Fredlin woke up and disagreed with his face. With his tufty yellow hair, he bore a sickly resemblance to henryfonda weed. It wasn’t the face he ordered.
Henryfonda Fredlin was fond of--two years ago it had been the latest health craze. “Get your henryfonda weed! Stay young with henryfonda!” The woman selling henryfonda was a prominent scientist who had died in a freak accident where she tripped down stairs and smashed her nose bone through her brain. Fredlin’s company recreated her to market the henryfonda, which had no positive effects. Fredlin was unaware of any negative effects, most stubbornly so, despite the uncomfortable incidents. He considered the happy sum an accomplishment of his--what foresight, what vision!
Fredlin looked in the mirror. It was better than his old one yes sir--his old one...well. This new one would serve him well, despite it being ugly. He could come down from the 1207th floor, and mingle in the world below. So long he had been shut off--for his own protection of course. The only face he’d seen was that of his doctor, a dried up, South-east Asian mug. One day, he would have to figure out to do with that man. Unfortunately, his skill was unsurpassed in the history of humanity--take this face transplant. The good doctor was an artist, even if he was a horrible listener--black hair, Fredlin had wanted. Well, there must have been a shortage of dead faces to pick from--Fredlin preferred not to think of that.
Besides, Fredlin was too excited to be angry--that would have to wait until he was more convincing. Fredlin was not vain; he could survive strange hair. How nice the air would feel--how lovely the ground.
In the elevator now, Fredlin imagined the world he would emerge to, full of distractions. New face, new everything--the elevator was at the bottom.
As the doors open, and Fredlin emerged, and began to walk about. His gleefulness was soon eclipsed by a sense of unease. Eyes, all eyes seemed to watch him. Could they tell? He wondered. Did they see the surgery?
The further he walked the more silent the street became, the less it moved, until the street did nothing but stare. Fredlin was puzzled--what could be wrong?
The only thing moving was a large display screen at the edge of the street. Fredlin paused before it, glancing over his shoulder when he saw.
On the screen was a news report. It was showing a lynching that happened sometime last night. A lynching of the governor, who had legalized henryfonda despite protests from the scientific community, the report said. Since then, the weed’s bizarre habit of spontaneously combusting when half-smoked had led to more than 13,000 deaths, a number set only to grow, as the henryfonda seeds lodged in the streets and buildings waiting for the perfect and yet to be diagnosed conditions. The governor’s hanging corpse had strange tufty yellow hair.
Fredlin felt that maybe there wasn’t a shortage of dead faces at all.
Copyright 2014 M.Kehl
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