"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller.
He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back?
An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.
(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)
Epilogue 2
Me
Sitting in my apartment – surrounded
by the things I'd been told to buy, showed how to assemble, and promised what
to expect to happen when it was all done to specifications – I tried to ponder
what to do next.
It didn't help that I could
too easily see another me – surrounded by the things he'd been told to buy,
showed how to assemble, and promised what to expect to happen when it was all
done to specifications – sitting in his apartment, also pondering what to do
next.
How do you think ... not like
yourself? If I'd been right – that
is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were
slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the
same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten
restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to
be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased,
precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely
assembled life to anything but what I knew.
I'd like to say that it came
like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity. It didn't. It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was
a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection,
looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied
soul lived. What was the essence
of myself? I worked, I partied, I
purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and
shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry,
I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know
better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I
listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I
found something interesting. It
was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence. You see all the numbers, but because
you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing
between the three and the five.
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done. I
could tell the world what had happened to us. I could stand out.
I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me2
How do you think ... not like
yourself? If I'd been right – that
is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were
slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the
same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten
restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to
be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased,
precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely
assembled life to anything but what I knew.
I'd like to say that it came
like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity. It didn't. It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was
a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection,
looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied
soul lived. What was the essence
of myself? I worked, I partied, I
purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and
shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry,
I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know
better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I
listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I
found something interesting. It
was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence. You see all the numbers, but because
you want them to be in order and complete you don't see the four missing
between the three and the five.
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me3
I'd like to say that it came
like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity. It didn't. It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was
a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection,
looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied
soul lived. What was the essence
of myself? I worked, I partied, I
purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and
shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry,
I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know
better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I
listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I
found something interesting. It
was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence. You see all the numbers, but because
you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing
between the three and the five.
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there, all along: I
could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to
us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me4
The first was reflection,
looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied
soul lived. What was the essence
of myself? I worked, I partied, I
purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and
shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry,
I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know
better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick-more and more, I
listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I
found something interesting. It
was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence. You see all the numbers, but because
you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing
between the three and the five.
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me5
It took a bit of time, but I
found something interesting. It
was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence. You see all the numbers, but because
you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing
between the three and the five.
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there, all along: I
could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to
us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me6
It all came in. Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make. That was one part, the next was what to
make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me7
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me8
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a
surge, not a spike of brain electricity.
Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing
after another that led from nothing to the answer. I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument. I liked to sing, but only in the shower. I liked taking pictures, but really
wasn't any good at it. I liked
movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them. I liked clothes, but couldn't sew. I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty. I liked food, but burned everything I
tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there all along: I could
do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to all
of us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me9
(Unavailable, but if he weren't this is what he'd have said)
So I sat down at my computer. The answer was there, all along: I
could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to
us. I could stand out. I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me10
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me11
So I started to...
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