The Green Morning

The Green Morning

Chapter 1 – A serious matter, or is it?

December 2nd.

I used to be very serious. Everyone knew it. "Ade is a serious dude, serious like an exploded bladder", they said. My colleagues knew, their wives and husbands and kids and dogs knew. Not that I couldn't be funny when I put my mind to it. Sure yeah, I could tell a joke and get a few laughs. Sometimes I could even do it without Tequila.

But never at work, of course. If the chief's not dead serious, why would everybody else down the chain be? That's what I used to tell myself anyway. I knew they made fun of me behind my back, sometimes in my face, playfully though, nothing spiteful or mean. I think. I'm a good boss, I know they like me. They used to. It might have changed in the past few months, just like every other damn thing has changed. They may not call me "Ade the heart attack" anymore. They could very well be inclined to call me "Ade the frivolous piece of shit” and have every right to. I know I would. I already do it. My brain does it for me. No choice there, he already thinks I've become kind of an asshole.

Maybe I'm seeing it worse than it is. Maybe I haven't changed that much. I should ask Ran. Sometimes he looks at me funny like there's pus-inflated zit growing out of my forehead. He says nothing though. He's waiting for me to speak up. He always knows when I have something to say but don't want to talk about it. The Green Morning’s had little impact on him. If anything, it made him...well, more adorable? At the price of his hearing, yeah that's true. I'm not being fair. But no offense to Ran, losing your high ends is the medical equivalent of stepping on a soft dog's turd on your way home compared to the more or less horrible fate of billions.

Well, those billions who even have a fate still. There's discomfort for sure, and his ears stink a bit sometimes, especially when he gets warm or really excited. But overall, he's the shining proof of how the “Green Morning’s not bad for everyone" as they try to sell it to us on TV these days. I guess it's the world's attempt at trying to move on, shove the billions of dead and critically impaired behind us, if just for moment, by focusing on those who made it through somewhat unscathed-ish.

"Do you think they'll do a piece on you one day?", I ask Ran. He's watching one of these ridiculously optimistic stories about a group of “Miraculous” – really messed up post-green morning people - struck with a broad range of "special dispositions", as they've named their very crippling afflictions.

"I'm definitely down for that", he answers, his face slightly distorted as if he's smelled rotten egg but wasn't sure if he hated it or not. He's just trying not to flinch at the sight of these poor "Miraculous" souls. So strong, so resilient, so fucked. "But I think I might be too mild. They're still after the heavy stuff."

"Yeah"... I mutter as I pick up my pen once more.

I might be interviewed before Ran. My condition is much more interesting in many ways. Just thinking about it makes my mouth wet. I'm hungry. But I can't eat what I'm dying to taste. Well, I could but...

Ok on to something else, I can't focus on that right now. My wrist aches from all the handwriting. But I keep at it. Somehow, it helps to make me feel like less of a scumbag for finding people's predicaments so God-damn funny. So serious and ridiculous and tragic and grotesque. But funny for dead-serious Ade. Tomorrow I'll go back to work, and I'll laugh again at what the Green Morning brought to my table this time. Give a new meaning to the “farm to table” expression.

I'll swallow my shame with a professional attempt at compassion. But I'll laugh again, like I laughed the first time, and will again until the very last Miraculous gets the scalpel.

Interlude A - Nerves of Cil'

Date: March 4th, 2026

Decedent Name: Ava Carter

Weight: 56.4 Kg

Height: 166cms

Eyes: Brown

Race: Caucasian

Tod: February 13, 2026, 8:30am

Case Number: FNG-206598-DOS

Excerpts from the audio logs of Ade Paul, M.E:

"External examination: The body belongs to a 25-year-old Caucasian female found on the shore of Oak Beach, Queensland. Multiple witnesses’ testimonies attest to seeing her jump off from the 22 meters tall cliff overlooking the ocean. The skin shows multiple lacerations and bulging due to broken bones. The frontal and left parietal bones are shattered with fragments lodged into the cranium, the right side looks intact save some minor lacerations. The sternum was pushed in by the force of the impact."

