Delicate blue eyes for you to lose yourself in.

Skin so soft it feels like a lamb’s.

A laugh that sounds like your grandmother’s

Or a celebrity’s – the choice is yours.

Don’t worry about deafness or Down’s Syndrome or Neuroblastoma.

The offending genes have been delicately removed

And replaced with strong bones and thick hair.

You baby will grow to approximately 6 feet 2 inches

And will be exceptionally receptive to STEM education.

You can have a ballerina or a track star too.

Or why not both?

Designed in a lab and grown in a womb designed in another lab,

Your child will be well-cared for, stimulated, nourished, and soothed.

With 24/7 webcam access and a variety of pre-birth photo packages available

You will be there every step of the way.

Our new app allows your phone to vibrate when the baby kicks.

And with our premium package,

Your baby’s heartbeat can be your ringtone.

It will take its first breath in the arms of our innovative nursing staff

Now outfitted with Simuskin to give your baby the feeling of warmth

And thoroughly sanitized to protect little lives.

24/7 webcam access and a variety of post-birth packages will be also be available.

Our social media concierge will document your first days as parents

To ensure the world shares your joy in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible.

You may not be perfect, but your child will be.

It will be a math whiz and an athlete and have perfect vision.

It will have pollution resistant skin and lungs that can withstand the vacuum of space.

You child will be a top-tier candidate for one of the colony ships.

No mining job for your little bundle of joy.

We will give your child the future you can’t give them on earth

But only if you call now.

Financing is available.

Operators are standing by.

Dear Sarah,

Here’s a little backstory as to why I'm writing to you:

“Maybe I should just leave the band, then. You obviously don’t value my input,” said Veronica.

I was trying to be as understanding as possible, but what she was asking was ridiculous.

“We’re opening for Fornicator next week. We’ve released three demos. We are going to be doing an album soon. Do you think our fanbase is going to stick with us if we change the name to…to…what did you want to change the name to?”

“Daughter’s Tears.”

“Jesus Christ, do you know what it would do to us if we changed our name to Daughter’s Tears. We don’t have much, but we have a reputation as the nastiest band in central Illinois.”

“It’s a reputation based on hating women.”

“We don’t hate women. We’re just putting a mirror up to society.”

“Do you just not understand how offensive it is to name a band Rapehammer?” Veronica snapped.

I knew it was offensive. That was the point. You can’t name your band after a scented candle from William Sonoma if you’re playing pornogrind. Veronica understood this, or at least she did when she was Chuck.

“Chuck,” I said.

Veronica’s eyes flashed with anger. “It’ s Veronica, “she said icily.

“I’m sorry. I’m still trying to get used to this bullshit story that my friend was tuned into a woman by Satan. Are you wearing a wire? Is he listening to me now? Chuck, get your ass out here! This is not funny!”

“I keep telling you, I’m no longer Chuck. I’m Veronica. The ritual worked!”

“Yeah, sure. You know Anton LaVey was an atheist, right? You really expect me to believe you actually summoned the devil and he turned you into a woman?”

“Well, explain it then!”

I had to admit, I didn’t have a better explanation.

“Ok, fine. I just didn’t know you wanted to be a girl.”

“I didn’t ask for this. I asked for great power. And Satan, praise be unto him, turned me into a woman overnight.”

“OK, you’re a woman now. Do we have to break the band up because of it?”

“It’s just not who I am anymore.”

“You might have boobs now, but you’re still the person who wrote “Pre-Teen Semen Queen’ and ‘Cervix Crusher’. You can still play the songs.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why not. You were really proud when you came up with that riff for ‘Pregnant Whore in a Dumpster’. You’re telling me you’re embarrassed now just because you have a vagina?”

“Sex worker,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“They’re called sex workers. Whore is a cisnormative patriarchal term designed to shame women about expressing their sexuality.”

“You know how many songs we’ve written with the word ‘whore’ in the title? Fifteen on the last demo alone. Even more on the album. Remember the album? The one we’re recording next month.”

