Backteria and Other Improbable Tales by Richard Matheson

celebratory jolts, then took a cab to Madame Gogarty’s where he enjoyed the blandishments of one Delilah Phryne, a red-headed former blonde of some twenty-seven years, thirty-eight inches and diverse talents.
    The plan set in motion, life became a song. Until one evening when Mr. Cook’s double cornered him in the cellar work room and demanded surcease with the words, “I can’t stand it anymore, dammit!”
    It ensued that he was as bored with that drab portion of Mr. Cook’s life as Mr. Cook himself had been. No amount of reasonable threats prevailed. Faced with the prospect of being exposed by the sullen double, Mr. Cook—after discarding the alternate course of murdering himself by proxy—hit upon the idea of making a second duplicate in order to give the first one a chance to live.
    This worked admirably until the second duplicate grew jaded and demanding. Mr. Cook tried to talk the two copies into alternating painful duty with pleasurable diversion; but, quite naturally, the first duplicate refused, enjoying the company of a Miss Gina Bonaroba of Madame Gogarty’s too much to be willing to spend part of his time performing the mundane chores of everyday.
    Cornered again, Mr. Cook reluctantly made a third duplicate; then a fourth, a fifth. The city, albeit large, soon became thick with William O. Cooks. He would come upon himself at corners, discover himself asking himself for lights, end up, quite literally, beside himself. Life grew complex. Yet Mr. Cook did not complain. Actually, he rather liked the company of his facsimiles and they often enjoyed quite pleasant bowling parties together. Then, of course, there was always Delilah and her estimable charms.
    Which was what, ultimately, brought about the disaster.
    One evening, on arriving at Madame Gogarty’s, Mr. Cook found duplicate number seven in the willing arms of Delilah. Protest as the poor girl would that she had no idea it wasn’t him, the infuriated Mr. Cook struck her, then as it were, himself. Meanwhile, down the hall, copy number three had come upon copy number five in the overwhelming embrace of both their favorite, a Miss Gertrude Leman. Another fist battle broke out during which duplicates number two and four arrived and joined in fiercely. The house soon rang with the cries of their composite battlings.
    At this juncture, an incensed Madame Gogarty intervened. Following the breaking up of the brawl, she had Mr. Cook and his selves trailed to their house in the suburbs. That night, a trifle before midnight, there was an unexplained explosion in the cellar of that house. Arriving police and firemen found the ruins below strewn with bits mechanical and human. Mr. Cook, amidst hue and cry, was dragged to incarceration; Madame Gogarty was, grimly, satisfied. After all, she used to tell the girls over tea in later years, too many Cooks spoil the brothel.

1984 ½
    “Has it come yet?”
    “No.”
    “Well—good Lord, where
is
it?”
    “The man has other mail to deliver beside ours,” she said.
    “Well,” he fumed, “I have to get to work.”
    “So get to work,” she said. “Is it so important?”
    “I like to look at it,
yes
,” he said.
    Rachel sighed. She went back into the livingroom and switched on the vacuum cleaner. Harold watched her for a moment, then glanced at his wrist watch irritably.
    “Where in the name of?” he muttered.
    Rachel looked up as he shouted. She switched off the vacuum cleaner.
    “What?” she asked.
    “I said I’m going.”
    “Goodbye,” she said.
    It was on the dining room table when he got home that evening. Rachel had set it on his plate with a pink ribbon tied around it.
    “Very funny,” he said.
    She didn’t reply. Harold took the envelope into the livingroom and sat down, trying to look blasé. He heard Rachel go into the kitchen and, with a quick smile, he tore open the envelope and withdrew its contents. The bulletin fluttered open.
    SELECTED United States Government