What I need is a secret clone. We'd work in concert, fool everyone into thinking we were one person, compare notes at night. Take turns working during the day and goofing off at night. Share designated driver duties. He'd play bass in the band. A mysterious figure, always wearing a mask, his voice would sound uncannily similar to mine.



He'd possess a magic, self-replenishing wallet full of 20s and 50s. A cracked, utterly ordinary looking affair, rumored to have been owned by Bob Marley, the wallet would have in any case accrued mystic power from wilderness lands unknown, its goodness shining like a beacon visible only to clones.



On blustery days, unknown to anyone, the clone would periodically sidle around the side of a building to let the bills course from the wallet's flap down the alleyway like soap bubbles from a plastic wand.