Poor Hector. I help him out, giggling all the while, as the doorbell starts to ring. Who now? Oh, dear. He looks so upset.

"I saw- outside- dear lord!" he gasps, and then faints. Turn and turn about. I catch him, and look over the prone figure at Miracleman, who seems a little distressed.

Hector is obviously not up for answering the door. I squint through the peephole and see a dozen, no, a hundred ugly salesmen on the front porch. How did they get through the damned barriers?

I call the Instagolem. They have a rubbery texture and a greenish tint, but otherwise seem fine.

"Get rid of the solicitors. Violently. When they're gone, guard this house and don't let anyone in, unless someone in this room says it's okay."

I open the door just long enough to let the golem out. Within seconds the sound of slaps and squealing fills the air. I turn to Aimee, who's on the floor beside Miracleman.

"Where's the kitchen?"

She gestures towards the back of the house. I head over and start gathering ice and dishtowels. I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of bruising in our collective future.

"Two months of service free when you sign up for a lifetime contract with Infernal Digital! How many times have you asked yourself, 'Why can't I get any Infernal reception here?' Well, now you can! And the best part, the service is free! We just take the minutes off your life span!"

"I don't know about you, sir, but dust is my nemesis. It creeps into the cracks and crevices, and even when you can't see it, it's there. Our new Vortex 12000 is guaranteed to pick up all the dust in your home, as well as any unwanted ambitions, dreams or household pets. And the best part? No bags to empty, ever, because all the waste is deposited in the deepest layers of the Abyss, where you'll never have to think about it again for as long as you live!"

"I know what you're thinking--what do I need a juicer for? Well, sir, the truth is, nobody needs a juicer. But I'll give you this juicer for free, if you'll attend an orientation session with me and sign a contract which obligates you to sell 200 juicers and bring in just one person a week to our recruitment, er, orientation sessions. Don't call it a pyramid scheme! Call it Mom!"

I am beset by foes I know not how to fight. Though I run, they follow. Though I deny them, they press me with the hard sell. I would lash out, but I see men and women in neatly pressed suits perched in the trees, briefcases clutched in their talons, waiting to swoop in with personal injury lawsuits. I am trapped.

I claim a spotty credit record, and they speak to me of financing, of secured credit. I tell them I am incompetent, and they request that I sign over my power of attorney. I back up against a lamp post and thank the gods that I have no cash on me. I need help.

I hear barking then, and Zar comes trotting through the salespeople. An idea strikes me. I crouch to speak to her, which gives me a momentary respite, as the pitchmen are momentarily taken aback by my apparent madness.

By the time she is gone, however, they have redoubled their assault. I am weakening. Perhaps ita would like a set of ginsu knives. An ab-roller could really help me with those trouble spots. I wonder if Rogaine could grow hair on a stone head?

Just as I am about to start reciting my credit card number like a mantra, I hear the cavalry arriving. The cacophony of barks and growls sounds like an orchestra playing the strains of salvation. The Well-Behaved have arrived. Pugs and Retrievers and Mastiffs, Afghans and Daschunds and Saint Bernards, and mutts, wonderful, beautiful mutts, they seize at pants legs and seats and chase the rabble off. Who better to handle unwanted salesmen than a dog? The streets are soon clear save for a few pamplets, and Zar rubs against my leg, requesting a thank you rub behind the ears. I give it to her.

"Good save, Eleazar."

A ragged Shih Tzu comes trailing around the corner after the others, panting. She stops and looks up at me as if to ask if this is really necessary.

"I think the bulk of them are on their way out of town by now," I say. "There'll be stragglers, but you can take a break." I pick her up and turn towards Miracleman's place, hoping the house hasn't moved again.

It's morning in Sang Sacre, but instead of the usual sunshine and birds singing, the atmosphere in the Old Quarter is dreary and oppressive. Aeshma's back, and a lot of weird stuff's been going on. He's already sent one batch of minions to the bar, and I'm waiting for the next shoe to drop. I turn onto Andre, and head for number 33. The front appears intact. That's always a good sign. I walk in the door to find find Phred sweeping up some rather large piles of dust. The penguin is valiantly trying to maneuver the Hoover onto another big pile, holding on for dear life as the big machine trundles across the floor. I intercept him, and take over the vacuuming. "What happened?" I ask Phred.

"Bunch of vamps came in last night looking for trouble. They found it."

"Huh?"

"They showed up just before closing, 'bout ten of 'em. "Phrancis was still here, the bird, me. The only customers left were Chopper, Ragman, and Harrass." He chuckles a bit at the last. Nobody interrupts the orcs while they're drinking. "Whole thing was over in a couple of minutes. None of 'em got away. Phrancis got nicked by some kind of enchanted blade, but he should be okay. Just made him weak as a trolliwog." He reaches behind the bar, pulls out a golden blade wrapped in a bar towel, and hands it to me. "I can't touch it. Makes my skin crawl. Anyway, Chopper and the boys went out to see if any more were about, but they didn't see anything. Didn't think it was worth waking you up about."

I start to examine the blade. On the handle there's an inscription that reads, "Property of Aeshma the Terrible. If found, please drop in the nearest mailbox," and it listed an address in the Quarter. Funny guy, Aeshma.

"Okay, as long as Phrancis is... What the..." We're standing back by the office, and I glance over to the bar, where the penguin is standing, staring into the mirror behind the bar. As I watch, a penguin doppelgänger steps out of the mirror and faces the original. "Oh, god, no!" I mutter, as I pick up the nearest bottle, and throw it into the mirror, shattering it into a million tiny fragments, as the penguins duck for cover.

We've got all the mirrors covered and my evil twin tied to a chair. Bob's still smirking.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you," I say to him. "And you wonder why I won't play those kinds of games with you."

