Free Dr. Identity by D. Harlan Wilson

getting rid of it. For the most part Achtung 66.799’s makeshift, massified identity was perfectly stable. Stable or unstable, though, anybody could shoot a celebrity.
    There was a new celebrity in town. Two of them, and they had become megastars in record fasttime. Achtung 66.799 was filled with hope when he heard the news. Feelings of hope also welled up in Achtung 66.800, Achtung 204.111, Achtung 4.003, Achtung 56.309, Achtung 3,983.145, Achtung 51.582, Achtung 366.472, Achtung 77.340, Achtung 77.341, Achtung 77.342, Achtung 7,342.342, Achtung 1.001, Achtung 344.822, Achtung 8,196.342, Achtung 99.999, Achtung 999.999, Achtung 9,999.999, Achtung 99,999.999…

07
    LITTLEOLDLADYVILLE, PART 2 – 1ST PERSON ('BLAH)
    “I want my old name back.” I flicked a ladybug off the sleeve of my golf shirt. “No reason to call myself ——— anymore. No reason to call myself doctor or professor anymore, for that matter.”
    Dr. Identity stood on his tip-toes and removed a fetus from the shelf. The fetus was floating in a smart Güntergrass bottle of formaldehyde. “What about Blah Blah Blah?”
    “That’s not funny.”
    “It’s funny.” Dr. Identity examined the apparently female fetus, concentrating on the shriveled umbilical cord that spiraled from its navel like a rotten pigtail. The android’s pupils dilated as they zoomed in and out. “I don’t believe I even know what your real name is. Not that it really matters to me. Names are mere signs. They have nothing to do with the bodies they signify and are forcibly connected to.”
    “What are you, Ferdinand de Saussure? I don’t need a lesson in structuralism. I need a lesson in how to achieve agency from a crazy fucking ’gänger.”
    Dr. Identity said, “This piece is fantastic. A vintage fetus. They don’t make them like this anymore. What’s it doing in the speculative weapons department?”
    The fetus opened its eyes and mouthed the words HELP ME. I said, “What the hell is formaldehyde anyway? I have no idea. I wonder if you can drink it and live.”
    Dr. Identity placed the fetus back on the shelf and removed a shockstick nunchaku. “I can. I can drink hot lava.” It sized up the weapon, palming and gauging its weight. “I recall one occasion when a student-thing thought he might play a joke on me by offering me a drink from a thermos full of hot lava he smuggled into class. He passed the substance off as a hip brand of coffee. Sipperella 007 if memory serves. I suppose he thought my jaw would melt.” It leisurely began to fling the nunchaku through the loopholes of its body. “The lava actually tasted all right. I guzzled the whole thermos. Then I burped in the student-thing’s face and singed off his unibrow.”
    I looked awry at Dr. Identity. “Anyway, I’m going back to my original name.”
    “Good for you. Good for you.” The nunchaku accelerated. “What’s your name again?”
    I opened my mouth to respond…and realized I had no response. I had forgotten my original name.
    Dr. Identity smirked. “I see.”
    I was infuriated. And vaguely nauseous. I had only given the name up a year and a half ago. How could I have already forgotten it? “I’m sure I have it written down somewhere,” I said helplessly. I felt like smashing something.
    The nunchaku moved so quickly I couldn’t see them. Nor could I see my ’gänger’s arms. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll remember your name. Right now there’s more pressing matters at hand, yes? Weapons and disguises. And a bit of food, of course. Weapons first, though, weapons first.” Abruptly it stopped wielding the nunchaku and returned them to the shelf. “Too heavy. And I honestly prefer swords. They’re more to the point, if you’ll excuse the wordplay. We’ll need guns, too. Lots of guns.”
    “How do you plan to carry all of this goddamn artillery?” My ailing memory harrowed me. Frantic, I pawed through its murky depths, searching for my identity…
    Dr. Identity shook its head