this clash his fate, and the fate of the universe, were fast approaching.

The bunion on his left big toe stung a bit. Ouch. Nothing but grief.

Nothing but grief.

And then he saw it. And it seemed so obvious.

He was not a puzzle piece, no not at all. Nothing so contained as that, nothing so conscribed.

He was the drawing on the puzzle itself.

His mouth dropped open. He was all of it. He looked about him — he was there, hiding in the emptiness behind every zipper. He was the yarmulke on Finklebaum’s head, and the worlds at his feet. He was the smooth perfection of alabaster, and he was the Gods’ pleasure receiving it as sacrifice. His mouth dropped open, and all mouths dropped open, for he understood all mouths were his. Amazed, he felt saliva-universal move slowly down his chin.

“Maybe you should use a napkin,” a voice said.

And he knew that the end was indeed approaching, for he knew she could again be mentioned.

The barista handed him a napkin. But he saw it was his own hand handing the napkin, just as it was his own hand receiving it. He looked into her eyes.

Just like looking into a mirror.

“Attempt 29,” he breathed, into the silence that was the universe, “Success.”