| Glory |
| by Reggie Lutz |
Glory stretched, yawned, felt her swollen throat and looked at the clock. Her eyes were watery
so the numbers blurred. Her vision cleared and she saw the digital numbers flashing 12:00.
The power had gone out. She cursed the electric company and threw a shoe at the clock. It
left a scuff mark on the battered wall. She turned on the television. Six in the fucking a.m.
Christ. Awake two hours early with no hope of falling back asleep. She went to the clock and
fixed the time.
Glory was at a loss. She would walk to the nearest diner and buy breakfast to soothe her
growling stomach if she had the money, but she didn't so poured herself a glass of water
instead. She brewed cheap supermarket brand coffee and lit a cigarette.
The Necessary Mutation Injection she'd received the day before at the clinic still worked on
her immune system. Distributed by the Environmental Proactive Prevention Committee, the
shot was free and illegal to avoid. Glory knew she would find a hard little pustule somewhere
on her face as evidence of its work. It would likely emerge somewhere prominent; forehead,
nose, chin, cheek. The zit and the swollen throat would subside once her immune system
altered to forever protect her from scary new pathogens.
“Intelligent design, my ass,” she muttered. No higher power, no matter how dubious or
obscure its intentions, would have invented rashes, acne, extreme allergies, asthma, epilepsy
or uncontrollable flatulence. She sighed and rolled her eyes to heaven. “Fucker!”
The neighbors pounded on the wall. She silenced herself, her vitriol simmering. Perhaps it
would turn to steam and dissipate so she could go about her day. A second thud sounded so
she knew it wouldn’t happen. She tried to be quiet, and in making the attempt every tiny noise,
every creak of the floorboards, amplified. Too many hours stretched between then and work.
Glory couldn’t leave; she had nowhere to go. Besides, there was fresh coffee ready. Even the
cheap stuff smelled like elixir, though the drink required a certain amount of doctoring before it
became drinkable. Diving into her stash of creamers taken from convenience stores, she
found her favorite—french vanilla—and emptied them into a huge mug. She questioned
whether to attribute the swirling fog in the cup to the creamer or the poor water quality.
Another thud against the wall interrupted her thoughts, followed by a moan, and a slap. Glory
sighed and turned on the television to cover the noise.
It would have been nice to take her coffee to another room, but she lived in a studio
apartment. The television spoke to her, trying to sell her do-it-yourself breast implants. Glory
pointed an accusatory finger at it and said in her bitchiest voice, “You are not my friend.” The
product had seduced her into making use of it once already and it had resulted in catastrophe.
Someone in the factory had contaminated the do-it-yourself boobies with the seeds of cacti,
genetically engineered to grow several inches in a few hours. Glory had sued and received a
huge settlement with which to restore her breasts to something resembling natural under the
hands of a skilled plastic surgeon. The problem was that no one in the medical fields had seen
natural breasts in such a long time that they ended up looking more like balloons, and the skin
they had grafted was paler than the rest of her body, so that they glowed when she removed
her shirt.
The skin grafts were meant to correct the damage done to her skin by the cactus needles, but
Glory would preferably have tattoos than glowing breasts. The glow worsened over time. The
doctors informed her that the skin had been treated with a chemical meant to make the skin
smoother and more radiant, and she was lucky to have received such a benefit. Her new
breasts, she was assured, were a huge success and certain to be the next most popular
enhancement.
so the numbers blurred. Her vision cleared and she saw the digital numbers flashing 12:00.
The power had gone out. She cursed the electric company and threw a shoe at the clock. It
left a scuff mark on the battered wall. She turned on the television. Six in the fucking a.m.
Christ. Awake two hours early with no hope of falling back asleep. She went to the clock and
fixed the time.
Glory was at a loss. She would walk to the nearest diner and buy breakfast to soothe her
growling stomach if she had the money, but she didn't so poured herself a glass of water
instead. She brewed cheap supermarket brand coffee and lit a cigarette.
