You can call me nuts for going down to Zorban’s Copy Shop, but I’d been out of luck for months, and I needed that to change. My Grand Doppelganger Show was coming up in less than a week and I had no stunt double. Ratings had been dropping since the chainsaw-in-half fiasco. If I cancelled yet another show, I’d be out on the street with the rest of the loser clowns.

 

The copy shop wasn’t much of a shop, just a ramshackle warehouse near the Vegas strip. The neon sign didn’t blink like others in the area, nor was there any indication that they were still in business. On the door, a kitschy poster, or what remained of it, announced the Regal Red Carpet Opening. It dated twelve years back, shortly after the release of the first commercial copy machine.

 

The guy at the front desk — a teen, judging by his skeletal figure and sparse beard — took off his VR helmet when the doorbell rang. His gelled pink hair looked like roasted salmon on a bagel.

 

“Hey, I have an appointment, three PM? Last name Graciella,” I said, looking around the empty lobby.

 

“Gotcha. Gigi Graciella. Triple G of Stun Theatre?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Saw your show once.”

 

I was expecting some sort of praise, but his sentence ended there.

 

“Whadcha think?” I finally asked.

 

“Ummm, I’m not much into… gore magics.”

 

I must’ve flinched, because he felt the need to apologize. I wanted to say the gore bit wasn’t supposed to happen, but a show’s a show, and magicians aren’t supposed to reveal their tricks, let alone admit failure.

 

“Do I need to sign anything?” I asked instead.

 

“Ummm,” he dragged, combing his salmon hair with lacquered fingers. “No, you’re good. But you do have to pay in advance. Lucky you, there’s a spring discount. Fifty percent.”

 

“Wow!” I gasped. It was a bad kind of wow. “How come?”

 

“No idea. New beginnings, or something.”

 

The dodgy warehouse, the skinny kid, the ridiculous discount. I should’ve skedaddled, but I’d already lost so much. If the show closed, I would've been left with nothing but a bad reputation. I swiped my e-wallet, trying to contain the guilt over an ever-growing black hole called credit card debt.

The kid led me into a hall that looked like a basketball court without the hoops. Bleachers circled an open arena. In the middle stood a glass booth, encased in a metallic grille. Frosted glass divided the booth in two. There was no visible wiring connected to the controller in the back, so I assumed they ran beneath the floor.

 

“What’s the seating for?” I asked.

 

“Used to run shows here. When the first copier arrived, it was a big deal. Everyone wanted to watch. Now people don’t care. There're still some clients, but they prefer to do it incogito.”

 

I figured he was proud of using a big word like incognito, so I let the mistake pass.

 

“You can enter here,” he said, opening the door to one of the cabins.

 

“Is it gonna hurt?” I asked, placing my mini crescent bag on the floor.

 

“Ummm, don’t think so? I’ve heard people shout before, but they seemed just fine afterwards.”

 

“No one died?” I hoped to get at least one encouraging answer that day.

 

“Not that I know of. You’ll be alright, you don’t look that old. What are you, 35?”

 

I shot him a disgruntled look. “27!”

 

“Gee, must be the make-up! You can step in,” he said, and I did. He shut the door behind me and was well on his way to the controller when he turned back to say:

 

“Oh, keep your eyes closed.”

 

“You sure that’s all? Do I need to take my clothes off?”

 

“Please don’t take your clothes off! Close your eyes and don’t move till I say so. I’ll count to zero. Ten, nine, eight—”

 

“Wait, I’m wearing metal! Silver rings. Should I take them off?” I shouted.

 

“No, Triple G, you’re good. Ready? Eight, seven, five...” The menace skipped six. “One, zero. Here we go!”

 

I closed my eyes and tried to keep calm, but the screeching of the copier prompted nausea. My guts warped. I started counting to distract myself, but the numbers zig-zagged into messy subdivides. Shearing forces dislocated my insides. I wanted to scream, knock on the wall, but I remembered to stand still, eyes shut. I started to think I deserved to be shredded to pieces for the audacity to replace my twin. After all, it was my dumb mistake that night. I'd maneuvered the chainsaw.

 

I opened my eyes, hoping to wake from the nightmare my choices had led to. The glass glowed Wizard-of-Oz green. I searched for the light source, but it found me first — a beam that overheated my eyeballs. I screamed when a curtain of darkness fell.

I heard footsteps across the arena and the door opening.

 

“Gee-zus, you okay? This almost never happens,” said the skinny kid.

 

“I can’t see! I can’t see a thing!”

 

“Relax, the lasers are not strong enough to blind you.”

 

He was right. After a few seconds, I could make out the shape of the kid, twice over. A blunted version of his salmon hair came next.

 

“I want my money back! I’m not going back inside!”

 

“You don’t have to, Gigi. Your copy’s done,” he said, pointing to the figure coming out of the other half.

 

She burst out laughing, snot, tears and lip gloss mixing. Her cone-flared purple dress and prominent eyebrows made her look like Grimace on high heels. I wiped my own snot and tears and lip gloss with my forearm, and we stepped in closer. She tripped over my bag, I caught her. She was heavy and soft like a ripe plum, and I adored her. We squatted just so, threw our arms in the air, and shouted in unison:

 

“You dumb sis!”

 

I swear, it was as if my twin had never split.