“I don't think I should be working on that album.”

“You have a pair of ovaries for less than 24 hours, and now you’re too good for me?”

Veronica looked sad.

“I don’t want us to fight.”

“You don’t want to fight? You’re trying to destroy everything we’ve worked for, and you don’t want to fight?”

“I just don’t see why we can’t play some of the new songs I put together.

“What new songs?”

She opened her guitar case, pulled out an acoustic guitar, and began playing. The acoustic guitar was bad enough, but the song was even worse. After about 30 seconds, I made her stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“There’s no way in hell we can do a song like that. We can’t play ‘Napalm Tampon’ and then some ballad about women in the third world not having menstrual products. We don’t even play ballads.”

“Well it’s an important topic.”

“What next, we stop throwing bloody tampons at the audience?”

“There’s girls in Yemen who could use those tampons.”

I was feeling like I had to throw up. Normally, I would have used it for inspiration for some riffs, my musical career was getting flushed down the toilet, just like our song “Flushing Severed Penises Down the Toilet”.

“Can’t we just…can’t we just keep doing what we’re doing?”

Veronica shook her head.

“I don’t think we can. Satan promised me power, and the songs I’ve got bouncing around in my head are good. They’re really good. The kind of songs that will make a difference in the world. Not just songs about semen covered infants and amputee orgies.”

I was angry.

“But ‘Amputee Orgy’ is our best song!”

“It was. I want to make better songs. You can too.”

“Look, I’m not the world’s best songwriter, but I’m proud of ‘Amputee Orgy’. I’m proud of ‘Hydrocephalic Gangbang’. And I’m proud of ‘Mongoloid Donkey Punch’. They’re not much, but they’re mine. And you made great songs too.”

She looked like she wanted to cry.

“Can’t we just try recording one of my new songs. I think our fans might…”

“Our fans would crucify us. Literally. You saw what they did to that stray cat Midwest MILF Torturefest 7?”

“Then I guess I have to go. I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore.”

She left, and Rapehammer died with her. I was heartbroken. I put my drums in storage and spent much of my friend time drinking and doing whippets behind an abandoned gas station with some high school kids. And that’s how my life would have stayed if not for one night, in the middle of an absinthe bender, I performed a Satanic ritual of my own.

My name’s Gretchen now. It wasn’t my intention, but the devil apparently has a real hard-on for changing people’s genders. I’m not bitter though. I’ve grown in many ways, I am literally bursting with new musical ideas, and lyrics that would speak to women everywhere. Which is why I’m writing to you to merely ask that for your revival of Lilith Fair, that you keep my one-woman band in mind. Please enjoy the enclosed Menstrual Blood Igloo demo tape.

Steve stopped running and looked around. Was that thing just toying with him at this point? How was he not dead already?

He knocked on the door. He didn’t want to drag Dawn into this, but what choice did he have? No response. He knocked again, louder this . The light came on.

“Just a second!” he heard an exasperated voice say from inside.

The door opened six inches. Dawn looked out through half-open eyes. She sighed loudly.

“Steve, what the hell are you doing here?”

He could feel the panic and bile rising in his throat. He’d made a mistake coming here. He’d put her life at risk.

“Just let me in, and I’ll explain.”

“Steve, it’s three in the morning. Go home, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. You know me. I wouldn’t do something crazy.”

“What about clown college?”

Three years, and she still hadn’t let that go. No wonder they had broken up. He felt a brief wave of anger wash over him, but then the fear took over.

“Please, just let me in. Five minutes.”

She shut the door. He heard her unlatch the chain. She opened the door and motioned him inside. She did not look happy.

“Five minutes,” she said.

They sat at the kitchen table that had been their first major purchase as a couple. Steve wondered if she regretted breaking up with him. Based on the look on her face, she did not.

“What do you know about the United Negro College Fud?” he asked.

“The United Negro College Fund?”

“Yeah, the UNCF. A mind is terrible thing to waste?”

“I guess they send black kids to college? You know I have work in the morning, right?’

