“At this point, it’s as much my life as yours," he said. "More, I think. Do you even know what’s been happening in it?”
“No, but I can find out,” I said. “It was only a few months.”
“Only the best few months of my life!” he said. “Our life… hmm. No, I was right the first time. My life.”
“Jesus, man, don’t you get it?” I said, rubbing my forehead. “You stole my life. I'm not trying to be a dick, I'm not being a villain. You have my life. I just want it back. I don’t want to start some new life. I don't want to live another life far away. I don’t want to be goddamn Ben Reilly.”
“Ah, Ben Reilly, the Scarlet Spider, Peter Parker’s clone that’s maybe not a clone. Good reference,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile, then immediately frowned. “Stop distracting me from the real discussion. I just want my life back. This was all supposed to work out with minimal effort. I would come back and you were all dissolved or something. I'd make excuses for my absence and anyone who saw you dissolve, but that would be over in a week or two. Then everything would be okay.”
“Oh yeah, I talked to Victor about that. He said the whole dissolving thing might have been a miscalculation. Or his machine worked better than he thought.”
“You went and talked to Victor?” I asked.
He got nervous and broke eye contact. “I might have been over there a few times, I guess.”
"What did you talk to him about?" I asked.
"Oh, just things," he said. "Bruce is my best friend too, so is it so strange I was over there?"
"You're lying," I said. "You're me, I know when you're lying."
"We're not the same anymore," he said. "A few months apart and we've diverged. I'm not you. And let's fuck pretense. I've been being nice, but I'm sick of this bullshit. You're me. I don't care about what you think, what you remember, or all the fantastic adventures you've had. I think you're the clone. I've been trying to be nice so you'd get the idea to go off on your own, but I'm sick of it now. You are the goddamn clone!"
“You know, fuck off,” I said. “I don’t know why I bothered talking to you.” I began to stand up, but he stopped me.
"Look, I'm sorry. We're both angry and neither one of us wants to back down and lose it all. But there is another possible compromise. We can talk to Victor. Maybe he has a machine that can merge our memories or something. We'd have both our memories in one body. That's win-win! I read about someone doing that. Might have been a movie."
"How did it work out?" I said.
He shrugged. "Have we ever let that stop us before?"
"Whose body would get all the memories?" I asked.
"Well, mine of course..."
I stood back up in anger. "Oh, so it's really all about you? You'd get my memories, but it'd still be your show, your life? I'd be just a cast off! I'm so sick of your goddamn betrayal! Why can't you just take a hike? Go to Nevada or something and become someone new. Give me back my life!"
He stood up and screamed in my face. "It's my life and I'm not giving it up!" I got some spittle on my face from that scream.
That was it. I had hit my limit and was done with him. I punched him in the gut. I felt satisfied by his gasping and sucking of breath. It felt good. I basked in that moment.
Seconds later he recovered and kicked me in the groin.
Now it was my turning for gasping. Tears wet the corner of my eyes. I didn't fall to the ground, but instead I crouched in an awkward knees-locked-together position for a long minute, my hands desperately clutching my aching balls.
When I recovered enough to move, I looked back up at him. His face was pale and his breath was still ragged, but there was a weak smile on it.
"This isn't over!" I screamed.
"Of course it's not over," he spat. "You've made an enemy for life. One who knows every detail of your life!"
I fumbled for some eloquent phrase, some grave declaration of war, some epic statement of our eternal animosity that would make him shiver in fear at the horrible things I would do to him.
What I actually came up with was: "Likewise!"
We both limped off in our opposite directions, leaving the park.
War was declared.
God, did my balls hurt.
Bad Feeling
Detective Stearne visited me again at the hospital. My leg was just recently out of traction, so I could actually move around with a cane. Due to this, I was more than happy to sit up and talk to the detective. I explained to him that I'd still be in the hospital a couple of days longer as the doctors wanted to observe me and see if the leg continued to heal the way they expected.
Once pleasantries were over, Stearne started talking about my accident where we last ended it.
"You've had some time to think of it. Do you have any enemies? Is there anyone you can think of who would wish you harm?" he asked. The police never let anything rest. Like a dog with a bone.
"No, no one I could think of," I lied. I didn't want to explain the story, and honestly, it just couldn't be him. There was no way.
The detective didn't quite believe me, and not because I was a terrible liar. I am in fact a quite excellent liar. Whether I'm telling the truth or lying, I look just as unreasonable. The detective didn't believe me because the facts didn't add up. I just didn't realize how much they failed to add up until he pulled out a laptop.
"I'd like to show you something," he said as he booted it up and cued up a video.
He laid the laptop on the bed between us and clicked start on a grainy black and white video. It looked like a high up view of a city street.
"This is a traffic camera from the night of your accident," he said. "We're extremely lucky to find one that actually had a view of your accident." He paused it for a second. "Here's you," he said, pointing to a dark blob.
"Are you sure?" I asked, squinting my eyes to see detail on that blob.