"I wouldn't tie the knots so tight with you," he grinned hopefully.

"Never mind."

The other me stops testing the ropes and gives me a calm look. "What now? You can't let me go, you know what I'll do."

Bob gives me a worried look. "What will she do?"

I stare back into my own face. I never really noticed that my left eye is tilted. "Tell him."

She didn't give an evil laugh, just smiled in serene pleasure. "Make people cry. Make them beg for me to stop hurting them and then I'll tell them no."

I know Bob's staring at me, but I don't look at him. I've never denied what my less civilized urges tell me to do, but I know I can't let the manifestation of them hang around. "You know what the most practical option is, don't you."

She nods. "I'd be trying to get rid of you if I were free."

"No offense."

"None taken."

I straighten and look at the sword on the dresser. Deciding on it and doing it are two different things.

She does laugh then, and it's a cruel laugh. "But you're the good me, you won't do it. You don't want to sink to my level. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself."

I turn back and meet her eyes, and she stops laughing. "You're my evil twin, but you're only a reflection. Everything you are is still in me. So tell me, my evil inclinations made flesh, what am I going to do?"

Her eyes get very big.

Bob is at my shoulder. "You're not. You can't."

"How long have you known me? Don't tell me what I can't do."

"I didn't mean can't as in 'incapable.' I meant can't as in 'I'm not going to let you.'"

"Damn it, Bob, what other choice do I have?"

I keep forgetting what he is, what he does. His eyes remind me. "You let me do it."

It doesn't take long for me to decide. "I'm going up to the roof to talk to the other Bob, let him know what's going on. I'll be back down in an hour."

As I head for the door, the other me starts struggling. "Coward!" she yells.

I turn back and look at her. "Yes, I know." And I leave.

I slap Hector a couple of times and admister a breif bolt of pyschic energy. He opens his eyes, and smiles at me a little shyly. "Boss never hugs me like this."

"And I don't intend to carry on," I say. Saucy bogart. "I think our friend Miracleman may need some assistance." We look at the powerful wizard rolling on the floor and Aimee's worried face, then at his bat-winged evil twin. "Oh, damn it. I'm doing something about this. Penny, Aimme, I think I know what we need to do. I can do the chanting, and if you'll just light some incense that'll help the magic take."

Hector pulls the dog end of a cigar out his pocket. I look at it. "It'll do," I decide, and light it with a flick of my fingers.

"What are you doing?" Penny asks, her arms full of ice.

"Jorcgan's Repatriation of Sundered Desires," I tell her. "Do you know it?"

She thinks for a moment, and I don't wait for the answer. I should be able to guide her power, if she'll hand it over freely. With luck, she's in enough shock she won't think about it. ('I'm really still here, you know, and you're acting on me,' nags my evil side, but I ignore it.)

I start the chant, the strength in the words making my voice louder, and slightly deeper. I sound a little like a slowed-down record.

"taht hcihw si trapa emoc rehtegot,
taht hcihw i si erised eadm hself emoceb tub erised niaga,
dna taht hcihw sekam su tnaw oteb ylthgils ythgaun i emoc kcab rednu lortnoc."

Okay, Am-Chau can do magic. That's either very useful or very scary.

"Am-Chau, my cursing/blessing ability is a hereditary gift. I'm not actually a trained witch or anything. I need some direction here." She gestures to the incense, which I light quickly.

I make a few cold compresses from the ice and towels and hand them to Miracleman and Hector. Aimee seems to know what's going on. She gets up and stands beside Am-Chau.

Am-Chau is engrossed in her spell. Her voice sounds like something from a bad horror movie. The room is starting to spin. Ugh. Nauseating. I reach for a towel.

Spinning. Ooops- that's a bad sign. My training's extensive, but practical expriments tend to go wrong.

Well, but late to stop now.

"Tsurt em, M'i a hctiw."

"Well, then..." Evil!Hec starts to say as he's crawling out of the mirror when I plug him in the face with a .45.

A couple years ago I might've bothered to talk to him. My dark side is too dangerous to let loose anymore. I get Ryan and the boys on the intercom and tell them I need a clean-up crew in my office.

I throw on my black overcoat, take the elevator down to the lobby and catch the streetcar to Town Hall. I fumble with the keys while the sky lowers oppresively and flame-breathing critters fly over head.

I flip on the lights. Huh. Haven't been here since Theresa's coronation. Long time.

Head down to the basement and open up what looks like a supply closet door. Shift a panel and a false wall swings open. Inside is an alcove with The Resistor. Sang Sacre accepts a certain amount of chaos as a matter of course. More than most places certainly. But it's still got to maintain it's structural integrity. I twist the main control nob and watch the bubble move closer to plumb. It's sort of like adjusting the horizontal hold on reality.

I can't get it all the way back, there's too much pressure on the city. But this ought to keep Evil!Twins from popping out of every mirror in town. Only people near mirrors would be affected.

Hmmm, I should check with our Tithing Elementals. They didn't do much during The Battle of Town Hall. Might be useful to have a few enormous Behemoths and Leviathans at the ready.

I'm exhausted. Blood pumping in my ears, chest heaving, bending over to catch my breath. She's kneeling a few feet away, gasping.

Well, that was a glorious waste of time. And I do mean glorious.

I glance back up towards the bathroom.

"What do you think would happen if ..."

"Let's not."

"Fair."

There's a stone to hand, knocked to the floor when I went careening into the bookshelf. I fling it at the mirror, and am rewarded with the crack of shattering glass, and the music of shards hitting the stone floor.

And an explosion. A quiet explosion, but any explosion in my bathroom is too loud.

I look down at my hands in confusion. I don't keep explosives.