The Necessary Mutation Injection she'd received the day before at the clinic still worked on
her immune system. Distributed by the Environmental Proactive Prevention Committee, the
shot was free and illegal to avoid. Glory knew she would find a hard little pustule somewhere
on her face as evidence of its work. It would likely emerge somewhere prominent; forehead,
nose, chin, cheek. The zit and the swollen throat would subside once her immune system
altered to forever protect her from scary new pathogens.
“Intelligent design, my ass,” she muttered. No higher power, no matter how dubious or
obscure its intentions, would have invented rashes, acne, extreme allergies, asthma, epilepsy
or uncontrollable flatulence. She sighed and rolled her eyes to heaven. “Fucker!”
The neighbors pounded on the wall. She silenced herself, her vitriol simmering. Perhaps it
would turn to steam and dissipate so she could go about her day. A second thud sounded so
she knew it wouldn’t happen. She tried to be quiet, and in making the attempt every tiny noise,
every creak of the floorboards, amplified. Too many hours stretched between then and work.
Glory couldn’t leave; she had nowhere to go. Besides, there was fresh coffee ready. Even the
cheap stuff smelled like elixir, though the drink required a certain amount of doctoring before it
became drinkable. Diving into her stash of creamers taken from convenience stores, she
found her favorite—french vanilla—and emptied them into a huge mug. She questioned
whether to attribute the swirling fog in the cup to the creamer or the poor water quality.
Another thud against the wall interrupted her thoughts, followed by a moan, and a slap. Glory
sighed and turned on the television to cover the noise.
It would have been nice to take her coffee to another room, but she lived in a studio
apartment. The television spoke to her, trying to sell her do-it-yourself breast implants. Glory
pointed an accusatory finger at it and said in her bitchiest voice, “You are not my friend.” The
product had seduced her into making use of it once already and it had resulted in catastrophe.
Someone in the factory had contaminated the do-it-yourself boobies with the seeds of cacti,
genetically engineered to grow several inches in a few hours. Glory had sued and received a
huge settlement with which to restore her breasts to something resembling natural under the
hands of a skilled plastic surgeon. The problem was that no one in the medical fields had seen
natural breasts in such a long time that they ended up looking more like balloons, and the skin
they had grafted was paler than the rest of her body, so that they glowed when she removed
her shirt.
The skin grafts were meant to correct the damage done to her skin by the cactus needles, but
Glory would preferably have tattoos than glowing breasts. The glow worsened over time. The
doctors informed her that the skin had been treated with a chemical meant to make the skin
smoother and more radiant, and she was lucky to have received such a benefit. Her new
breasts, she was assured, were a huge success and certain to be the next most popular
enhancement.
Although this story is set in the future, it deals with something relevant in today's world. Men
will find understanding in this story; women will find horror. Both will find humor.
will find understanding in this story; women will find horror. Both will find humor.
She felt freakish, like those women who
subjected their genitalia to nuclear radiation
and then posed for fetish magazines. And, of
course, her nipples were constantly erect.
This drew unwanted stares, as did the
promise of glowing cleavage when she wore
an ill fitting shirt. She no longer had shirts
that fit properly and was always on the
lookout for baggy turtle-necks, which were
hard to find and expensive. She had to quit
waitressing and found a job licking
hypoallergenic stamps in a cubicle—she’d
be licking away in 4 hours.
subjected their genitalia to nuclear radiation
and then posed for fetish magazines. And, of
course, her nipples were constantly erect.
This drew unwanted stares, as did the
promise of glowing cleavage when she wore
an ill fitting shirt. She no longer had shirts
that fit properly and was always on the
lookout for baggy turtle-necks, which were
hard to find and expensive. She had to quit
waitressing and found a job licking
hypoallergenic stamps in a cubicle—she’d
be licking away in 4 hours.
The television droned on and Glory turned away from it, trying to decide whether the raucous
lovemaking of her neighbors was worse than enduring the ads. Picturing the couple going at it,
she shuddered, deciding that, yes, this was worse. Just before the cacti had entered her life,
she had dated the man in question, her hammering neighbor. The reason the cacti incident
had happened was Darwin Faerie.
He’d been the one to suggest the do-it-yourself-implants. He had loved the cacti, in spite of
how uncomfortable they made Glory. He dumped her when she decided to sue. Said she was
evil for betraying his fantasy. She could only imagine what Gieger-esque monster he was
currently fucking. Asshole. It wasn’t like he was the one who had to walk around with cacti
growing out of his tits.
Glory didn’t mind getting dumped. Obviously he hadn't cared for her. She just wished he was
gone, so she didn’t have to run into him in the elevator, on the stairs, at the mailboxes on the
first floor.
Darwin Faerie had undergone his own physical transformation and had a spike implanted in
his head. His reasoning, he explained to Glory, was that he needed something to make him
more compatible with the kinds of women that attracted him. He had gloated and posed,
asking Glory what she thought. Wasn’t she sorry now she didn’t keep the cacti? He stormed
off when she said no, and that he looked like a fucking freak. Darwin's tantrum backfired
because the business end of the spike caught an innocent bystander in the eye as he passed.
Glory had laughed. Nester sued Darwin.
The innocent bystander received a shiny new replacement eye, a cheap model with metal
gears and plastic parts so you could see how it focused and unfocused, and the bystander
had to turn his head slowly so as not to give himself vertigo. He always said hello to Glory
when she happened to be in front of him. Averting her eyes, she would return the greeting
reluctantly. The three of them lived in the same building. Once, Glory and the metal-eyed man
bonded over the unfortunate evidence of Darwin’s presence: the form of head-level scratch
marks on the walls that his spike had made.
The metal-eyed man had problems with his vision and couldn’t see that Glory’s breasts
glowed, or that her nipples were permanently erect. This enabled him and Glory to speak
freely and without distraction. She learned his name, occupation, likes and dislikes. The metal-
eyed man was called Nester Goblin; he was a computer programmer/maintenance man; he
liked canned fruit and hated his father, who did not like canned fruit. Upon learning his name,
Glory sighed, wondering if it was her fate to be entangled with men whose surnames were
evocative of fairy tales, but she set the thought aside as Nester spoke about Father Goblin.
“Father Goblin,” said Nester over his Chai latte and tin of fruit, “was a minister of pain. He
liked to practice on Ma, no matter how much she protested. One day she disappeared. I was
angry that she left me alone with the old fart, but I'm a grown up now. I understand.”
Nester paused to sip while Glory responded, “How horrible!”
Nester the martyr said, “Yes. But for some reason he never ministered to me. In fact, he never
spoke to me until after he died.”
“After he died?” Glory was surprised. “How is that possible?”
“All things are possible in such a technological age, Glory,” Nester said, somewhat paternally,
which Glory thought patronizing and didn’t like but chose to ignore. She remained silent,
waiting patiently for an explanation.
Nester delivered, “He sends me messages electronically from an unknown server. Every day.
He must have programmed it before his death. It’s common, you know.”
“And what do they say?” Glory asked.
Nester frowned into his now empty tin of fruit. “They say, ‘I’m sorry, son, but your mother was
wicked. She loved life too much.'”
“That’s it?”
Nester nodded in the affirmative.
“Well, that's crazy.”
Nester agreed. “Crazy as he was.”
On the way home from Nester Goblin’s apartment to hers, Glory thought, “Poor man, I will help
him heal.” But Nester had gone through extensive counseling, and other than the occasional,
randomly uttered, “Fuck you, Dad!” he didn’t appear to need help. Upon reflection, Glory saw
it as a positive. Their relationship could transcend the mothering most of her previous
boyfriends (with the exception of Darwin Faerie) wanted. It was interesting considering that the
parental figure missing from his life’s history was the mother.
