𝐵𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝓇𝓎 𝐻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓌𝒶𝓎

Bill Henry dropped off due to lack of funds from the Pages enclave, and rotated between Notes and Journal between several years, writing frequently to his wife and son back home in America – promising that he is coming back soon, all of them knowing it is impossible or infeasible by now, considering the salacious and horrifying crime he never committed but still dreams of every night, and with each night he can see the sniper’s face clearer and remember more details.

SD the drummer in tow along with all necessities and sundries scattered for the taking; the crucial bullet is shot and a crowd is drawn. I said to the drummer, “Don’t you think you’re getting scammed, SD?”

He – SD – says, “I’m in my forties, childless – brother, my credit score is so low that it’s not even a number anymore, just a letter: F. The letter F. God damn. Bill Henry, I need to tell you something. Identical twins aren’t real. They are just clones. They don’t actually exist in ancient books of valid antiquity.”

“Thanks, S.D… huh, identical twins – you never do… That’s a really good bit for me to wear, it fits my intuitions perfectly. Are you sure there aren’t any references to twins in the King James Bible? Are you Hawaiian?”

“I am a black albino with full-body nega-vitiligo and I look like a guy who would be pounding a giant drum in some Kalakualolani fire dance on Molokai, but I am actually just German and African. Similar to Michael Jackson.”

“I miss him. His absence feels wrong, as though he were meant to guide us through troubled times of mass disinforma—”

“Come on, he was a pedo, dude.”

“Out of the thousands of children that ever went to Neverland Ranch and stayed in lavish, two-story bedtime quarters with the man, the only two to ever bring him to court had parents with histories of initiating lawsuits against famous celebrities.”

“Damn. That’s something to think about.”

“A conspiracy is a race, not a golf game. Gotta dip, mail broker usually falls asleep after the sun passes his position in his favorite chair. He’s very solid, you should go through him on account of all your troubles and—”

“Ayayayayay ay — I ain’t got troubles. I got problems.”

“Amen. See you on the flip.”

Henry bid adieu to his friend and left the bar, leaving a 500% tip on account of rapid hyperinflation. Henry had been down this road before – you think you’d remember old ladies with wheelbarrows full of cash trying to make it before close, but the more striking image is that of devalued, inflated specie, numismatic parody. Dead faces that create burns in your pockets trying to escape.

Henry thought to himself, I can go back to Pages. It’s easy, distilled ever so gently as he sweat trying to predict whether he could catch the broker in time. I just need to find my doppelganger first, he thought. And I need to ensure that he is my doppelganger and I am not his. In his case, we merely look alike. In mine and in any case, I am obligated to murder this man in order to gain access to Pages again, where I will strike upon those that ousted me, and put to rest all the ridiculous rumors that I was booted for.