This is not an evil plan.

I’m not going to write a story.  I’m not in the mood.  But, if I were in the mood, it would be about a kidnapping.  I would place myself in the role of absurdly wealthy person who pulls all the strings.  I would have a very, very large staff, comprised of biological engineers, strong female bodyguards, and minions of various shapes, sizes and talents.  Everything would be at my disposal. 

Once my lab perfected the technology, your clone would be delivered to me in thick, hermetically sealed plastic.  I would slit open the plastic with a large, sharp knife, carefully peel it away, and have my attendants bathe and dress the clone.  The clone would remain asleep, not a conscious thought yet in its head, not even dreams.  

The clone would be tucked into bed, and then my nurse would administer the injection.  (My nurse is also one of my bodyguards, and when she’s acting as nurse instead of bodyguard, she wears what a nurse should wear: a short, tight, white cotton dress, straining against muscle and other curves.  But I digress.)  My nurse would then stand by ready for any medical emergency as the clone woke up, groggy, first sight, first breath, first conscious thought. 

I would then take time to explain to the clone about how we’ve just had a lovely long vacation, but now that it was thoroughly rested and relaxed from its long nap, it was time to go back to work.  The clone would be very agreeable and very obedient.  The clone would be driven to my jet and flown to the location where the exchange would take place.

You wouldn’t have known that the last time I saw you, while you were sleeping, I had a device implanted in the back of your neck.  It had the happy incidental effect of curing your headaches, but its primary purpose was to keep your red dot blinking with precision on my GPS.  My three strongest bodyguards would arrive at midnight, dressed entirely in tight stretchy black, two hours after your bedtime.  You’d wake up with your arms and legs pinned down with their hands and knees, unable to see their faces through the many layers of plastic that had been wrapped around your head.  You’d be reassured in soft voices that there was no need to struggle, and you didn’t, because you couldn’t anyway.  They wouldn’t ask you any questions, because they’d know all of the answers, and you couldn’t have answered because of the gag that had been inflated to fill your mouth.  Your breathing would be shallow but steady with the help of a tube delivering oxygen, secured to your nose underneath the plastic.

Conflicting questions swirl in your head: Which one of my exes sent these women to kill me?  Or, which one of my best friends sent these women to torture me?  It’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas, so it must not be a gift, you realize, it must be the former.  You try to struggle and in response the hands and knees grow aggressive, cuff your wrists and ankles together, and begin systematically wrapping you in plastic, followed by duct tape.  A voice in an accent you can’t place, perhaps because it’s muffled through the heavy plastic covering your ears, explains that you have nothing to worry about.  Your clone is sleeping next to you in the bed, and it would wake up in the morning and attend to whatever it was that needed attending to on your calendar, return all your phone calls and emails, take all your meetings.  To prove it, she places the clone’s limp, warm hand on you; it feels unnaturally familiar, and reminds you of the time you tried to jerk off with the wrong hand. The voice then gets close to the side of your head, and says very clearly into your covered ear that you’ll be safe, and you might be returned to live your life, assuming I got what I wanted.  You wonder what I want.

My abduction staff spends the next few hours preparing you for transport (which involves feeding, followed by an enema, followed by an inflatable buttplug to match the gag in your mouth, because there’s no excuse for a lack of style).  All the while the clone sleeps in your bed, dreaming happily drugged though slightly anxious (because clones are not perfect) dreams of its recent vacation, and all of the work that needs to be done in the morning.  

When the sun comes up, you’re packed into a padded crate, oxygen mask strapped to your face, a little nitrous piping in now and again to distract you from what’s happening, and what’s not happening. Nobody in your building notices the women carry your crate, labeled “fragile” and “this end up,” outside.  Nobody notices them load you into the Gander & White van.  If they do, they don’t care, they’re too distracted by an art transport company that seems to insist on hiring women to do such heavy lifting.  Twenty minutes later, your crate is loaded into my jet, and a few hours after that, your crate is unloaded, brought up to the suite, dismantled, and then you’re there, somewhere, with me, still tightly wrapped, still sipping shallow oxygen. 

You begin to hear voices getting louder. It’s confusing, there’s too much movement and the voices keep changing, and you can’t tell how many people surround you.  Then the room becomes still, while my voice and one other begin to discuss strategy, placement, trajectory. I begin to drag the tip of the knife, the same large knife I used to slit open your clone’s original packaging, over the duct tape and plastic you’re still wrapped in.  Tiny tears begin to open wider, down your arms, legs, stomach, chest.  You had been so thoroughly and tightly wrapped that it takes the better part of two hours to reach flesh.  

Your skin feels air, and the knife continues to drag slowly, now making larger tears here and there, until your body begins to weep red just a little bit in one or two places.  When the plastic is sufficiently shredded and only holding tightly in a few places, I set the knife down, and begin to rip it off by hand.  In some places the duct tape holds together so strongly I have to step on you for leverage, and throw all my body weight in the other direction to rip it.  One time I yank so hard you almost fall off the bed, but my bodyguards jump up to catch you and roll you back to the center of the bed just before your head hits the floor. 

Finally you’re completely exposed, only cuffs remain on your wrists and ankles.  Before you have a chance to become anxious with thoughts of pending freedom, the nurse buckles three more thick leather straps around you: one around your thighs, another tightening your arms to your chest, and one around your neck.  Then rope is attached to each point; ankles, thighs, wrists, chest, and neck are pulled down and taught, and secured to points under the bed.  I scratch at the plastic and tape on your head with a smaller knife, not wanting to make your face bleed.  Eventually there are finger-sized holes, so I begin to carefully rip and peel the plastic away, exposing your face, eyes last.  You blink for a long time before you make out six women in the room.  

First you see me, because I’m hovering over you, then you see my three bodyguards, one on either side of the bed, and another at the foot of the bed.  Then you see the photographer, and her lighting assistant, though they’re hard to make out, just beyond the bright lights that make your eyes start to tear.  The voices stop.  I dab gauze on the tiny cuts in your arms, legs and chest, as the camera continues to snap incessantly, as it has been since you were delivered. 

“Now we can have some fun,” I say, and on cue, my favorite bodyguard puts on rubber gloves, as one of the others unzips a large suitcase in the corner of the room.

If I ever write this story, I will dedicate it to Natasha Gornik, and to your clone.