Oooooooh, his head hurt. No, the Aspirin did not help. Millard had this big meeting to go to. Millard had reports he had to review. Millard had decisions he had to make. Millard hated being Millard. Maybe he would run away. Perhaps he could have his Secretary make the necessary reservations for his escape. She’d have to check his calendar first. Millard hated being Millard. Maybe he should have just stayed Martin. Martin’s life was certainly a lot easier. Martin did not have to make decisions that might cost him millions of dollars if he made the wrong decision. But then, Martin did not wear $1700.00 suits, with handmade, custom shirts and shoes in addition. Neither did he smoke $800 a piece cigars, or eat so much expensive caviar that he could have paid the National Debt instead. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. The assets equivalent to that kind of money was actually down in the wine cellar. Okay, yes, and parked out in the garage.
Millard leaned back in his chair, lit one of his $800 cigars and stared out the window. The view of the city was stunning from way up there, especially in his big corner office. He wondered, maybe he could be Martin for a week, like a vacation. Sure. He would just take a vacation from being Millard and be Martin for a week. Millard had a friend, well okay, really an associate; no, really a competitor, who took a whole month off. For a whole month he was not Richard Elliott Travers, VI, President of Travers Catchers, Inc. Instead, he was RayBill Tibbler for the whole month of August. Well, yippee for Richard. Millard hated Richard. Millard had used that month Richard was away to cash in on some favors and make a beauty of a hostile take over of Richard’s company. No more Travers Catchers, Inc., now. Nope. Now they were Mortuaries By Travers, a subsidiary of Millard’s parent mega-conglomerate company. Several of the ex-Travers Catchers employees that just could not deal with the take over, hostile and all, were the first clients of Mortuaries By. Millard smiled while remembering and licked the end of his cigar. Weaklings.
One thing was for certain, if Millard did take a week of vacation to go and be Martin, he’d have to leave a copy of himself, of Millard, there. Richard hadn’t done that when he went off to be RayBill Tibbler. Stupid Richard. Millard hated stupid. Millard hated Richard. But Millard loved the new Mortuaries By Travers.
Millard turned to his computer screen. With a few key strokes, he had logged in to his Copied-Self account. Another subsidiary of Millard’s parent mega-conglomerate company. He scanned down the list of available copies. Each one was identified by a number. Its current location was indicated on a constantly updating map. Millard leaned forward and studied the screen. Three copies were in New London. Six were in Rhode Island. Well, that was a big territory all along the East Coast now. He frowned, wondering why though numbers 894 and 1273 were both in New Zealand. He had to ask himself if he had approved that. But no, that would have been stupid, and Millard hated stupid. It was probably the Secretary. His eyes ran down the list trying to find number 417. It was always a really good and reliable copy. Damn! Millard’s hand slammed down on the table in frustration. Oooh, that reminded him of his headache. That reminded him of the reports he had to review. Millard looked back at the screen. Number 417 was on vacation for a week. He was being Martin.