Googled myself....Thought I'd write a story about us
My counter parts are doing well, so Google says.. Doing very well. We clones watch from the shadows, our minds one, our bodies one. Soon, it will be I, Thomas W. McKean, that will be upon the Googles! My time to play my part in the masters plan.
There, in the secret boiler room below McKean High School in Delaware, we, the Thomas McKeans, will praise chants to the one whom we derive from. Thomas McKean, signer of the Declaration. We will chant his name as we usher in the dark age of man, us Thomas McKean clones watching as all others parish. In the darkness, we whisper of ancient secrets, carried throughout our Celtic years....
And then Thomas B. McKean shows up with fucking bagels and we're like, "Thomas B, you were always the worst clone. At least Thomas Q remembered to bring punch, and he's 8, but you? No. No, you had to bring your fucking bagels!"
And then he says, "Well, my mother was from the upper east sid-"
"No, no, no." Says the oldest of the clones, Thomas McKean, Navy Veteran, retired in Arizona, and happens to know Twitter. "Back in my day, us clones didn't have fancy black and red robes, and planes that could just fly us here! We had to walk, and we wore white robes from sheets!"
All us others will shake our heads, as he continues on with his ramblings of yonder years. I, Thomas W, do not mind his words, but Tom McKean (Wrote a book called 'Into the Candlelit Room'), whose literary mind I share, does.
"We can't just do everything the way you did it! We were made-"
"In a generation of fools and idiots! You with your 'radio show' nonsense-"
"Me?" I say, pointing to myself. "It's not even done yet! Why are you pointing at me, I've know my part of the plan since I was 5!"
"Oh sure you did." Thomas Q, the youngest of the clones says. "I bet you still don't know, you're so stupid!"
"You're just saying that because you're 8, Thomas Q." says Thomas, the artist.
"And you-" Thomas the Navy Vet continues, pointing at Thomas the Artist angrily, "-with your stupid weird paintings made out of subway cards!"
"They're called collages, and they're made out of Metro-Cards, and some people think they're really cool!"
"Thomas, you're so old you probably remember the Thomas McKean boat back in 1942, you old man." says Thomas Q, pointing at his older clone.
"Look, guys, this is fun, but I really need to get back home." Thomas K, the doctor, announces, amongst the chaos.
"What?" says the Thomas's.
"I've got work in the morning, and staying up with you guys all night doing, what, secret chants? I mean, it's pretty tiring."
"Dude, don't you live in the city, like me?" Thomas the Artist asks.
"No! My practice is in Hickory, not Manhattan."
"You practice psychiatry, no ones gonna care if you miss a day." says Thomas the Vet.
"I'll have you know that it's a very serious field of medicine!"
"Sure it is." Thomas Q says.
"Wait," Tom McKean starts, "you're a psychiatrist? How come I never knew that?"
"Because you never asked!" Thomas K shouts.
"Wait, so are we going to completely ignore the fact that Thomas B just showed up with bagels instead of Subway? Is that, like, just going to bother me, or is that bothering anyone else?" I ask, glaring at Thomas B.
"I guess it'll bother me, but, I bought a bag of chips on the plane ride from Boston, so I guess that'll hold me over." Says Thomas McKean, the lawyer from Boston.
"I'm sorry, this was all I could ge-" started Thomas B before the loud booming voice of the master appeared.
From the darkness, two other Thomas clones brought forth the device in which our master, Thomas McKean, signer of the Declaration of Independence, may communicate with us, his brothers. His brain within a glass canister, two metal rods extended from the device, creating an image between the two iron rods.
"The time is neigh, and, for shame, Thomas B forgot the SubWay! We should not have trusted the likes of the catering of the Secret Order of the Clones to our weakest of brothers!"
"Yay, oh brother." We chant, in unison.
"The foolish folk of now wander aimlessly, no plan for the future, no idea of the past. But we, we have seen the past, and shall make the future ours!"
"Our time will come, the time of the Order of the Clones!" We chant, raising our arms and shaking our hands and fingers. As is tradition during such meetings.
"The task of catering shall now be placed within the responsibilities of Thomas!"
"Ah, why me?" Thomas the Vet groans.
"SILENCE! IT HAS BEEN DONE!"
"Alright, alright, how's everyone feel about Chic-Fil-A? Is that fine?"
"YES! We shall dine upon Chic-Fil-A under the moonlight of the 12th month of the second day!"
"Alright, so Chic-Fil-A next year."
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