Mr. Hellstrøm is my Science Fiction Twin. He has my eyes, my face, my voice. He hides when I come, and I can’t possibly keep track of him all the time. He may not in fact be evil, but he’s definitely from the Other Side.
Nevertheless, we have a kindness for each other. Though we differ so greatly, we also have many things in common. Sometimes I even believe I can understand him. I sure as hell can’t drink and drug it up as much as he does; I’d be dead in the gutter if I tried. Besides, I’m gettin’ too old for that kinda shit.
Be careful of him. He observes, passionately, and there’s no telling what he’ll make of it all. He bites when threatened, and God only knows what will become of you if you get bitten. I am fairly sure that becoming a werewolf would seem like a picnic outing in comparison, but I don’t really know. I’m not about to put it to the test. Perhaps it’s too late for you already, if you are reading this . . .
How he came in to being I don’t know. If there’s an outlandish machine somewhere that created him and keeps him alive, please don’t shut it off. He’s grown on me, the man I love to hate, and I don’t want to see him disappear. On the other hand, it’s me or him, isn’t it? That’s the way of things with Science Fiction Twins. This planet is too small for the two of us: we’ll have to duke it out at some point. But, until then, I have to believe that we can be reconciled. The clichés of the genre demand it.
Just one more thing: Don’t believe a word he says. He’s a fast talker, a trickster, a Teller of Tall Tales. Or, in other words, a godamm liar.

With best regards,
Brendan Wilder

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