The Doppelganger's Reenactment as Character AssassinFritz Ward
"In the morning, the doves cooed their fuck-yous." ~Jenny Boully I'm just his stand-in. I simulate a bare yellow bulb and strategic cobwebs, cinder blocks and composite crooks, genuine poverty. I stand just so. I'm here to make the ficus by the bay window look less loved. If I stare at a wallet-size reproduction of his face, I can make my eyes like ice over an orange grove. If the director desires my nose closer to my lips, I imply. I perspire. There's no feeling to mimic it. When I achieve him, I go tectonic. The left side of my brain falls fast asleep. When they call action on the stabbing, I bring my silver fist down swiftly and try to invent a fast food menu in Greek with Latin condiments, bloody and slightly appetizing. Take one. Take two. The result: Little Miss Victimhood plays dead for a higher tax bracket. Afterwards, in my trailer, I remove his face with a straight razor. In the mirror, I sing goodbye gorilla, goodbye girl, hello unsolved misery.
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