The Good Doctor
was a very
foolish move, 707.”
got up, a
rifle butt-shaped bruise already forming on the back of his neck, and resumed
his place at the dinner table.
the gourmand in the snobbish spy:
lobster bisque, lightly-braised trout and a Bollinger ‘39.
prefer not to
back in his chair and laughed.
is the only
thing keeping you alive.”
scene so many times I’d prefer death,” the spy said in an impeccable Oxford
accent. “Villain captures hero.
Over a lavish dinner, the villain monologues
about how he will take over the world.
Instead of shooting the hero in the head, he constructs an inventive way
to kill said hero. But the villain
doesn’t have the hero searched thoroughly, doesn’t stay to watch the death and
so said hero escapes thanks to a gadget, usually contained in a fake tooth.”
from his chair.
new. Walk with me.”
gorilla-faced henchmen behind him, so the spy, handsome in a cruel way,
cloning,” the Doctor said, amidst the bubbling chemical beakers in the jungle
to look through the microscope.
genetic code of the one to be copied, dead or alive, inject it into a healthy
Doctor said, gesturing toward the natives, lashed to the bed, wired up to a
pulsating machine, “and Voila!! You have several of that individual. They
even have the same memories.”
not working,” the spy said, looking at the caged figures, monstrous hybrids of
native women and the Doctor.
I’ve had some
setbacks but I finally had a break-through.”
across the room to a copy of himself writing square roots on a blackboard. Even
far away the spy could see the clone was
a much taller, more muscular version of the Doctor.
horrified, but as usual, in moments of high stress, made a quip.
I’m to gather
you are so egotistical that you think an army of yourself can take over the
from the doctor’s face, and what was exhibited was so hateful that the spy took
a step back.
outside, facing rows of bamboo stalks.
was in medical
school when I discovered what was theoretically possible. I just needed time
and numerous test
subjects. Hence this small remote island
in the Pacific.”
again became hateful.
remember her, do you?”
have to be
unclenched his fists and nodded to the guards who chained the spy’s left ankle
to an iron disc protruding from the ground.
I suppose I
should. This started because of what you
did to my sister. Then I realized she
was just one of many you raped and murdered while your government looked the other
something was charging through the bamboo stalks toward them and the guards,
taking no chances, ran away.
the spy, his back to what was almost out of the bamboo.
many of her, screaming and wielding machetes.
And then the spy
Capshaw is a writer based in Florida.
His novel, The
Stage Mother's Club, came out in June from
Dark Edge Press. Here is the link: