Even Better Than The Real Thing

Flash Fiction by Hillary Lyon

Sonja ran her hands over the bare well-shaped shoulders and back of the android before her. He was perfect! The eye shape and shade; the texture, color and cut of hair; the chiseled jaw and high cheekbones; the aquiline nose…he was a dead ringer for her husband, Tyrone.

She turned to the broker sitting behind his vintage mahogany desk. “Thank you for paying so much attention to the details,” she said as she pulled an envelope stuffed with cash from her designer tote bag.

“All thanks to the specs you provided,” Mr. Morgan said, taking the envelope. Cash payments were not the norm, not anymore unless you were conducting business on the down-low. And his business was definitely on the down-low: creating android replicas of living people. Not exactly illegal, but frowned upon as unethical, and maybe even immoral. So far, the government turned a blind eye; but for how long?

Mr. Morgan fanned the money in the open envelope. Satisfied, he reached out and shook her hand. “Been a pleasure doing business.”

“Indeed. And please make sure he’s delivered this week, while my husband is away on business,” Sonja said on her way out the door.

* * *

Days later, in the upstairs guest-bedroom of Tyrone’s ancestral home, Sonja opened the crate containing her android.

“Aren’t you a sight!” she whispered as she activated the android. “I’ll call you Tyrone 2—the new and improved version.”

She led him to the four-poster bed and sat him down. “Here are clothes that should fit you well. Get dressed and wait here until I call for you.”

Tyrone 2 nodded and began to dress. In the quiet of the house, Sonja heard the rumbling growl of the garage door going up—which meant her husband was home from his trip. Early! Her heartbeat increased, her cheeks flushed; she was nervous with anticipation. It was time for the confrontation she’d been planning for weeks.

She opened her dresser drawer and retrieved the snub-nose pistol she had buried beneath her silky underwear. A gun she’d picked up at a seedy shop in the sketchy part of town, years ago. She bought it just in case she was the victim of a home invasion—or so she rationalized to herself. Her husband was gone all the time, sometimes for weeks on end, and she was left alone, defenseless. She had to do something.

She loaded it with two bullets, which, she assumed, would be enough to do the job tonight. She slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan.

Sonja paused at the door and looking back at Tyrone 2, she couldn’t help but grin; she was going to have such fun once this unpleasantness with her real husband was over.

Going downstairs, Sonja found Tyrone at the bar with his back to her, as she expected. He didn’t waste anytime pouring himself a drink.

“You’re home early,” she said approaching him. She reached into her pocket and felt the gun. For reassurance; it gave her courage. “Did your whore kick you out?”

Tyrone threw back his head and swallowed the bourbon in one gulp. “Verrrry funny.” He poured himself another drink.

“Don’t think I don’t know you have someone on the side—or that you’ve had several someones over the years.”

He turned around to face her. “Sure, I have someone right now. I’ve hidden her away in my closet, behind my dress shirts!” He sneered. “And let me tell you—she’s perfect! And one day real soon she’ll take her place beside me.”

Sonja pulled out her gun and shot him, right in the chest. “You bitch!” he howled. “What have you done?” Tyrone lunged for her and managed to grab the gun. Before she could escape, they embraced in a wildly grotesque dance, knocking over an heirloom cherry-wood end table and smashing a Waterford cut-crystal lamp. They fell to the floor in a crashing death struggle, punching and kicking and biting each other. Being the stronger of the two, Tyrone quickly won the fight, despite the fact that he was dying. His last angry act was to shoot Sonja in the gut with her own gun.

“Damn you, Tyrone,” she wailed as she died.

Upstairs, Tyrone 2 startled when he heard the first gun shot. Puzzled, he rose from the bed and put his ear to the door. He could hear muffled shouts and thuds and then another gunshot. He opened the door and was creeping downstairs when he heard Sonja’s shrieking voice say, “Damn you, Tyrone.” So he knew it was okay to leave the guest-bedroom.

Reaching the den, he found the deceased bodies of two original humans—entangled, battered, and still bleeding out on the antique Persian rug.

* * *

Sonja 2 heard the first gunshot as she stood in the back of the closet. Listening carefully, she heard the sounds of a violent struggle and then a second gunshot. Then silence. She parted the starched shirts before her and slipped out of the closet.

She made her way to the den. “What a mess!” she stated, surprising Tyrone 2. “Looks like we’ve got work to do.”

Tyrone looked at the dead Sonja on the floor, then shifted his gaze to the Sonja android standing before him. She was not just a perfect facsimile of the original Sonja—with her glossy hair, her dark eyes, her flawless skin, her lithe figure—she was even better than the real thing. The two androids smiled at each other, knowingly.

“Suppose we could chop them up,” Sonja 2 suggested, “and use them as chum. I understand night fishing is quite the sport here along the Texas gulf coast.”

“Or we could roll them up in this rug, which is now ruined anyway,” Tyrone 2 countered, “and take them—”

“To the dump,” she finished for him. “In the morning.” She cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said reaching out his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her in close. “In the morning.”

---

Bio: Hillary Lyon’s crime short stories have appeared in Yellow Mama, Guilty!, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, and The Yard. Her speculative and sci-fi short stories have appeared in 365tomorrows, Black Petals, Night to Dawn, Stupefying Stories, and Theme of Absence, among others. She is currently the art director for Black Petals.

Cover Photo by: Hillary Lyon, The Author

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