The best dern thing I ever done wrote.

Dark eyes, Light hair.

"Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Eleven dollars and thirty-two cents," said John Davis. He sighed, deeply and

truely. "That's got to be enough to last me the week, right?" he said, to nobody in particular. John had dark eyes, light

hair, a nose that was slightly too large for the rest of his face, ears that were a bit too small, and a large, toothy

smile. Of course, today, he was not smiling. He looked at the celing of his little flat and scowled deeply.

The phone rang. His mother, assuredly. Deftly, he picked up the beeping box and answered it.

"John!" she called in that shrill, Harpy-like way unique to mothers everywhere. "How are you?"

"I've, um, I've been better,"John replied truthfully. Shortly thereafter, he mentally kicked himself.

"John, you need to admit that you're never going to make it as an actor and get a real job. I can't keep supporting you

like-" she began, cut off only slightly by a quiet beep. "and if you can't get a job, that nice girl from the smoothie

store's never going to return your-" the beep, again.

"Um, sorry, Mom, another call," John said, glad to be free of her inceasent judgement, if only for a few minutes. He hit

the button and switched calls.

"John," the voice said. It was Alex, a friend of his. "The television. Are you watching it?"

"Um, no. I don't have a teevee any more, remember."

"Then find one. Now, John," Alex said sternly. It was in Alex's way to be deep and passionate about everything, of course,

but something in that low voice made it difficult to resist.

"Um, sure. It's on the news, what you want me to see, right?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Which news?"

"All of them."

And with that, John hung up the phone and stuck it on silent for the rest of his outing. He'd explain it to his mother

later. He jogged from his door to the elevator, and rode it down to the ground floor of his complex. The way down, a large,

smelly man with half his teeth and a perpetual stink of alcohol acompanied John, and persistantly gave him a look that John

found unnerving in the extreme. Eventually, though, the glistening metal doors of the elevator dislodged their contents,

and John left the building, none too disapointed to part with his companion.

There were, unfortunately, no longer electronics stores with television sets in the window. However, there were huge,

industrial utility stores with the same buried only a short distance within, and John did not yet look so destitute as to

be barred entry to the one three blocks down. The greeter to the huge, corporate comglorerate gave John that selfsame look

as he was ushered into a world of "Low prices, great quality, and caring employees," a statement that John, and everyone

who had ever shopped there, found equally ridiculous.

The televisions were not hard to find. They were in the back, after all. John hurried to that back, careful to pay no heed

to those large groups of fellow-shoppers who would give him that same, unplaceable look. Unfortunately, they were currently

on a toothpaste commercial, the same that had been airing when John sold his own television two months prior.

"Um, excuse me," he said to the nearest clerk, a balding, middle-aged man with a potbelly and his friendly nametag (reading

HELLO MY NAME IS MITCH) slightly askew, "Can you put it on a news channel, kindly?"

The man simply laughed. "Heh, figures. Don't worry, sir, it'll be on in a few seconds."

Bewildered, John took a seat. True to "MITCH"'s words, the commercial soon ended, bringing instead an arial view of the

White House. John cocked his head in interest. All the T.V.s were slightly out of synch, and the discordant rythems of

their speakers made it impossible to hear anything. Frowning, John took out his phone and dialed Alex, noticing six missed

calls from his mother.

"Um, Alex, what am I supposed to be seeing here?" John asked, looking at the screen like it were some archeic riddle he had

been charged with solving.

"For the love of god, John, just watch," responded that hypnotic, low voice. The owner of that low voice shortly

disconnected, trusting in John to fufile its obligations. He did, of course, never concidering doing anything else. The

view on the television had switched to that of two older men in prim, dark suits, argueing with one-another, allowing John

to conclude that it was politics or sports, neither of which he payed much heed. Suddenly, the word RECAP came flying out

from the commentators, ablaze in digital flame and shining in digital glory. The view switched again, to a man, the words

PROGRESSIVE PARTY CANIDATE WILLIAM WELLS emblazoned in gold above his head. John was, however, far too occupied with the

details of the face to read the text, however. The man was young, about John's age. He had dark eyes, light hair, a nose

that was slightly too large for the rest of his face, ears that were a bit too small, and a large, toothy smile.

"D-Doppelgänger," John muttered, numbly, while Mitch (the clerk) looked at him, immensely ammused. John took out his

cellphone (another two missed calls from Mom) and dialed his mother's number.

"Mom, have you been watching the primaries?" John asked quietly.

"You know I don't- don't try to distract me, mister. I've called you eight times, you know, and-"

"Watch the primaries, and then tell me how I'm failing in my life, yeah?" John said, hanging up the phone. He went back to

his building, up to his flat, and gathered up his eleven dollars and thirty-two cents, alongside all his silverware and any

other thing of value that wasn't nailed down. With the eleven dollars, he took a cab to a pawn shop, where he pawned half

his kitchen and his cell phone in exchange for one hundred and ten dollars. He took another cab, this time to a tuxedo

rental place, where he managed to negotiate for a one day lease for sixty dollars. Cab again, this time to far across town.

He had heard that the newest installment in the GERMAN TANK NUMBERS series was in need of a President- and did he have the

face of a President.

Five years later, he reawoke. Initially, one might suspect that nothing had changed, because he occupied that same flat,

and wore the same drungy clothes that he was wearing the day he discovered his Doppelgänger. One would, however, have to

ignore the suit hung up in his closet, the new flat screen television, the small, enshrined acting award, and his new

roommate. Alex had tuned the television to the news, and was watching avidly.

"Hey, um, Alex. Morning," John said, yawning. Alex simply scowled.

"Um, something, um, going on, in the world?" he asked.

"Yes. Something, very. Your Doppelgänger, fucking lunatic, declared marshall law, the dissolution of the United States of

America, himself King, and war on Europa. In that order," Alex said, face dark and brooding. John merely laughed.

"Don't mess with me this early, please?" John said, smiling that toothy grin.

"I'm not."

"Must be."

"John, do I joke?"

"...Oh my god."

"Yes."

"You're..."

"Serious? Of course."

"This means?"

"End of the world?"

"Yeah."

"Not hardly. Man was kicked out of office."

"Well, at least the world's not going to end."

"No, but your acting days are over."

"Got enough put away to last us the rest of our lives."

"Good," Alex concluded, and then that was the end of that discussion. John got up, went down to the garage, and drove to

his mother's house, to confess that he was done acting, but that it hardly mattered since he made himself more money than

her great grandfather ever managed when he came to America with only "Twenty dollars and a dream," and then drove back,

blithely unaware that he was being followed. He went back to his flat, played some dumb video games with Alex, called his

bank to ensure that he did, in fact, have enough money as so to live off the interest, and shortly thereafter went to

sleep, where he was woken up by multiple stab wounds to the chest. As he drifted off to the ultimate sleep, he was able to

only whisper, "You have the wrong man, you idiot," to his assailent. His assailent whispered back, "Sic semper tyrannum,"

before jumping out the sixth story window to his death.

John remembered, in that soft twilight before the end, something he'd heard a long time prior. One's Doppelgänger is an

omen of death.