She seems peaceful and wears a smile on the small part of her face that is still somewhat recognizable. She wanted this. Badly. A death so welcome that she kept her dead smile from the beach all the way to the autopsy table, and soon, to her grave. I expect she’ll wear it until her head becomes a brittle old skull.

"Cause of death: multiple blunt traumas and crushing injuries due to a 134 feet high fall. Her medical files show no signs of neurological or psychological illnesses prior to the Green Morning. The nature of her condition is still unknown. I will need to conduct a series of X-ray, MRI and a thorough internal investigation to try and determine underlying physical causes that could shed some light over the act that led to her death and bring some relief to her family".

I knew there was something insidious about Ava's predicament the first time I laid eyes on her snow white, imploded corpse. There she was, a vibrant youth and a daredevil, a base jumper, and a sand-surfer. A positive force blowing rivers smiles and torrents of joy over everyone lucky enough to know her, who suddenly decides to face plant herself on the beach. The GM did something to her, something invisible and perverted, something she couldn't have hoped to relieve with anything other than death. Something she couldn't explain. People probably thought she was insane. An addict, a schizoid, a crackhead perhaps. I knew she was none of that. The GM’S effects are usually very obvious to the eyes, grotesquely so. Which is part of the reason why I find it so funny and why we named it that. It's definitely the funniest mass extinction the Earth has gone through. Funnier that anoxia. Funnier than a meteor, and even more spectacular in my opinion. Much funnier that viruses.

"Electromyography cannot be done on a deceased person, I have therefore resorted to a physical examination of the cerebrum and the spinal cord in search for signs of a neurodegenerative disorder. Her family and friends reported seeing her in visible pain throughout her last days. Her symptoms included severe chorea and athetosis in the form of severe muscle twitching, cramps, spasms, involuntary movements, and a searing, globalized pain the deceased herself described to her family doctor as "so painful it feels like my body's being burned to fucking ashes and welded back together non-stop with a 7-feet tall soldering iron".

This was 14 days after the so-called Green Morning and the world had other things to deal with than a surfer girl with a self evaluated pain of 10 out of 10 that could very well be the result of heroin withdrawal. Her bloodwork revealed a massive amount of opioid in her system, but her history suggests that she started using theses substances to find temporary relief from her chronic pain.

I would have stuffed myself full of every drug and every pill, I would have drunk every bottle of booze down to the last drop of rubbing alcohol, I would even have stabbed myself with a thousand acupuncture needles or swallowed liters of cod liver oil until I'd have choked to death on my own black puke, if I had been in Ava's body. I wouldn't have lasted a single day.

"I have conducted a series of incisions along the spinal cord from cervical vertebrae C2 to C6 and examined their respective pairs of sensory nerve roots using the super-fast 3D microscope and determined the cause of the deceased symptoms. The surface of her nervous cells’ axon, body and dendrites is feathered with the slender stems and fine leaves distinctive of Coriander herbs. The foreign botanic body triggered nervous impulses all over her body, constantly. I have stopped my examination after this discovery, as it is proof enough that the same phenomenon was bound to be found all over her dermatomes and lower motor nerves".

Ran always praises the virtues of coriander. The beneficial role it has on digestion, on rheumatisms, how old it is, so old that's it's believed to be the very first herb humans have cultivated. How it makes everything taste better.

I myself have always hated coriander. That obnoxious scent, the taste of chemical soap. I could smell it all over Ava before I even knew what it was that killed her slowly and silently. Green vermin growing along her nerves, pain shooting from every cell, a thousand time inside of a second. I found is so funny I almost cried. I blamed myself so much, only for her. But Ava's found her peace. She's the saddest I've examined, by far. I think about her a lot. What a fucking bastard the Green Morning was with her. How very diabolical. Perfectly sadistic. She broke me for all the others. For them, I laugh, and I've almost stopped feeling like shit about it.