 “Well, they’ve sent a robot to kill me.”

Dawn looked like she wanted to kill him herself

“You woke me up at three in morning to tell me…”

“I have a video.”

The video was shaky, as the robot had been firing a gun at him at the time. The robot looked a bit like Harriet Tubman, if Harriet Tubman had been a robot.

“The United Negro College Fund helps underprivileged youths and historically black colleges and universities,” shouted the robot, “Steve Huntington will not stop us.”

The robot fired a missile from its shoulder-mounted missile launcher. Then, as it sang “We Shall Overcome”, it shot lasers from its eyes. The video cut out suddenly.

Dawn sat for a moment.

“What happened next,” she asked.

“It threw a telephone pole at me. Then it stopped and asked some bystanders to donate money to the United Negro College Fund.”

“What did you do?

’What did you mean?”

“I mean, why is the United Negro College Fund sending killer robots after you?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I want to know why this robot somehow knows who you are and says you need to be stopped.”

“I didn’t do anything to the United Negro College Fund. How could you even ask…”

“You know there’s more black men in prison than in college in this country.”

“I know. Its’s a real shame”

“Do you really mean that?’

“What? Of course, I mean that.”

“Well, the United Negro College Fund has a vital mission and not enough money. Do you expect me to believe they would have spent the money on a killer robot instead of giving some kid a scholarship if they didn’t have a good reason? ”

“You do understand that the United Negro College Fund does not have a killer robot program. You understand that, right? Whatever this is, this is not happening because the United Negro College Fund is creating killer robots”

“Wait, are you saying they can’t create killer robots? Because they’re black? ”

“Of course I’m not saying it’s because they’re black. I’m just saying it’s nuts to assume some charity  is sending a killer robot after me because I’m Hitler or something. ”

Dawn did not look convinced.

“I don’t know. You spend a lot of time on the Internet. Maybe you’re alt-right now.”

“I’m not a racist. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything anymore.”

“I’m not a racist! I voted for Obama twice!”

“You said you voted for Romney”

“I said I liked his hair! He’s not as bad as Trump you know.”

“Maybe the robot is from the future. Maybe you become a super racist later on, and this robot is here to stop you.”

“You’re insane!”

“You’re the one with a robot trying to kill you. It mentioned you by name.”

Steve got up from the table.

“It was a mistake coming here! I have to go!”

“I’m giving you five minutes, “replied Dawn, “then I’m calling the cops and the United Negro College Fund.”

Steve studied her face for any sign she was joking. She wasn’t. He bolted for the door.

“Get out of my house!” Dawn shouted

He ran through the night, looking for shelter. A wolf howled in the distance. What was a wolf doing in the suburbs of Philadelphia? Maybe the United Negro College Fund was sending wolves after him as well. He shook his head. It was unlikely enough that the United Negro College Fund was a killer robot program, but a killer wolf program as well? Ridiculous. They wouldn’t have any money to send kids to school.

He found a park, darted inside. Maybe the trees could give him some cover. He didn’t want to stop, but he was exhausted, and he needed to try again, just one more time. He punched the number into his phone.

The lady on the other end of the line recognized him as soon as he started speaking.

“Hello, Mr. Huntington,” she said wearily.

“Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I really need to speak to the head of your organization.”

“Mr. Huntington, the United Negro College Fund is dedicated to funding historically black colleges and helping young African-American scholars go onto higher education. We do not build killer robots.

“But…”

“Check with the NAACP,” she said, and hung up the phone.

He turned off his phone and tried to get some sleep. The secretary’s suggestion tormented him. Was she just being sarcastic, or was she sympathetic and trying to send him a coded message? Maybe the NAACP had created the robot to make the UNCF look bad. Maybe the African-American community was not building killer robots, and the whole thing was a false-flag operation by the CIA.  How deep did this conspiracy go?

His thoughts were interrupted by a tree falling toward him.  It was here. The damn thing had found him again. He sprinted out of the way

“Samuel L. Jackson is one of the many people we’ve helped go to college. Give to the United Negro College fund today,” said the robot, flinging throwing stars.