Darwin Faerie was an inimitable presence in the apartment complex, always in the
background, and soon he and his spike began to play a larger part in Glory and Nester Goblin’
s romance.
Glory, her glowing breasts, and Nester went to the Palm-A-Granite diner one night as a
special treat. The Palm-A-Granite was a diner with a coal mining theme, lit solely by the mining
helmets required to be worn by staff and patrons alike. The lights only worked after inserting a
coin into a slot located in the back of the helmet. This was an ingenious way for the
establishment to save on utilities, though most of the patrons bought into the notion that it was
simply delightful kitsch in action.
The walls were made out of faux coal, a resilient synthetic of mysterious origin which patrons
were assured was fire resistant, strong, and yet porous enough to provide a slow leak of any
toxic gasses to escape safely, should the authentic nature of the establishment give rise to
them. Palm-sized pieces of slag lay on the tables, sometimes artfully arranged in piles like
grave markers, accompanied by randomly distributed statuettes of coal depicting bears,
salmon, spiders, and the self-reflective three-dimensional mini-slag heaps, coal mines, miners,
coal carts, and mining hats. The chairs and tables were a mix of plain metal material or were
carved out of coal. Piped in through a well-hidden sound system was a continuous loop of
miners coughing and banging away with picks and shovels, as well as the sound of unwieldy
carts rolling on rickety tracks.
lovemaking of her neighbors was worse than enduring the ads. Picturing the couple going at it,
she shuddered, deciding that, yes, this was worse. Just before the cacti had entered her life,
she had dated the man in question, her hammering neighbor. The reason the cacti incident
had happened was Darwin Faerie.
He’d been the one to suggest the do-it-yourself-implants. He had loved the cacti, in spite of
how uncomfortable they made Glory. He dumped her when she decided to sue. Said she was
evil for betraying his fantasy. She could only imagine what Gieger-esque monster he was
currently fucking. Asshole. It wasn’t like he was the one who had to walk around with cacti
growing out of his tits.
Glory didn’t mind getting dumped. Obviously he hadn't cared for her. She just wished he was
gone, so she didn’t have to run into him in the elevator, on the stairs, at the mailboxes on the
first floor.
Darwin Faerie had undergone his own physical transformation and had a spike implanted in
his head. His reasoning, he explained to Glory, was that he needed something to make him
more compatible with the kinds of women that attracted him. He had gloated and posed,
asking Glory what she thought. Wasn’t she sorry now she didn’t keep the cacti? He stormed
off when she said no, and that he looked like a fucking freak. Darwin's tantrum backfired
because the business end of the spike caught an innocent bystander in the eye as he passed.
Glory had laughed. Nester sued Darwin.
The innocent bystander received a shiny new replacement eye, a cheap model with metal
gears and plastic parts so you could see how it focused and unfocused, and the bystander
had to turn his head slowly so as not to give himself vertigo. He always said hello to Glory
when she happened to be in front of him. Averting her eyes, she would return the greeting
reluctantly. The three of them lived in the same building. Once, Glory and the metal-eyed man
bonded over the unfortunate evidence of Darwin’s presence: the form of head-level scratch
marks on the walls that his spike had made.
The metal-eyed man had problems with his vision and couldn’t see that Glory’s breasts
glowed, or that her nipples were permanently erect. This enabled him and Glory to speak
freely and without distraction. She learned his name, occupation, likes and dislikes. The metal-
eyed man was called Nester Goblin; he was a computer programmer/maintenance man; he
liked canned fruit and hated his father, who did not like canned fruit. Upon learning his name,
Glory sighed, wondering if it was her fate to be entangled with men whose surnames were
evocative of fairy tales, but she set the thought aside as Nester spoke about Father Goblin.
“Father Goblin,” said Nester over his Chai latte and tin of fruit, “was a minister of pain. He
liked to practice on Ma, no matter how much she protested. One day she disappeared. I was
angry that she left me alone with the old fart, but I'm a grown up now. I understand.”
Nester paused to sip while Glory responded, “How horrible!”
