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I Am The Target-Practice Mannequin On The Left

Words of wisdom from the second most important bullet magnet in town.

Hey. Over here.

That's right. It's me. The target-practice mannequin on the left. I know I'm probably not your favorite target-practice mannequin. I can't compete with the one in the center. That guy's got real star quality. Everybody loves him. But I should at least be your second favorite, right? Who's my competition there? That dope on the right? He's terrible! He only got this job because his uncle knows somebody. Me, I have to work hard every day and hope that maybe I'll get to stand in for center mannequin one day.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering why I'm even in the target-practice business to begin with. It's not a great gig. Even if you do your job perfectly, you end up with a lot of bullet holes in your head. And if the person with the gun is a real weirdo, you end up with a lot of holes in your crotch, too. And let's face it, anyone who needs three target practice mannequins is probably at least a little unstable. Not that I'm complaining! Without weirdoes, I'd be out of a job.

I tried joining this support group for people who had been the victims of mind control, but I didn't fit in there. All everyone wanted to talk about was how traumatic it was to find themselves unable to control their actions. I kept suggesting that they might feel better if they propped a mannequin up in an empty warehouse and take a few shots at it, but they ignored me. They were all into emotions. I've got emotions, too! Sort of. Mostly just bitterness, but that should count.

It's not like I haven't been mind-controlled. Sure, I've run into a mysterious British guy who wanted me to do stuff. Who hasn't? I was told to go kill Trish Walker. You know, the one with the radio talk show? He told me to kill her. And I was just about to do it, too! I had a whole plan of how to get inside her apartment by hiding inside an enormous wooden horse, but at the last second I guess he heard her on the radio or something, so he called it off. It's a good thing for her that he did. You don't spend your life in a shooting range without learning a thing or two about guns. And no one ever suspects the mannequin in the corner. If questioned, I could always claim it was self-defense. The police generally extend the benefit of the doubt to anyone who's riddled with bullet wounds.

I wanted to take pictures of Jessica Jones. That's a career with long-term prospects, since she's always doing picturesque things like jumping over fences and wearing infinity scarves. Okay, lots of people wear scarves, but I rarely get to. So I'm a little jealous. My point is that I could easily be a stalker. Or failing that, I could be a distraction. Imagine it: Jessica knows she's being watched by someone, so she looks around. And what does she see? Hundreds of people who show varying degrees of suspicion. And also, a mannequin that's been shot several times. Are you telling me that's not going to draw her attention? The photographer could escape easily while she's trying to figure out what I'm doing there. And if we run this gambit four or five times, maybe I could be the one with the camera one of these times?

Look, I'll do anything. I just want to stop getting shot. I was trained to model underwear, but I feel like that's probably never going to happen at this point. My only real career prospect is to end up in a terrible art project. And that will probably be even worse for my structural integrity than the bullets.

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