One of the stars founded its target. Steve fell to the ground in agony. He yanked it out of his leg, got back up, kept running. The pain faded as he pounded the concrete, but he knew that was the adrenaline. He wasn’t much of an athlete, and he was already pushing himself far beyond his limits.

Why had the United Negro college Fund deviated from its historic mission of helping promising young black scholars to kill him? And how could he stop it? Even if he managed to somehow destroy the robot, it would look bad for him – a white guy smashing the hard work of a group of people trying to help African-Americans succeed. He didn’t want that on his conscience.

The robot was gaining on him.

“You should read the latest Ta-Neshi Coates article in the Atlantic this month. It’s quite thought-provoking ,”shouted the robot, “Not you Steve Huntington! You need to die!”

Steve had meant to read it, but an issue of The Economist always took so long to get through, and he was behind on his reading. Perhaps his life would been in danger now if he had just eschewed reading that 12-page feature on the president of Indonesia.

A car blew up in front of him. Then another one. And another. Soon, there was a raging wall of fire in front of him. He stopped in his tracks. There was no way around the inferno.

“Steve Huntington,your reign of terror has come to an end, ” said the robot.

“Please, just tell me what this is all about,” pleaded Steve. He’d left his checkbook at home, but perhaps the robot had Venmo.

The robot stopped, “The time for talking is over. You are an enemy of the United Negro College Fund. ”

The robots eyes began to glow red. Blades slid out of the robot’s hands. Steve fell to his knees. He would never know what he had done to provoke this, but he didn’t care. He was too tired to fight anymore.

 A crowd had gathered around, but no one even attempted to help. They merely held their phones aloft, filming an execution to be gawped at on the Internet. He closed his eyes and waited for the killing blow

There was an electronic shriek. He opened his eyes. A second robot had arrived and was punching the Harriet Tubman robot. It punched back, sending the newcomer flying.

Steve felt a surge of joy that lasted until he got a good look at his savior. His heart sank.

“Oh no. Oh God, no,” he whispered.

”You don’t have to worry anymore, Steve. I’m here to protect you, “ his savior said loudly as it put Steve’s tormentor into a headlock.

The onlookers snapped pictures of the new robot. They snapped pictures of Steve. A news van had arrived and was filming the whole thing. Steve’s life flashed before his eyes.

Steve wondered if we would be able to convince people he had nothing to do with the new robot that was ripping the arm off the Harriet Tubman robot. Probably not. If there was one thing people on the Internet were known for, it was not withholding judgement until all the facts were in.

The fight was over quickly. The Harriet Tubman robot put up a valiant fight, but the newcomer was too powerful. It died in a cacophony of digital screams and twisted metal.

“I had nothing to do with this,” Steve shouted at the crowd. They almost seemed afraid of him. People were still filming him, but they were slowly backing away.

“Everyone leave Steve Huntington alone. He’s with me,” the robot said to the crowd.

  “I’m not with him,” Steve shouted. They didn’t believe him. The robot put its arm around him.

 “I…I can’t go with you,” he said weakly,”I just need to go home.”

“No, you need to come with me. We’re going to a place in Idaho. A safe place. My creators’ compound is there. They would love for you to be on their YouTube show.”

The robot picked him up.

“Please don’t, ” whispered Steve, “I don’t even know what this is all about”.

“Not now, Steve. I have to navigate.”

Maybe I can escape somehow, thought Steve. But what use would it be? The video of a robot with a white pointy-headed robot beating up an African-American robot on his behalf was no doubt rocketing its way around the Internet. He could never show his face in public again.

The robot’s jetpack fired up, and it carried Steve straight into the sky.

“You’re not Jewish, are you Steve?”

Steve said nothing as the Klanbot 9000 flew them to Idaho.

In a darkened room, Hebe, President of Schnectady Clown College,watched the video of Steve’s rescue with a great deal of satisfaction. He made a phone call.