Nester the martyr said, “Yes. But for some reason he never ministered to me. In fact, he never
spoke to me until after he died.”
“After he died?” Glory was surprised. “How is that possible?”
“All things are possible in such a technological age, Glory,” Nester said, somewhat paternally,
which Glory thought patronizing and didn’t like but chose to ignore. She remained silent,
waiting patiently for an explanation.
Nester delivered, “He sends me messages electronically from an unknown server. Every day.
He must have programmed it before his death. It’s common, you know.”
“And what do they say?” Glory asked.
Nester frowned into his now empty tin of fruit. “They say, ‘I’m sorry, son, but your mother was
wicked. She loved life too much.'”
“That’s it?”
Nester nodded in the affirmative.
“Well, that's crazy.”
Nester agreed. “Crazy as he was.”
On the way home from Nester Goblin’s apartment to hers, Glory thought, “Poor man, I will help
him heal.” But Nester had gone through extensive counseling, and other than the occasional,
randomly uttered, “Fuck you, Dad!” he didn’t appear to need help. Upon reflection, Glory saw
it as a positive. Their relationship could transcend the mothering most of her previous
boyfriends (with the exception of Darwin Faerie) wanted. It was interesting considering that the
parental figure missing from his life’s history was the mother.
Darwin Faerie was an inimitable presence in the apartment complex, always in the
background, and soon he and his spike began to play a larger part in Glory and Nester Goblin’
s romance.
Glory, her glowing breasts, and Nester went to the Palm-A-Granite diner one night as a
special treat. The Palm-A-Granite was a diner with a coal mining theme, lit solely by the mining
helmets required to be worn by staff and patrons alike. The lights only worked after inserting a
coin into a slot located in the back of the helmet. This was an ingenious way for the
establishment to save on utilities, though most of the patrons bought into the notion that it was
simply delightful kitsch in action.
The walls were made out of faux coal, a resilient synthetic of mysterious origin which patrons
were assured was fire resistant, strong, and yet porous enough to provide a slow leak of any
toxic gasses to escape safely, should the authentic nature of the establishment give rise to
them. Palm-sized pieces of slag lay on the tables, sometimes artfully arranged in piles like
grave markers, accompanied by randomly distributed statuettes of coal depicting bears,
salmon, spiders, and the self-reflective three-dimensional mini-slag heaps, coal mines, miners,
coal carts, and mining hats. The chairs and tables were a mix of plain metal material or were
carved out of coal. Piped in through a well-hidden sound system was a continuous loop of
miners coughing and banging away with picks and shovels, as well as the sound of unwieldy
carts rolling on rickety tracks.
Though Nester’s vision was faulty, he claimed it added to the experience of the Palm-A-
Granite. This, Glory reflected, was probably true, as the one thing missing from the diner
were clouds of sight-inhibiting black coal dust. Glory and Nester enjoyed a pleasant meal of
potato and carrot soup, mashed potatoes and potato and cheese pierogies along with coffee
brewed over a coal stove. Considering the heavy, bloating fare, Glory was glad that
Granite. This, Glory reflected, was probably true, as the one thing missing from the diner
were clouds of sight-inhibiting black coal dust. Glory and Nester enjoyed a pleasant meal of
potato and carrot soup, mashed potatoes and potato and cheese pierogies along with coffee
brewed over a coal stove. Considering the heavy, bloating fare, Glory was glad that
they had begun—rather than ended—the night with satisfying sex. The bus-boy was just
clearing their dishes when Darwin Faerie stumbled in with his date, a woman whose entire
face was covered in surgically implanted spines like those found on the backbone of some
exotic lizard. Glory nearly tasted her meal a second time, but averted her eyes quickly enough
to avoid an accident. Nester heard Darwin Faerie.
“Oh, no,” said Nester.
“Oh, yes,” said Glory, sighing, “And don’t look but they are headed this way."