"Oh, yeah, you'll be sure in a moment." He pressed play and I watched as that dark blob walked out into traffic, then was violently struck by a car. Yup, that's me. I was somewhat proud of humanity when I saw that a few people immediately came over to me to see if I was okay, rather than stealing my wallet or completely ignoring me. Still, it was disconcerting to watch myself get hit, and I had a strong emotional reaction that I didn't expect.
"I'm not sure why you needed to show me that," I said shakily. "I could have lived without it."
"I'm sorry," said Detective Stearne. "But there's an important detail you need to be aware of."
He skipped backwards in the video. Blob-me was just starting to walk out onto the street.
"Here's the car," he said, pointing to a dark car just at the bottom edge of the screen. "Here's you, and here's some other people crossing the street."
He pressed play and I watched the car. As we had both suspected the last time, the car accelerated to hit me. It's what I saw next that had me tense and sit up in bed.
"Could you rewind that?" I said slowly and tensely.
He nodded and played it for me again. I watched myself step off the curb and I watched the car accelerate. What was shocking now is that I could see the car swerve to hit me.
"What. The. Fuck." I said.
"This is why I don't think it was some random joyride hit and run," said Detective Stearne. "It's a sick individual that runs people over for fun, but there's still usually a thought process. They find targets of opportunity. Swerving would make it too dangerous for the driver to lose control of the car. There are plenty of other people they could have accelerated to hit. Swerving indicates that they wanted to hit you. Not any person, not any of these other people crossing the street. They wanted to hit you."
I was silent, merely reaching over to replay the video.
"So let me ask again, do you have any enemies?" said the detective.
I was silent, watching the video again.
"Look, I went and did some checks on you," continued Detective Stearne, "nothing really in
vasive. You have no real previous record. It doesn't seem like you're involved with anything illegal. You seem like a good guy. But sometimes good people find themselves involved in things they can't control due to poor decisions. And sometimes there are very bad people willing to try to collect on the debts related to those poor decisions. We can help you, but you need to tell us what's going on."
"I don't have any enemies," I said simply.
"I find that hard to believe," said the detective.
"I don't," I said. "Besides, can't you get a license plate off this video? You can enhance and shit."
"The plates are the paper temporary plates when a car is purchased. Or rather, they're fake versions of them. We don't have anything to trace the car other than make and model, but nothing has turned up from there. That's why we need your help. If we're going to catch this guy, we need your help. We can't continue any farther unless you tell us what you're involved in."
"I'm not involved in anything," I said.
He sighed and started to put his laptop away. "I think you are, but I have no idea what and no way to prove it. I think you're in danger. But we can't help you unless you help us."
He finished putting the laptop away and stood up.
"Wait," I said. "You think I'm in danger. Can I get a police officer outside my door or something?"
"Do you think you're in danger?"
"Well, you think I'm in danger," I said, evading his question. "Shouldn't I get someone to insure my safety?"
"I can only offer a police guard if you tell us who might be trying to kill you," he said. "Otherwise I'm just looking at a suspicious hit and run that may not be anything more. Police resources are thin, and I need confirmation and facts, not just my intuition. Do you have anything more you want to tell me?"
I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. "No," I finally said, chewing on my lip.
Detective Stearne sighed and shook his head before leaving.
Minutes later I dialed Bruce on my phone. I looked out the hospital window. The sun was going down and dark clouds were rolling in. Rain for sure, maybe thunder. It was going to be a long night.
I thought about what the detective said and combined that with my memory of looking at the car bearing down on me, seeing my reflection in the windshield.
Bruce answered on the fifth ring.
"I need you to come here," I said.
"We're having dinner right now," he said, indicating by tone that this was not a time to come running to the hospital. He paused and answered someone else, probably his wife: "Yeah, it's him."
"The police just came by again," I said.
"Oh, are you in jail now and need me to post bail? Did they finally arrest you for being an asshole without a permit?" I could hear laughter from elsewhere in the room.
"Look, I'm in no mood," I said. "The detective played surveillance camera footage of my accident. The car swerved to hit me. They even accelerated."
"What the hell?" he said, finally concerned.
"Yes," I said. "Whoever was in the car wanted to hit me. To kill or maim me. The police have no leads and I have nothing to give them that they'd believe."
"And who do you think it is?"
"Who else?" I said. "It was him."
"Him who?"
"Bruce, how many mortal enemies do I have?"
"I don't know," he said. "I don't keep tabs on you all the time, I'm sure you've had time to make a nemesis or two I haven't met."
"No, it's him. It's gotta be him."
"But I thought he didn't survive the Circle Line," said Bruce shakily.
"That's what I thought too."
"But why now?"
"I have no idea," I said. "But I have a bad feeling about this. The police won't give me a guard unless I give them some reason to need one, and I can't tell them that. I really would like it if you would come visit me tonight."
Bruce paused before answering. "This isn't just you being weird about things," he said. "You're really afraid this time, aren't you?"
"Please just say you're coming to the hospital."
"Alright, I'll head over after I finish dinner and explain to my wife why I'm ditching out on our date night."
"Thank you," I said and hung up.
I threw my nervous energy into writing these memoirs. I needed something solid, something I could do, something to distract me.