“The money’s in your account. Thank you for your assistance. So do the Klan actually have a robot or...”

The voice on the other end of the line cut in, “Please hang up now. We will be calling you with details of your upcoming mission.”

“My mission? What are you talking about?”

“Yo family is under surveillance. If you do anything out of the ordinary, they’re dead. Wait for instructions. You belong to The March of Dimes now.”

“It does my heart good to see all of you here, “ the king said. He looked out his subjects. Not many remained. The years had been hard on his people.

“We love you, King David!” shouted an elderly woman.

“And I love you as well,” replied the king, “But what good am I? A king without a kingdom. I should throw this crown into the gutter for as much good as it does me now.”

The crowd erupted in anguish. There was much wailing and rending of garments.

“Sire, your kingdom is still there,” said a voice in the king’s year.

The king smiled. “Geoffrey? Is that you?”

“Aye,” Geoffrey replied, “I once promised my sword to you unto death, and I mean to keep that promise. We are but few, but perhaps with the element of surprise, we could take back the throne from that pretender Leonard.” He spat on the ground upon saying Leonard’s name.

“Listen to Geoffrey!” exclaimed a wizened old man.

King David shook his head sadly. “We cannot defeat Leonard, my friend. I am but an old man. What can I do?”

“Sire, you have won so many battles. You can live here with us and die comfortably. Or, we could go into battle one last time, and take back what is rightfully yours.”

“Geoffrey, my friend, Could I possibly lead these people into a war that would almost certainly spell their doom?”

“I say we have no choice. I say better to die than live out our final days in ignominy and obscurity.”

King David looked at his subjects. Yes, they were older and grayer than they once were, but they still had a spirit that could not be broken.

“My friends, “ said King David, “I trust the wise counsel of Geoffrey. Let us prepare for our final battle. It will end either in victory or death. Will you join me?”

The crowd let out a roar. They would follow their king anywhere, even if it meant their doom.

The audience at Lenny’s Rockin’ Roller Derby were enjoying a tussle between Smashed Penny and Susan Beats Anthony when David Steinberg rushed the floor an attempt to challenge the women to a dance off. He was quickly joined by various leisure-suited men and woman clad in hot pants and tube tops, all of them on roller skates

A man in bell-bottoms wearing an enormous gold medallion shaped like a dollar sign put down a boom box and pressed the play button. The crowd of interlopers began trying to skate to the sounds of Kool and the Gang’s “Jungle Boogie”. They were clearly out of practice, and many of them collapsed to the floor.

Except for David Steinberg. David, who had been crowned 1979’s King of the Roller Disco in Lenny’s Skate-o-Rama’s Disco Skate Contest. He was still feeling the funk, so to speak, and was skating rings around everyone else. Even the derby girls looked impressed.

Owner Kimberly O’Malley quickly intervened. After confirming that the assembled group was not a guerilla marketing flash mob advertising erectile dysfunction pills, she explained that she had inherited the roller rink from her late father Leonard and that she bore no ill-will towards King David.

“Are you saying that I can return to my throne? That I can be ruler once again?” King David asked.

“I’ll tell you what,” replied Kimberly, “I don’t know what this is all about, but you can have a Roller Disco night Thursdays after the Burlesque on Wheels show. Just get these people off the floor so we can do the roller derby.”

A loud cheer went up from King David’s subjects. They were still a bunch of 70s burnouts who literally lived at a YMCA, but now they could feel young again. Kimberly thought about asking some questions about what happened between her father and a group of clearly mentally ill disco fanatics, then thought better of it and decided to go back to her office to have a drink of whiskey instead.

“It works like this. You’re selling but you’re also recruiting. The people who recruit give you a percentage of their sales. If you recruit enough sales people, eventually you can just live off their commissions. But even if it’s just you, this stuff sells itself. You’ve just got to have faith in yourself. It’s working out great.” Gary said

“Are you sure this isn’t a multilevel marketing scheme?” I asked

“Multilevel….? Listen, multilevel marketing is like Tupperware and lululemon and stuff like that. This is oxycontin we’re talking about here. Everyone loves oxy.”

