Dr. Identity Read Online Free PDF

is what I would do:
    1. Return to my office and switch off Dr. Identity.
    2. Tell Dostoevsky to do the same to Petunia and bribe him to stand by my plan with a pair of new state-of-the-art eyebag implants, plus an additional piece of plastic surgery.
    3. When Dr. Hemingway comes looking for blood, explain that I was the one who killed St. Von Yolk. Like the student-thing, I had been wearing fashionable machinic contact lenses, too. Conclude with the following remark: “I have already employed Dr. Identity once this week in any event. As you and I both know, employing him again would be against the Law. I’m a tenure-track candidate. Why would I do that?”
    4. When Dr. Hemingway replies, “Because it’s in your nature,” say, “That’s a matter of opinion.”
    5. When Dr. Hemingway replies, “No, that’s a matter of objective reality,” say, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
    6. When Dr. Hemingway replies, “Why would you impersonate your own ’gänger?” say, “Despite popular opinion and praxis, our profession does not preclude us from exhibiting contemporary vogue.” Add the following: “At the same time, I wanted to make sure that my student-things were treating Dr. Identity with at least a modicum of respect. Hence the contact lenses functioned simultaneously as a shrewd disguise.”
    Here a number of eventualities may or may not arise:
    A. Dr. Hemingway will rebuke me for murdering such a seminal contributor’s son. He will put me in charge of establishing and maintaining a foundation dedicated to the memory of St. Von Yolk. My duties will entail sucking up to infinite grumpy old shitheads for an indefinite period of time. He will rebuke me again and stomp away in frustration.
    B. Dr. Hemingway will sic Frick and Frack on me. He will excuse me from the murder of St. Von Yolk in lieu of the beating I will receive from his henchmen. He will spit on me and walk away.
    C. Dr. Hemingway will ask me to produce the contact lenses that I claimed to have been wearing at the time of the murder. I will claim to have flushed them down the toilet “by accident” shortly after the “crime,” which was not a crime at all, I will remind him, as it is fully within my right as an assistant professor to murder student-things at my leisure. The conversation will then manifest itself as eventuality A or B.
    The plan was hardly foolproof. But it was the best I could do given my time frame. I took a sharp breath and exited the luge.
    Dr. Identity was waiting for me, arms folded behind its back. Its hair and suit were disheveled. It looked guilty.
    “Now what?”
    Dr. Identity giggled uncomfortably…
    Bathing in the blue light of his computer screen, Dostoevsky sat stiff-backed in his chair with forearms resting on thighs. His head had been twisted 180 degrees so that his chin rested between his shoulder blades. One of his eyes had popped out of its socket; it hung down his cheek like a Christmas tree ornament. A vertebra appeared to be jutting out of his neck.
    Next to the computer on Dostoevsky’s desk were the remains of Petunia Littlespank. The android’s extremities had been ripped apart and neatly stacked atop its torso.
    Fighting vertigo, I slowly turned my attention back to Dr. Identity. It looked at the ceiling. I followed suit.
    Lucille. Impaled like a giant hors d’oeuvre on my machete. Twitching, moaning. I think I even detected a faint call for help.
    A drop of the lobster’s blood trickled down the handle of the machete and dripped onto my shoe.
    I said, “Fuck.”
    Dr. Identity smiled a small, crooked smile. “There’s more where that came from, I’m afraid.” It gestured at the office door.
    …Reality slipped into dreamtime. My insides seemed to leak out of my toes and I felt slightly euphoric. I floated towards the door in flashes, still shots, creeping into the future one static beat at a time. Grey roses bloomed onto my screen of vision and my diegetic universe became a silent film. The