I had a really bad feeling about this.
Goddamn Death Ray
August, 1994 - Long Island, New York
When a man decides to kill his clone, he needs to be properly armed.
There are of course conventional weapons, but I feel conventional weapons should be used on conventional problems. This was clearly an unconventional problem, so I needed an unconventional weapon.
“The next thing I think I’ll need is some sort of death ray,” I said, putting the package into my backpack. “We have Plan B covered,” I said, tapping the backpack, “but I really want something more subtle for Plan A. So I’m thinking death ray.”
“Death ray?” scoffed Victor. “Death ray? Everyone thinks that inventors just have death rays just sitting around. ‘Oh you’re an inventor? Have you made a death ray yet?’ ‘How’s the inventing going? What’s your death ray like?’ I’m sick of it.”
I was at Bruce’s house, trying to coax a solution to my clone problem out of Victor. Well, maybe that's the wrong way to phrase it. I wanted Victor to arm me to the teeth with destructive and experimental weaponry. The only good clone is a dead clone. And I was perfectly comfortable with overkill and collateral damage.
Bruce wasn't home when I started this conversation, which was intentional. Bruce would start talking about things that made sense, things that were reasonable. The man is a goddamn wet blanket for unreasonable, impulsive, crazy action. If we could somehow broadcast his brainwaves worldwide, the world would become a much more measured, reasonable, and careful place. Bruce would never ask for a goddamn death ray.
I was discovering that Victor was a little different without Bruce around. For one, he ranted more often.
“Do they think I’m made of money?” Victor continued. “I’m only in the 10th grade. Of course I would have a death ray if I could afford it. And not a cheap handheld model, but a full rig that would need motorized treads to transport, a full team of engineers, and robotic elite killbots as an honor guard. Yes, the full death ray monty. But I don’t have that sort of money, do I? At best I have enough put away for a death beam. A death beam! The shame of it! Nobody wants anything less than a ray. I might as well have made a stun gun."
"What's a death beam?" I asked.
"See? You're not even sure what it is, but I can already hear the disgust in your voice. Death beam! Harrumph! Just listen to the phrase. It's hardly impressive, is it? It would be just a very tight laser-like beam that would last for just a moment or two. Sure, you could kill your intended victim with pinpoint accuracy, but that's all. Just one victim! That’s hardly a death ray, is it? A goddamn ray is what you want, not a beam. A ray is much more versatile. You have a death ray so when your enemies invade your secret lair, you pull out it out and you can swing it back and forth in a swath of doom, obliterating all your enemies while laughing maniacally! That’s a death ray.”
“So where do you get the money for all of this?” I asked after he calmed down.
“Oh, odd jobs here and there. Mostly repeat business.”
“What do you mean ‘repeat business’?”
He smiled and scratched his neck. “Well, with my research it’s a fine balance between keeping up my materials budget and balancing that with field testing. Like, if there’s something I need field testing on, I’ll usually lend it out for free so I can get the data. Generally I don’t care what someone uses it on, as long as I get the results. But after that if they want more usage of it or later iterations of that technology, then I charge.”
“First taste is free, after that you have to pay?” I suggested. “You sound s
trangely like a drug dealer. Except, with, y'know, experimental weapons-grade technology."
He gave a quick and nervous laugh, scratching his neck again. “It's not really what intended. It's not like I'm building a business. I just need to keep costs down somehow. Particularly if I don’t have to build something new and they want continued use of it, it’s profitable for me to rent it out or sell a previous version.”
I chuckled. “You act like you have a ton of repeat business on your inventions.”
He looked around nervously. “Oh, maybe on an item or two.” He smiled to himself, but then caught himself and cleared his throat. “But not really. There's nobody that borrows my inventions for purposes unknown. Nothing that could be implicated in a court of law or would be evidence on the off chance this lab is bugged. Just a joke. Let's get back to you. You were looking for something like a death ray.”
“Well, death ray-ish. I want something easily carried and not very complicated, kinda like a gun, to take out my clone.”
“Are you sure you want to take out your clone?” he said with a furrowed brow, then stopped himself. “Wait, whatever. Not my place to judge. I just supply. So you want something like a gun to take him out. Have you considered just getting a gun?”
“It crossed my mind,” I said, “though honestly they would be harder to get than one of your toys. Remember, I’m a teenager who's mostly broke and technically homeless. I wouldn't even be able to afford a gun. But that’s not even the main reason. Here's what I think. Say I get a gun, and I shoot my clone in his goddamn smug face. Well, there’s still the dead body. And the fingerprints, DNA, and whatever will say he’s me. Which is tough when they go to tell my parents the bad news and find me back in my life being… uh, well, being me. There's a dead guy and a live guy with the same DNA and finger prints. That would be... well, problematic. I need something cleaner." I paused and took a different tone to help my case. "Also, I'll point out I wouldn’t have had this problem if the clone dissolved like you said it would.”
“It was a theory, at least,” replied Victor. “Sometimes empirical data doesn’t bear out theories, and then we simply have to work with what happens.”
Damned Lies! Page 24