Indeed they were. The host laid out place settings for Darwin and date at the table right beside
Glory and Nester. They began to seat themselves when Darwin tripped over a piece of slag.
He had nearly gained his balance averting a collision, but Miss Spiny-face made the error of
trying to be helpful. She tried to catch Darwin, but the spines obscured her vision, and she
shoved him instead. Darwin fell in the direction of Nester Goblin. Glory stood and shouted,
“No!” as Darwin’s head spike caught Nester’s natural eye. When the staff helped Darwin to his
feet, Nester screamed. Darwin Faerie’s head spike plucked the good eye clean out of its
socket.
The rest was a blur to Glory. Nester was rushed to the hospital. Darwin was subsequently
sued by both the restaurant (who lost a week’s business) and Nester Goblin again. Both
offended parties won their lawsuits and Darwin was left destitute, which Glory would have
thought righteous revenge except for the consequence to her relationship with Nester Goblin.
The court not only awarded Nester a new and improved mechanical eye, he received a new
matching set with which he was better able to see. He delighted in Glory’s glowing breasts and
the mere suggestion of them. When she was in the hospital with him, wearing a button down
shirt revealing a little cleavage, she had leaned over Nester to mop his brow as he slept. At
that moment he opened his eyes. Henceforth, between Nester and Glory, conversation ceased
altogether, and his mechanical eyes never left the vicinity of those orbs which caused her so
much distress.
Once Nester was released, Glory tried to hang on to the relationship for a little while, but the
miracle mechanical eyes in Nester's head turned creepy. She imagined she could feel the
vibrations of gears straining, working the lenses toward her bosom, even when Nester was not
in the room. She could hear the click and hum of those eyes as she shrugged out of her coat
or stretched to ease tension in her mid-back muscles. At movies, she felt Nester's hot breath
on her neck and ear while he tried to peer down her blouse instead of watching the film they
had paid to see. Glory began to see less of him in person, relegating their relationship to brief
phone conversations and internet chats, which often ended with Nester's pleading to see her
in person, because he missed "Glory's glories."
She finally snapped and dumped him. "But I love you!" Nester had whined. Glory was tempted
to say, "And I used to love you." She did not. A statement like that might lead to a continuation
of the discussion. Glory just wanted an end. "Yeah, well, now you can go fall in love with
someone else's boobs," she said before hanging up. She blamed everything on Darwin Faerie.
Glory's throat stopped throbbing as she drained the last drop of coffee from her mug and
started on another cup. Unable to resist the television, she turned it back on. There was a
fashion show. The models' skin was painted green. Glory rolled her eyes. Here was yet
another impossible idea of beauty which would make dermatologists and plastic surgeons rich.
"Fucking leeches," Glory muttered. She changed the channel to the news. The anchorwoman
droned on about preparations for the space colony, a government program to insure survival
of the human species. Glory was about to switch the channel again when she noticed the
newswoman's skin was slightly greenish, and the normally red-faced co-anchor beside her
was green as well. Glory checked the settings on her television monitor, adjusting and re-
adjusting the hue. No matter what she did, the anchors' skin was still green.
"The EPPC has issued a statement regarding its recent NMI." Glory's ears perked up and she
stopped playing with the hue. The anchorwoman continued. "It seems that it causes the skin to
turn green in 97.5 percent of the populace. The EPPC says not to be alarmed by this
development. The change in skin pigment is an indicator that the NMI is working and should
be viewed as a positive development."
Alarm bells went off in Glory's head. She turned up the lights and then looked at her hands.
The co-anchor added, "We're lucky to have such a clear litmus test to prove that the EPPC's
methods are working."
Glory rushed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror as the anchorwoman's voice followed.
"We'll certainly look festive for the holiday season, Bill."
Glory screamed.
clearing their dishes when Darwin Faerie stumbled in with his date, a woman whose entire
face was covered in surgically implanted spines like those found on the backbone of some
exotic lizard. Glory nearly tasted her meal a second time, but averted her eyes quickly enough
to avoid an accident. Nester heard Darwin Faerie.