Chapter 2 – Broccoli, and the shape of all things

March 20th.

"How do you feel today, Jamal?" the doc asked through his round and brown baked beans teeth. His Green Morning’s been relatively kind to him.

"Not bad. The leg's still a bit numb but it not worse than last week. Head's a bit itchy. I'm good though. I'm almost finished with my essay on the in-situ visualization of Alexander's horned spheres".

"Really?" the doc's eyes bubbled with excitement at the news. He was no mathematician, but Jamal always felt like he was on the verge of peeing his pants when receiving news of the nerdy kind. He had to admit that as a newly discovered super genius, he was really excited too. He just didn't want to show it too much, yet. After all, all this could disappear, or just kill him, just as quick as it had "grown" into his life, pun intended.

"I can't wait to read it. Doctor Zilberberg too of course. He's the specialist but...". The doc visibly fought to contain his curiosity. He shook his head and wobbled his bony index above Jamal's forehead in quick jerking circles. "...but tell me first, where does it itch exactly?"

Jamal lifted his hand and pointed his finger to the thick green stalk that protruded from the middle of his skull.

"That thing's still growing, and I don't think it's gonna stop anytime soon, right doc?"

"It's a living part of you like...nails or hair. We might have to think about trimming the bigger stalks soon, but we should run some more tests first...to make sure..."

"...that I don't become a full-on 200 pounds actual vegetable, I know doc. That thing made me way smarter that I was, and it can certainly turn me into a zombie, I get it."

"Well, we don't know for sure right now but...we won't take any chances. I'm scheduling the MRI for tomorrow, is that alright with you?"

"Yeah, it's cool. Can I go now? I have an interview tonight with some reporters for some scientific TV channel I forgot the name of".

"Of course. Hey, don't forget your collar".

"Like I can walk around without it anyway". Jamal threw the doc a half-smile and swung the brace around his deck, donned his puffy winter coat and limped out of the neurologist' office, bending his knees and wrapping his arms around his massive head to allow it through the door without causing a potentially debilitating brain injury. It had become a reflex now. A Neck brace to support the weight of the half-dozen blood swollen, water-gorged, thick green stems growing out of his skull. A deep custom-made hood to hide himself from the curious post-GM eyes in the street. And his two arms at the ready like a vampire at daybreak.

It had been two months and nineteen days since that Infamous Morning. Like everybody else on the planet, he had woken up different. He'd noticed the growth on top of his skull almost right away as he'd sleepily passed his hands over his long-woven braids. There was something in the way. A hard, round stump, lukewarm at the base. He'd squeezed it and felt it pulse against his palm. His heart jumped and started racing as he legitimately freaked out, and the beat from the stump matched the hammer in his chest.

He'd scrambled to the bathroom, had seen the reflection in the mirror sent back by that green stump topped with that fully formed fuzzy green flower head, and he'd screamed "I got a fucking broccoli on my head! I got a fucking broccoli on top of my fucking head" for a good half an hour before slumping on the ground in shock.

Jamal knew exactly what kind of questions the TV reporters would ask tonight. He was ready. The broccoli had given him a confidence he'd never dreamed of. In a way, his Morning had been a literal awakening. He gained access to a new view of the world and of all things, an enhanced sight, so fundamentally different from anybody else's. He had been on his way to become a weather analyst. Now he could see the true face of any weather event.

A gust of wind that lifted dust from the ground in concentric spirals, A rivulet flowing down a ditch, curving, and swirling as a pure manifestation of the mechanic of fluids.

Only thing he really hates is that horrible green afro standing over his head. He loves broccoli. But he fucking hates afros. First adult decision he'd made a couple years ago was shaving his head of that bushy mess his mom loved so much.

All worth it though.

Chapter 3 - The great Canadian coffee-manhunt

September 12th.

