You Wish

It's bad enough that American tabloids are circulating that sorry-ass mug shot of me all around the cosmos. Muck rakers. But now I'm told that I have a Doppelganger and he's running around the galaxy pretending to be me. Unh, hunh. Well, let me be the first to tell you that this Fred Fortune lookalike is no goddamn Doppelganger.

A double of me would be worth getting to know. I could pick his brains for ideas on how to stick it to the Illuminati or how to lift a Hershey bar from a Mom-and-Pop store on Neptune without getting caught and so on. That kind of stuff would make having a Doppelganger a lot less threatening and maybe even worthwhile. But that's not the case with me and this particular Fred Fortune wannabe.

The guy who looks like me is an impostor, not a double. They say every human being has a double somewhere. Fine. Let me meet him and team up with him. Together, we'll pull the rug out from under the Illuminati, those Rothschild overlords who control the world's money supply, the Bilderberger power brokers who are the Illuminati's "yes men" and who also set the global agenda each year, the Council of 13, the Council on Foreign Relations and the Trilateral Commission, who are the Bilderberger Group's "yes" men, the 35th-Degree Masons and the Skull & Bones Society who handpick U.S. Presidents, that Vatican lot who have deceived an entire planet with their holier-than-thou witch doctoring, the Ordo Templi Orientis who think they're not accountable to anyone on Earth, the goddamn Grays, and a host of other groups of background string-pullers and movers and shakers who have been using Earth as their evil playground since day one. And we'll do it so fast it will make their goddamn heads spin. And I think these pricks know that this is exactly what me and my real-life Doppelganger would do if we ever got the chance to put our heads together and come up with a plan for retaking planet Earth. For starters.

You know what I think? I think this Fred Fortune impostor is the same dog turd that's been hanging out at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Hell, I've been to a lot of places in this galaxy but they've always been real places in the physical universe. Think-A-Holic Lounge, on the other hand, occupies no space in the physical universe and, therefore, anybody who looks human and hangs out there is either unreal or a non-human impostor. In my case it's a ringer. Just wait 'till I find my real Doppelganger, you ringer rat bastard. Then your sorry tail will be ours.

So, OK. I admit that the sorry-ass mug shot of me is the real me. It was my own fault for pigging out on stolen Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and then passing out on a city bus on Pluto where shop lifting is a crime punishable by a lifetime of community service. That's why I escaped on their asses. But one day, rat ringer, I'll nip your con act in the bud before you can pretend to be someone else. Like that science fiction novelist Michael Casher. As if anybody in this part of the space-time continuum would ever want to be him.