Berthold studied physics for several weeks trying to figure out which way his theoretical quarks were supposed to be moving. None of the gauges he chose were any good. Then he realized something amazing.
"If I create a bottle of locally deconfined quark-antiquark pairs mixed with concentrated neutronium," he thought, "I can open an Einstein-Rosen bridge to another universe! But it will only work if I get really, really high."
So he got a whole lot of quarks and kneaded them into a pulpy mass using techniques he learned in the Stanislaw Lem parody next door. Then he carefully deconfined them using the olive-drab cover of an Army-surplus copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road as a blade to cut the tendrils of gluon string that held them together. The edges were sharp enough to do the trick since the Death Pigs had intended to use them to slice throats.
Then he took lots and lots of drugs of every type he could think of, and as he got more and more wired and stoned and generally disconnected from consensus reality, he gradually came to realize that the light is everywhere, and all things suddenly seemed conscious, and glowed with an inner, greenish fire. Slowly this fire collected into a Peano space-filling curve in the middle of the room. This Peano space-filling curve suddenly metamorphosed into a stream of maximally complex information that reorganized itself into an Einstein-Rosen bridge. It looked like a mirrored ball. He could see a distorted, tiny image of another universe through the hole.
There were beings in there, and they looked just like people except that their eyes were in their armpits. They talked to him; he found that sound came through the hole, somehow, and that they could speak perfect English, since they came from an alternate universe where English was spoken on their planet.
They told him they wanted him to have sex with the Einstein-Rosen bridge. So he did, for forty billion years. It was just the right width. His orgasm destroyed the universe.