The Last Cynthia: Aftermath

Journal of Thomas Tinker
July 20, 2010


It was a trap. Tinker 3, my homicidal extra-dimensional doppelganger knew we were coming and I think I'm the only one left. And he's coming.

To catch you up, three days ago me and a dozen duplicates of me from parallel earths tried to stage an assassination. I'm no cold blooded killer, none of me are. Well, except for the one we're after: Tinker 3.

When I first developed dimension hopping I met the most amazing woman, Cynthia. The strange thing was that she didn't exist on my home world, or seemingly any of the others I'd visited. After further investigation, I found that Cynthia's of various dimensions were being murdered by one of my duplicates who I've dubbed, Tinker 3.

In a last ditch effort to quell the violence, I gathered together every able-bodied me I could find and set up a sting, staking out the apartment of the last Cynthia to try to
apprehend him. That's what we told ourselves, though I knew I was just lying to my-selves. The only way to end this was to kill him. Me. Whoever. Whomever?

Irregardless. He, I, knew we were coming. And, in retrospect, it's not surprising. Just as my love is directed towards Cynthia, so is his psychosis. We share the same brain, though his is diseased. Obviously he'd anticipate this. I would have.

We arranged for a decoy at Cynthia's apartment. The plan was to have our guys on lookout throughout the building and across the street to watch for his arrival. That worked well enough. He arrived at her door for a "date" at 6 on the dot, and a body-builder, pacifist me put him in a sleeper hold and dragged him into the apartment. The rest of us converged rapidly, and I was gearing up to interrogate him.

That's when it all went to hell.

Tied to a chair, Tinker 3 just mumbled and cried. I was furious and sloppy and slapped him across the face. "Why did you do it, you monster??" I screamed.

That's when I realized that his tongue had been freshly cut out. I screamed and windmilled my arms for the others to get out, but it was too late. I was halfway out the apartment door when guitarist me was tearing open "Tinker 3's" shirt to reveal "Game Over" which had been branded onto his chest. He'd sent a decoy of his own. No wonder the guy was terrified.

The three pounds of semtex he'd been forced to eat tore through the building with the explosive force of a locomotive. Cynthia's apartment was on story ten of fourteen. Now, I'd estimate I'm laying somewhere closer to the sixth floor. My legs are trapped and I'm bleeding, though I'm not sure from where.

He'll be coming now. Coming to finish off any survivors, and then for Cyntha. It's getting harder to stay awake and I don't know how long



End of Entry