What if I was the evil twin? It’s always the other guy, somebody a friend half sees in a grocery store. But no, I was home watching the Vikings. It couldn’t have been me. Must have been your evil twin, the friend says, then giggles.
But what if I’m the polluted half of that shared gene pool? What if I’m the one who steals your keys in a drunken stupor and drives your car into a tree? The one who “invests” your money in a trip to Tahiti? The one who seduces your wife then dumps her when the ink on the divorce papers is still wet? What if I’m the one with the charm of a snake and the venom to match?
Somebody has to be the evil one. We push him into the shadows of the imagination and give him funny names, like Snidely or Lucifario. But he can’t always be a nightmare. Somebody has to steal, stab and murder. Why can’t I fill that job?
I want to be the bad boy, the one girls fear and desire in equal measure, the villain of legends told over cold beers on Friday nights, the one who goes out in a blaze of glory. I want to be Snidely, if only for an hour or two.
On second thought, I’d probably need a tattoo. Never mind.
