It was 5:00pm on a Tuesday in January when I got called into my editor’s office. He looked me dead in the eyes and gave me what he thought was the toughest story to cross his desk since the Lukewarm Cookie Night incident back in ‘88. I had been assigned to cover the return of Marquette University’s greatest and only sketch comedy group: the mysterious, illustrious, and ever-dangerous 33rd & State.

I’ve been reporting the news since Woodward & Bernstein were just a comedy duo from Brooklyn. To say I’ve been around the block is not only an understatement, but borderline journalistic malpractice. I’ve been around the reporter block enough times to dig a moat deep enough to protect Princess Integrity from ten thousand invaders, aquaphobic or otherwise. However, when tasked with tracking down these elusive jokesters, I had no idea where to go to find a true American story.

Until the story found me.

Walking back from the office towards my tiny studio apartment, a black limousine pulled up next to me. The license plate said “33RD N STE” but the flames running down the side of the car yelled “I MEAN BUSINESS.” The window cracked slightly and a voice came from within.

“Get in the car, or you’ll be the headline story tomorrow morning.”

Not wanting to lose my life or my opportunity to touch journalistic greatness, I obliged the strange, but handsome man. He was shrouded in a cloak of darkness, but I could faintly make out the frames of his glasses. They looked familiar. I should have sensed something was off about this whole encounter. As the car lurched forward, I mustered up the courage to ask my host what was happening here.

“Who are you? Where are we going?” I snapped.

“Don’t worry,” he responded coldly.

I was having none of his empty pleasantries. I was a hardened journalist, not a gullible child with a lust for candy. I was going to find out where this mystery machine was taking me.

“Tell me who you are and it’ll save us both a lot of overtime,” I said.

“I don’t need to say anything,” he responded, “I simply need to show you.”

I could hear my palpitation-prone heart beating faster and faster as he slowly leaned forward in his seat. Suddenly, he violently stopped.

“Seat belts are jammed again. I told Carl we need to fix these fucking things!”

He fidgeted with it until the contraption allowed him to continue his time-consuming and unnecessarily long climb into better lighting. For an expensive stretch limousine, it had the worst lighting set up I have ever seen in my entire 20 year career on this earth. The standard color-changing lights can be annoying, but at least you can see who’s on the other end of the car.

After what seemed like an eternity, the stranger was in clear light and I saw everything. Except he was no stranger. He was handsome, good-looking, attractive, beautiful, pretty man with a damn fine head of hair. Those glasses I saw from afar were identical to mine. In fact, the rest of him was identical to someone very familiar: me.

“What is the meaning of this!? Who the hell are you!? ” I hollered.

He smiled.

He spoke slowly as he said, “It’s simple, Spencer… I am you.”

“But how!?”

After a pregnant pause that was full enough to be halfway through a healthy and stress-free third trimester, he spoke.

“You’re in your apartment typing this. You’re not a reporter, but rather a junior in college with an overactive imagination and an abundance of free time.”

Damn, I thought. My boss is never going to believe this.