The other day, for reasons only he may grasp, Pete asked me to read something in his favorite medical zine. He says I should check out this one article. Half-heartedly I complied and through my tedium, I discover that there is such a thing as the so-called .

The situation when one microscopic future human being does everything in its power, and succeeds, to destroy all its simultaneous doubles bursting forth all around it.

It turns out, it, really kills them. All sibling enemies are executed; each and every one of them, all the just-about-identical kin nano-creatures menacingly growing next to it, sharing the same egg.

They say, at this barely post-molecular phase one kills like an expert, no second chances Jack, you are dead meat in a flash.

A minuscule formidable murder that covers all the better odds for the assassin.

Twenty weeks after conception, when Doc shows up with his belly scan and Aunt Sally savors your x-rayed one-pound Tim in the intra-womb photo, it's too late. It is all over.

Your beloved embryotic criminal has accomplished his annihilation job.

The lone survivor though, left no evidence, besides; an enthusiastic accessory to murder, the mother's body, had already absorbed the few milligrams of exterminated live consisting of all the rest, of your never to be, brothers and sisters.

This is way beyond too much man, so I hurl the paper in the trash, I tie the plastic bag and go out to get rid of it.

On the way down the stairs, my sister-in-arms hag neighbor furtively scans my garbage while passing by.

She smirks. Nevertheless, I feel good; like after a Killer Anonymous secret session.

This time I am somehow redeemed for my hitherto unknown killing spree.

This time even I know something, she does not.

I surely cannot relapse now. My waste, categorically, is not sorted, unrecyclable and impractical to kill.

.......................................................................................

I'm out of breath, can't run anymore and the sharp wood frame is eating in my flesh. I've jammed the stolen painting down my pants and now it's chafing me to death.

I hope the hyena puppy gave up racing me, I can't see him anymore... I run, already, for no reason I can think of. I'm gonna stop. I'll stop,

Well, I have stopped running, but only home on my sofa. I try to regain my composure, I open a beer can when all of a sudden, painter Pete bursts in.

Out of the dark, in from the cold, he is totally wasted, no shirt, no shoes, no insurance either, against a world he could never paint over.