Evil Twin

I have an evil twin. Most people would laugh. I understand. It's a funny concept. They make sitcoms and bad horror movies out of the idea: an evil twin, and hilarity ensues.

But it isn't funny. It's real. I do not know what wicked goblin crept into our nursery and stole away my brother, leaving in his place a leering travesty whose destiny is to bring chaos and hate into this world, but I knew even then what he was. I knew, screaming and crying in my crib, wanting desperately to be apart from him and his evil, while he gazed at me quizzically like that last frame of that movie, as Damien turns to the camera and stares, innocent yet full of unrealized malice.

There is no one I can tell. Who do you tell about this kind of thing? Mom wouldn't be able to believe it; mothers are blind to the evil of their children. Dad would only ruffle my head and laugh it off, too stupid to see the palpable haze of evil that surrounded our house. "Stop being silly, Jeff. Josh is your brother." I know it, too well.

No, I am the only one who knows my twin's depravity, and it is up to me.

We're grown now, and his taint, his demonic influence, has grown with us. I have tried over the course of my lifetime to lessen his impact on the world, to stop him from achieving his poisonous desires, even to destroy him. All to no avail. A dark angel watches over him and keeps him from justice, guiding him toward some infernal destiny.

I've tried. When we were children, I tried. Hiking with our father along the rims of the San Gabriel trails. A hard push into my brother's back, to send him tumbling down into sharp bracken and rocks, hoping his malevolent flame would be snuffed out. I watched him fall, fingers crossed with prayer as Dad yelped and stuttered, tearing down the hillside to get to my twin, to find him scraped and bruised but alive. Alive! And he never said anything, never told our father. He knows I know the truth, and he mocks me.

He still mocks me, with his lifestyle and his diabolical luck. A house in Los Feliz, a woman I should have married, two kids who look like they just laid aside their vestigial wings and little bows. A six-figure job and a pair of Audi A4 wagons. Audis, while I scrape money together to keep an old battered Tercel running, tossing in my sleep in a shitty apartment behind a gas station, keeping company with thousands of six-legged pets. The Devil takes care of his own. They even dare to celebrate Christmas, and invite me over. He still mocks me.

Like today. Today I run into him, on Sunset, as if he knew everything I'd done. This morning, when I lay sweating on top of a roof that overlooks his office building. He parks in his space and strides into the building, every day. Like clockwork. I waited for him all morning, adjusting the weight of the Heckler-Koch MSG-90, 7.62mm, semi-auto, roller delayed blowback, a gun that cost two years of saving up. But I wanted the best. Only the best to wipe Satan's spawn from the face of the earth. I waited, wiping moisture from the scope even though you're not supposed to do that. He never showed. But he runs into me later; he took today off from work.

Madness. Evil. He even speaks to me.

"Hey-hey, Jeff! How's it going, bro? I'm just about to get some lunch, want to come with?" He even pats me on the shoulder, the same shoulder that held twelve pounds of sniper rifle four hours ago. Sure, Josh. I've been accompanying evil incarnate for twenty-nine years, why not a few minutes more? But: "Um, I dunno. I don't have any cash on me right now."

"No worries, man. I'll get you today." How appropriate. I tried to "get" him, and failed, so he gets me in return. But it's okay. I have another idea, a backup plan. Today is the day your cloven-hoofed guardian angel gets a pink slip.

He takes me to Cheebo and we each order the slow-roasted pork and manchengo pressed sandwich. Well, I order it, and he decides he'll order it too. "That sounds good, I'll have the same!" Does it ever stop? A man and his evil twin, who parrots his every move? Does the mouth of Hell ever stop laughing at my fate? He even assembles some obscene facial expression that's meant to be concern.

"Hey, Jeff. You okay, man? You look like hell." Do I? Well, you should know about Hell, brother. Today's the day I send you back.

So I wait, and under the guise of cleaning my glasses, I pull out the tiny vial. It's meant to hold perfume or something, but it's enough for a few drops of sugar water, mixed with seventy micrograms of a substance six thousand times more powerful than cyanide. It took me years to concoct with a hydroponic and castor bean plants, but it's worth it. The world is worth it, to remove this blemish of evil from its midst.

He goes to the bathroom. How perfect. A quick shake into his water glass and it disappears. He comes back, and never sees my fingers crossed tightly under the table, waiting for a sip, waiting for lunch to be over, waiting for the phone call the next day from a panicked Marjorie, crying because she thought it was flu, watching this fiend dwindle as his lungs, kidneys, liver and immune system fail one by one, and Satan reclaims his son.

But he never drinks it. He orders an iced tea, and drinks that. He doesn't touch the water. He pays for the lunch with a gold American Express. Goddamn evil twin. My vial is gone. A year's worth of work gone. My rifle is gone, sold to a pawn shop two hours ago out of panic that someone would find out. Everything. He's survived everything. This poisonous, detestable, vile curse upon mankind still thrives, waiting to fulfill his destiny. And I cannot stop him. But I have to keep trying. For the sake of humankind, I have to try. He is my evil twin, and he has to be stopped.

I think next, I'll try fire.