Diane sits on her roof in the glow of the full moon, charging herself like a crystal. Through her bedroom window climbs her neighbor, Sheila, who plops down beside her. Diane hands her a tinfoil hat and they each fit one on their head.
Sheila: We’re not gonna blow off the roof in this wind are we?
Diane: It’s fine. Just aim for the bushes.
Sheila: Ya know George looks really good for a dying man.
Diane: My thoughts exactly.
Sheila: Even his skin looks amazing.
Diane: And if you’re dying do you really need to talk about it every five seconds?
Sheila: Seems a bit excessive. I would like to think if I was dying I’d mention it once.
Diane: No need to beat someone over the head with it. I get it. You’re not gonna exist anymore. What do you want me to do about it?
Sheila: What are you supposed to save him? Look everyone, it’s Diane the Jesus!
Diane: Watch me perform a miracle and make my husband shut up.
Sheila: I’m sorry. I should probably stop being mean to George. He is dying and all.
Diane: But is he? Something is wrong with him, but I don’t know if it’s death that’s crept inside him.
Sheila: You think it’s them?
Sheila motions to the house across the street. A house that had been abandoned for years and now suddenly is occupied by a mysterious host. A host who still hadn’t addressed the overgrown lawn or the gutters falling from the roof when a commotion in the detached garage next to the house drew Diane and Sheila’s attention weeks earlier. Now as they sit on the roof and watch through an empty paper towel roll they see rainbow lights illuminate the garage windows accompanied by odd sound effects.
Diane: George was fine until they moved in.
Sheila: Everyone was fine until they moved in. Even Biohazard Bertha has been sweeping up the fortunes under the fortune tree without any protective gear. Almost like she has a death wish.
Diane: That’s why I haven’t ruled out mind control yet.
Diane takes out a cigar and lights it.
Diane: They’re up to something nefarious over there. No normal person has rainbow lights shining in their garage at this hour. Red? Blue? Green? Sure. By themselves. But altogether. A whole damn rainbow, Sheila? They’re probably building a monster over there for all we know. I’ve seen Frankenstein.
Sheila: Are they mad scientists? Are they CIA agents? Some secret government agency no one’s ever heard of? Spies? Should we go knock?
Diane passes the cigar to Sheila. A loud blast comes from the garage.
Sheila: Was that a car backfiring?
Diane: Or a gunshot.
The lights in the garage dim and grow bright again. Then the garage and house go completely dark as if someone turned off the circuit breaker. Diane and Sheila peer through their cardboard telescopes again. Three figures in dark suits step out of the garage one after another. Each moving like a shadow of the other. All appear identical in size and shape. They walk to the side of the house and open the doors to the basement. Their motions mirror each other as they approach the steps and descend underground.
Sheila: They’re all like carbon copies of each other.
Sheila hands Diane the cigar. She watches through a puff of smoke as a shorter, rounder figure emerges from the garage and dashes toward the open basement. It seems to be wearing a long trench coat of some sort. The movements are less graceful than the previous figures to go down. It fumbles as it tries to lower itself on the steps before finally regaining its footing. It reaches for the doors and looks to see if anyone is watching before rapidly shutting them.
Diane: Who the hell was that?
Sheila: Do you think they saw us?
Diane: That last hobbit to go down that hole looked concerned that we would. But why?
Sheila: Maybe they’re that person’s subjects that they’re watching over.
Diane: Or that they created. They could be hiding them in the basement.
Sheila: Clones? You think there’s a mini cloning facility going on over there?
Diane: I think it’s possible. I think they’re doing all types of human experiments.
Diane hands Sheila the cigar.
Sheila: That would explain why Bertha hasn’t been herself. And that means…
Diane: It would explain why George thinks he’s dying.
Sheila: He’s not dying is he?
Diane: He’s just set to expire. But he can’t tell the difference.
Sheila: So that means the real Bertha and the real George…
Diane: Are in there. Somewhere.
A gust of wind swooshes over them.
Sheila: Ow! Ow!
Sheila starts patting her shirt frantically.
Diane: What’s the matter? Keep it down.
Sheila: Ashes just flew down my shirt. It burns.
Diane pulls on Sheila’s collar and blows down her shirt. She snatches the cigar from her.
Diane: Amateur. Come on. Let’s go.
Diane gestures to the open window and helps Sheila through as she takes a final puff off the cigar.
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