Minerva sat at her desk adding inventory data to the computer catalog system.

“Hey.”

Minerva looked up and saw herself standing there. “What the–”

“Hi,” said her doppleganger. “Author Minerva here again. Have you figured out what all these Museum Mishaps have in common my fictional self?”

Fictional Minerva looked confused. “A museum?”

“Well, mostly– but the only thing they ALL have in common, is you– Fictional Minerva and your extreme carelessness. When I decided to write all these mishaps I thought it’d be a lot easier to kill you with museum hazards, because they ARE real and can be deadly. However, I’ve had to force you to be kind of a nitwit to imperil you again and again. The REAL Minerva can be lazy and do shortcuts for most things, but I never take the kind of chances I’ve forced you to take again and again. I mean, partly it helps that I managed to convince the doctor to do an arsenic test and I came up clean, but really just writing out how badly things have to go to kill me has made me feel much safer at my job.”

Fictional Minerva sighed. “Well, catharsis is healthy. I’m glad I helped you out in some small way. However, you’ve forgotten one thing.”

Author Minerva took a step back. “What’s that?”

“This isn’t the real world.”

Fictional Minerva took out a .38 Colt revolver with “Chekhov” written in red paint pen down the barrel. Author Minerva put up her hands, but her fictional self didn’t miss.