Clonefessions

Nick Morrell 4,900 words

9th grade

9717 West Court St, Pasco

December 2016

CLONEFESSIONS

by Nick Morrell

And Satan answered the LORD, and said, skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.

Job 2:4

[THIS DOCUMENT CONTAINS UNLAWFUL STATEMENTS AND NEEDS TO BE REVISED FOR PUBLIC READING]

My name is John Fitzgerald Parker, but you probably know that already. If you're reading this, it means that I've expired, which you probably also know already. I felt that upon my death, there are a few things I'd like to get off my chest :

First off, I've stolen a few things. The items I stole include a box of cookies, a jacket, a shovel, an expensive government weapon and a bus. Once I killed a man. Sometimes, I used to think about women other than my wife.

Now that all that's out of the way, time for the real confession: I am not actually John Fitzgerald Parker.

Wait, what?

Yeah, pretty crazy, huh? Aren't I just a self-contradicting pancake? I get it, just let me explain.

I was thirty-eight and working in a corn field for minimum wage, which would've been just fine if I didn't have two girls to support. My girls, Mildred and Susie. Mildred could also be known as Cherry Pie, but only by me (any other man that dares, be warned). Susie was also called Biscuit by the both of us, Cherry Pie and me. We didn't quite have the grand castle necessary for a royal family, nor the endless banquets. Our carriage wasn't quite up to standards, nor was Biscuit's wardrobe fit for a princess. In short, we couldn't afford jackshit because I couldn't get a decent-paying job. We needed some extra cash and we needed it soon, lest our new home be the old cardboard box/soup kitchen combo.

I heard about an opportunity from Daniel, supreme overlord of the corn fields, to make some fast money. He could afford TV and the Internet unlike yours truly, so he was able to find the latest info in the glorious world of honorable business. He could also find out about business that I was qualified to do. "Ya know, John," he began after blowing some sweet-smelling smoke into the air (another thing he could afford), "I read about a gov'ment project in need of volunteers, and they willing to pay real handsome for yer time."

This was just about the shadiest thing I'd ever heard up to this point, but I was in no place to turn down money to preserve dignity I didn't have. I nudged for him to keep talking. "Go on," I said.

"Aye," said Daniel, taking another puff, "if ya call such-and-such a number and say ya wanna sign up for the job, they send a guy to take you to their experiment place. They zip you on down, do the deed, and zip you back home. Then they'll send a juicy check your way. They sayin' the job don't take more than a couple hours or two."

"Do you think you could get me the phone number?"

"Aye, after work I can git it for ya."

"Thank you, Daniel."

"Aye. I hate ta picture lil' Susie all cold an' hungry."

Don't rub it in, you illiterate, privileged bastard. Don't rub in that I can't make enough to give my Biscuit a good life on your scrawny paycheck. Don't make me imagine her shivering on the street, clinging to me, thinking that living so poorly is normal, that she doesn't deserve better than her worthless daddy can do for her.