“Oh, no,” said Nester.
“Oh, yes,” said Glory, sighing, “And don’t look but they are headed this way."
Indeed they were. The host laid out place settings for Darwin and date at the table right beside
Glory and Nester. They began to seat themselves when Darwin tripped over a piece of slag.
He had nearly gained his balance averting a collision, but Miss Spiny-face made the error of
trying to be helpful. She tried to catch Darwin, but the spines obscured her vision, and she
shoved him instead. Darwin fell in the direction of Nester Goblin. Glory stood and shouted,
“No!” as Darwin’s head spike caught Nester’s natural eye. When the staff helped Darwin to his
feet, Nester screamed. Darwin Faerie’s head spike plucked the good eye clean out of its
socket.
The rest was a blur to Glory. Nester was rushed to the hospital. Darwin was subsequently
sued by both the restaurant (who lost a week’s business) and Nester Goblin again. Both
offended parties won their lawsuits and Darwin was left destitute, which Glory would have
thought righteous revenge except for the consequence to her relationship with Nester Goblin.
The court not only awarded Nester a new and improved mechanical eye, he received a new
matching set with which he was better able to see. He delighted in Glory’s glowing breasts and
the mere suggestion of them. When she was in the hospital with him, wearing a button down
shirt revealing a little cleavage, she had leaned over Nester to mop his brow as he slept. At
that moment he opened his eyes. Henceforth, between Nester and Glory, conversation ceased
altogether, and his mechanical eyes never left the vicinity of those orbs which caused her so
much distress.
Once Nester was released, Glory tried to hang on to the relationship for a little while, but the
miracle mechanical eyes in Nester's head turned creepy. She imagined she could feel the
vibrations of gears straining, working the lenses toward her bosom, even when Nester was not
in the room. She could hear the click and hum of those eyes as she shrugged out of her coat
or stretched to ease tension in her mid-back muscles. At movies, she felt Nester's hot breath
on her neck and ear while he tried to peer down her blouse instead of watching the film they
had paid to see. Glory began to see less of him in person, relegating their relationship to brief
phone conversations and internet chats, which often ended with Nester's pleading to see her
in person, because he missed "Glory's glories."
She finally snapped and dumped him. "But I love you!" Nester had whined. Glory was tempted
to say, "And I used to love you." She did not. A statement like that might lead to a continuation
of the discussion. Glory just wanted an end. "Yeah, well, now you can go fall in love with
someone else's boobs," she said before hanging up. She blamed everything on Darwin Faerie.
Glory's throat stopped throbbing as she drained the last drop of coffee from her mug and
started on another cup. Unable to resist the television, she turned it back on. There was a
fashion show. The models' skin was painted green. Glory rolled her eyes. Here was yet
another impossible idea of beauty which would make dermatologists and plastic surgeons rich.
"Fucking leeches," Glory muttered. She changed the channel to the news. The anchorwoman
droned on about preparations for the space colony, a government program to insure survival
of the human species. Glory was about to switch the channel again when she noticed the
newswoman's skin was slightly greenish, and the normally red-faced co-anchor beside her
was green as well. Glory checked the settings on her television monitor, adjusting and re-
adjusting the hue. No matter what she did, the anchors' skin was still green.
"The EPPC has issued a statement regarding its recent NMI." Glory's ears perked up and she
stopped playing with the hue. The anchorwoman continued. "It seems that it causes the skin to
turn green in 97.5 percent of the populace. The EPPC says not to be alarmed by this
development. The change in skin pigment is an indicator that the NMI is working and should
be viewed as a positive development."
Alarm bells went off in Glory's head. She turned up the lights and then looked at her hands.
The co-anchor added, "We're lucky to have such a clear litmus test to prove that the EPPC's
methods are working."
Glory rushed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror as the anchorwoman's voice followed.
"We'll certainly look festive for the holiday season, Bill."
Glory screamed.
