A Clone for Joan

RYAN JAMES BLACK

Joan McKrohn had a rotary phone.

Which was a problem, but not necessarily a large one when stacked up against the other problems swelling around her. For one, four out of nine of her cats—John, Paul, Ringo, and Dragon–were feasting on the Styrofoam packing peanuts that covered the living room floor. That was going to lead to some bloated bellies and disquieting poops, she was sure of it.

Secondly, she had suffered a nasty paper cut while unfurling the treasure map-sized instruction manual that lay crinkled out before her. It smarted.

Lastly, now that she had finally pried the stupid Clone-O-Max out of the crate and figured out how to turn it on, she couldn’t figure out how to shut it off again.

Precisely every six minutes and thirty eight seconds it rumbled, flared and vented strange smelling vapor into the air, followed by a jaunty, microwave oven ‘PING!’…

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