It Takes a Nation of Millions to Keep Sir Reginald Down

“Well,” said Sir Reginald, “this is awkward.”
            “Indeed,” answered Sir Reginald, “not to mention a tetch disconcerting.”
            They stood at opposite sides of the parlor, one holding an empty revolver, the other half-a-dozen bullets.
            “Are you my doppelganger?” asked the revolver carrier.
            “Are you my fetch?” questioned the bullet keeper.
            “For the sake of argument, I shall call you Sir Reginald B…”
            “…and you shall be Sir Reginald 2.”
            They both half-smiled at their subversive little attempts to establish dominance and began to walk toward the sideboard. Pocketing their respective weapon halves, they set about preparing drinks.
            “Whisky?” asked B, his nimble fingers grabbing two glasses.
            “Indeed,” answered 2, his arms intertwined with his partner’s, grabbing the ice tongs. “On the rocks, I assume?”
            “Ah ha! I always—“
            “—drink my spirits neat. I thought that I could trip you up there.”
            “And how could you trip me up, what with my being the original?”
            “That, my brother, is where you’re mistaken. I am the genuine article, and you merely a malicious spirit, come to…steal my soul, perhaps.”
            “No, no, no! After all, if I were not the true Sir Reginald, why would I have a reflection!” he posited, waving grandly at the mercury glass across the room, where neither of them appeared.
            “Damn,” they said simultaneously, and finished preparing their drinks and lighting their cigars in silence.
            Taking seats opposite each other on the matching paisley davenports, they began to visually examine their respective duplicate. Four eyes ran fast across tweed, whiskers, pleasingly-plump bellies, and even examined the way the other held his glass.
            Nothing.
            “Time traveler?” asked Reginald B.
            “I hate time travelers,” responded Reginald 2, pointing at a small machine across the room and the basket of grenades that sat next to it. “Changeling?"
            “There are enough sprigs of rowan hidden about this house that I imagine even thinking about coming in would give one a headache.”
            “Well,” said Reginald B, pausing to take a sip of single malt. “there must be a reason you’re here. So out with it.”
            “You’d know better than I, imposter.”
            “We’re getting nowhere.”
            “I see that.”
            “Shall I put a record on the phonograph?”
            “Please. Let’s have ‘Take Me Back Again,’ by Jimmy Dorsey.
            “Third shelf. Got it.”
            Reginald B stood up, pausing only to tip a bit of ash into the tray on the table between them. He turned towards the Victrola and, with his right leg, kicked the coffee table over, sending it flying towards Reginald 2, who was already ducking.  
            Reginald 2 threw his glass at Reginald B, who was hurling the heavy glass ashtray towards his twin.
            The items met in midair but the ashtray was more massive, and the rocks glass shattered against it. The ashtray went on to do rather an abusive number on Reginald 2’s forehead. He fell backwards against the davenport, blood streaming into his eyes. He tried to stand up, but his legs simply wouldn’t listen.
            His companion walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker.  
            “Gracious,” said Sir Reginald B, as he went to stand over his double, “I do so very much hope that I’m the real one.”
            And then he went to work.

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