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That Dang Clone
This week, upon arriving at school, I was asked by many people about my behaviour on the weekend. I was referred to variably as "Party King", "Chug-a-Lug" and "Jerk". It seems most of you think I went to a party on Friday, got drunk, and made a complete fool out of myself. I can assure you this was not me. How did dozens of fellow partiers then see me standing atop the speakers, a beer in one hand, my pants in the other, shouting slurred quotes from Gladiator? It's quite simple. That wasn't me, but my clone.
Yes, it's quite obvious that I have an evil twin. A Doppelganger. A sinister sibling. A conniving copy. You get the idea. And it's quite apparent to me that, while I stayed at home like the kind, respectable, non-car-stealing person that I am, my evil duplicate set about disgracing my name, embarrassing me publicly, in some fiendish plot whose purpose I can't begin to fathom. It's quite simple really.
And so whilst I sat reading Dickens, this nefarious being went on a non-stop bender, crashing over six parties in one night, winding up semi-conscious and semi-clothed, in a ditch. While I enjoyed Masterpiece Theater on PBS, he staggered out of the ditch, and somehow made his way to Toronto, which I can only assume he reached sometime the next morning. At the time I awoke to begin my daily chores, he threatened a cop, threw a beer bottle at a patrol car, and tried to flee before tripping on his own belt, and cracking his skull on the pavement. I can only infer that he was subsequently arrested, and spent the afternoon in a drunk tank, arguing with fellow rummies, prostitutes, and cockroaches, before being released.
This being a Saturday night, I was obviously at home reciting my prayers and climbing into my neatly made bed, as he recited the words to the Kaluha Brown Sugar theme song, amidst a crowd of fellow ravers, and soon crawled into a dimly-lit bathroom, to purge his stomach and wipe himself off. Soon finding himself back outside, ejected violently for spilling his drink repeatedly on other patrons, my evil twin stumbled his way to the nearest bright light, a tattoo parlour. Thirty minutes and twenty bucks later, he must have exited said parlour, several square inches of untainted skin poorer, but a large demon-snake with flames for eyes richer.
As I slept, the criminal mastermind then began the climax of his plot to soil my good reputation, and using only a broken beer bottle and his clouded, clouded mind, single-handedly robbed a liquor store, escaping with a case of peach Schnapps, and all the rye, gin, and Food&Drink magazines his pockets could hold. To ensure that my name would be besmirched, rather than attempt an escape this man waited for the cops in a back alley, drinking his cheap liquor and clothing his feet with torn up-magazines to pass the time. Not wanting to be caught himself, he only waited for the police to arrive and get a good look at his face, identical in every way to mine, before attempting to vault a chain link fence, making the ascension okay, but taking the brunt of the descent on his head.
This cold-hearted clone then stumbled/disappeared into the backdrop of Toronto life, as I was awakening on Sunday morning, at home, in my own bed. Understand, friends, family, and law enforcement officials, these dastardly crimes were not committed by me in a drunken stupor, but by him, in a malicious attempt at disgracing me before everyone that I hold near and dear.
The giant tattoo on my back? All part of his plan.
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