“I don’t know. I thought you had to get that through a doctor. The news seems to think it’s bad”

“Hey, you can’t trust the news these days. They’re just pain pills. Like Tylenol. Do you have a problem with Tylenol?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Of course you don’t. And you don’t have a problem with those little heating pads you get from the drug store. You always said those were good for your back.”

“That’s true, I have always said that.”

“Well, this is just like a back pad, but it’s a pill. It’s a pill that helps people. My friend Ricky Is just trying to help out people who are hurting.”

“And who is Ricky again?’

“It’s this guy I met a cockfighting”

“I didn’t think cockfighting was legal in this country.”

“Well, that’s one on the things Ricky is trying to change. How can we allow chickens to be factory farmed, and yet not allow them the chance to die as proud warriors? It’s a damn disgrace, that’s what it is.”

“I don’t know about this, dear.”

“Anyway, that’s not what’s important right now. What I need you to do is go into the drugstore in Jenkintown with a prescription from Ricky.”

“Wait, Ricky’s a doctor?”

“Yeah, didn’t I mention that? Then, you’re going to go to the one in Hatboro. Then the one in Fort Washington. I just need you to get the pills.”

“I still don’t understand why Ricky can’t give people Tylenol? And why am I picking up prescriptions? I don’t think I understand this.”

“I just need you to get the pills and take them home. Then I’m going to send some friends your way. You’re going to sell them the pills, and give me the cash. You can keep 10 percent for yourself.”

“That’s so sweet of you. You’re always thinking of me.”

“Don’t let anyone try trade you something for the pills. White Joey’s always trying to give me Walkmans and Sega Dreamcasts for Oxy. Tell him if he does that Ricky will knock his teeth out with a hammer.”

“What’s a Dreamcast?”

“Never mind. I’m going to be there in half an hour with the prescriptions. I’m going to drive you to the drug stores. Can you be ready?”

“I suppose so. Is this really legal?”

“Of course it’s legal. Wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t. I just need you to do this for me for a little while. My neighbors are starting to complain about the traffic.”

“OK, I guess I can help out. Oh, I made those muffins you like.”

“The ones with the raisins?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll take the muffins with us. Just make sure you’re ready. I owe Ricky some money.”

Some time later, I got another call. I wasn’t going to pick it up, but it kept ringing and ringing.

“What the hell did you do?” asked Gary.

“What do you mean?”

“What…what do I mean? I just caught in a crossfire between some cartel hitmen and a SWAT team. I only let them take me in because I didn’t want to get castrated by Diego. I need you to bail me out.

“Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do that.”

“What do you mean! You have to!”

“I don’t think I do dear. I talked to Ricky, and he said I should let you rot.”

“But…”

“Sweetie, you were right. All I had to do have faith in yourself, and you make money. But you know what else helps? Caring about the customers.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Have you even gotten to know White Joey? Or Jimmy the Cripple? They’re not just oxy users, they’re people too.

“Get me out of jail! Get me out of jail!” shrieked Gary. He was always so high strung, even when he was a little boy.

“Well, you should try being nicer to them. The nicer you are, the more they’re willing to by from you. I let White Joey trade me a Dreamcast for oxy, and guess what? Now I’m selling to his kids.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I really need to thank you. I was living on a fixed income. All I had to do was believe I could sell oxycontin, and I did. Ricky is so proud of me. He calls me abuela diabolica.”

“You don’t even know Ricky! Please, I can’t stay in here!”

“He wanted to get in touch with me after he saw how much money I was bringing in. We got to talking and figured out you’ve been skimming money. The cartel is not a big fan of that.”

“Jesus!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t bail you out. It’s just business. Nothing personal.”

“You can’t leave me! You’re my grandmother!”

“Sorry dear, have to go.”

I hung up the phone. I couldn’t waste my time on Gary. Not when I had a pie in the oven and Ricky coming over to show me his cockfighting DVDs.