Practice your breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Listen, now. The gentle breezes of Fate are blowing a pickup truck into your life. Do not resist its gentle rubber caresses. The treads will pass, and help is on the way.
In the big room, they are shining lights into your abdomen. Men trained for long years to tweak your innards are laying you open, secure in the knowledge that you are one of their kind. But what if you're not? How will you defend yourself against their depredations, lying unconscious on the table? They're playing poker, and your organs are the chips. I'll raise you a spleen, and teach it to be a fine dancer. When it leaves home I will cry, but I will know it is the right thing.
Years later, misshapen, alone, you spend your afternoons frightening children who walk through your yard. You harpoon the school bus, and drag them all screaming into your foul den, there to lend a dainty flavor to your soups. The driver's shrunken dried cadaver is your Christmas tree ornament, the first of many, to be handed down to the eldest of your army of clones.
As you practice your breathing, your thoughts turn to my tune. I will make you remember your future, and in so doing you will live to regret the choices you have yet to make. When you make those choices again, I will be there laughing at you. I hear the blond ones go best with cream soups.