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murders. They both transpired in under ten seconds.
    “Maniac!” I rasped. Somebody screamed.
    Dr. Identity lobbed me a sandwich. “Relax. Eat that before you really freak out. It’s haggis and cheese. Closest thing I could find to garlic bologna. Excuse me for a moment.”
    “No.” The sandwich hit me in the chest and fell on my feet.
    Full of purpose and resolve, Dr. Identity brandished the samurai sword, swung it around its body with ninjalike dexterity, turned and leapt into the shopshack. The structure quaked and splintered. It collapsed when my ’gänger exited through a chimney pipe, somersaulting across the orange sky as if shot out of a cannon.
    Dr. Identity landed squarely on its feet and didn’t falter. In addition to the vendors, it massacred everyone on the rooftop, including the allotriophagic mime. The mime tried to strike back, regurgitating and spitting hatchets at its attacker. But he was far too slow and had poor aim.
    When it was over, the android flung the sword aside and strolled over to me. My face was a blank slate. The haggis sandwich lay at my feet. Dr. Identity picked it up and handed it to me. “I thought you were hungry? Eat this. Take it.”
    I wasn’t hungry anymore. Anxiety gave way to rage. I slapped the sandwich out of its hand. “Are you kidding me?”
    “Kidding?” Dr. Identity said. “There’s nothing funny about this scenario.”
    “Scenario?”
    Dr. Identity smirked. “Think of me as your Id, ’Blah. You can play Ego. How does that sound?”
    I regarded my ’gänger hatefully. “Don’t call me ’Blah. Nobody can call me that anymore.”
    “Pardon me. At any rate, as I already made clear, our actions no longer matter.”
    “ Our actions?”
    “You know what I mean. Who cares if I imbibe in a little serial killing at this point? We’re both going to die. It’s just a matter of time. Are you all right? Don’t tell me you’re experiencing some kind of moral dilemma. Why would a solipsistic misanthrope like you care about the lives of other organisms?”
    Dr. Identity had never spoken to me with such frankness and hostility. Clearly the trauma of the initial, accidental killing of St. Von Yolk had driven it insane.
    “I…I…”
    Dr. Identity frowned. “What is it?” It glanced over its shoulder.
    Across the street from the vidbuilding beneath us was the Quicksilver Spire. Its mirrored exterior contained the colossal, distorted images of Dr. Identity and me. The footage had been shot by Dostoevsky one afternoon in our office. Both of us stared listlessly into the minicam…
    I ran to the edge of the rooftop. Beneath our images in giant lettering was an announcement:
    PLAQUEDEMICS AT LARGE!!!
    Sirens dopplered towards us through the caterwaul of traffic in the flyways.
    I glared at Dr. Identity. “Come on.”
    We ditched my prehistoric jetpack and stole two new ones. Mine was an AK-Zingblinger. Other than being drenched in blood, it was in tiptop shape. I removed it from a soaking torso and strapped it on.
    Dr. Identity was in the air first, gesturing for me to hurry up.
    I retrieved the haggis and cheese sandwich before obliging him.

04
    INCOGNITO – FIRST PERSON (IDENTITY)
    Dr. ——— suggested that we disguise ourselves. I agreed. We descended into the mechanical depths of Bliptown. The technetronic strata of strip malls reminded me of a futuristic version of Dante’s Inferno . I always wished I could read Inferno in the original Italian. For whatever reason Dr. ——— refused to download the language into my lexicon.
    We landed in an alleyway outside of a ghost mall.
    Landings weren’t Dr. ———’s forte. He came down and tripped over a Beesuppie (Brett Easton Ellis-Style Urban Professional) who had been taking a nap next to a dumpster. The Beesuppie was scratched and stained. He wore a limited edition Calloway Italian-knit golf shirt and Mondale Duego khaki pants and gray leather armadillo-skinned boat shoes. He bleated when Dr. ———