"Would you say that your broccoli brain gave you superhuman abilities?" the reporter asks. Clara thinks it’s a dumbass question.

"I prefer to say that it enhanced part of my brain's capacity to apprehend, and comprehend, the mathematics of geometrical shapes as formulas describing the structure and coherence that pertains to our physical world".

That kid can speak, Clara thinks. And not hard on the eyes too, despite the big ass cauliflower thing sitting on his head.

"Are you actually seeing geometric patterns? Or would you say that you are able to just understand them better than the average person?"

"A bit of both, in fact. My brain sees the geometry of things as math formulas that my eyes overlay, or superimpose, over my own personal field of view, kind of like a projection against an already busy wall, although the comparison is far from ideal".

The reporter lady wears a heavy winter coat but she's inside a TV studio, and Clara wonders what kind of "Miraculous" deformity she's hiding underneath. Tofu tits? Jell-O belly? Or something more gruesome...

"This is extraordinary" she cackles in the typical journalist tone that would have us almost believe she's actually interested. "Do you find that it has changed the way you think? Your cognition?"

The kid, Jamal, shifts in his seat and frowns a little. "It is vascularized...just like most of the victi...I mean...the special dispositions that people have...so it's as much a part of me as any other part of the body I was born with...it is my brain, essentially."

Oh, that kid’s afraid to say how much he loves that shit, Clara thinks. He knows how fucking lucky he is.

"It's connected to it... So, I guess, yeah...I'm not the same..."

"And how do you deal with..."

Clara flips to the "Guilty Treasures" channel. She likes it better. More sensational.

She scratches her chin just like she always does when she's upset, and she's been upset a lot these past few months. Her hand gets wet, as usual. She can never get used to that.

Her chin's a long stream of interwoven Enoki mushrooms, slick and soft like a handful of saggy worms, but bright white. They drip constantly. They sweat, really, and when a drop comes off, Clara can feel the sphere-shaped tip of the guilty appendage's head bounce and wiggle merrily from shedding the extra weight.

When she's high, she pulls at them, ties them in a knot and twists the squishy braids inside her hand, hoping that they'll come off her damn face as easily as they would come off the ground on a rainy day.

But it hurts like hell, and she ends up screaming and cursing and pulling her hair instead like a freaking maniac.

"Breaking news from our colleagues north of the border! Our relentless and beloved squad of treasure hunters has uncovered a jealously guarded secret from the RCMP. For those of you who don't know it, the RCMP stands for Royal Canadian Mounted Police and no! They don't all ride horses, ha-ha! (Canned laughs). Buuuuut like all Canadians, they were just a little too nice for their own good! Or just plain incompetent, you can never know with those Eskimos up there! Ha-ha! (Canned laughs and fart noises).

And this guy thought he would be safe in the US, Clara thinks, then snorts on her drink. She followed the whole thing. Poor guy's got some famous brand of Canadian coffee running through his veins and everybody wants him: the private sector and their “miracle” hunters, the government and their research facilities, the public and their thirst for a hot drink and a manhunt. You made a big mistake pal. You're already screwed both ways. Clara smiles. That certainly wouldn't happen to her.

"Kidding, we like you anyway guys! Our treasure hunters are now back on track, and the hunt for the now infamous "Horton Beaver" might just come to a dramatic ending soon! The fugitive has indeed crossed the border and was sighted today near Shelby, Montana, which gives our hunters full jurisdiction over his arrest and processing! Now this will make for a very happy client, wouldn't you think? And if the RCMP doesn't kick they own butt very soon, as in right now, they'll have just lost another one of their so-called national treasures, but hey, you guys shouldn't leave your toys spread all over the carpet, and it's big carpet you got there!" (Canned laughs).

Better run, coffee man. 'Cause I won't do the running for you.

Clara feels better for herself already.

Interlude B - Don't you care about me

September 14th

I should have picked my destination more carefully, no doubt about that. I knew about the private sector paying big money for people like me before I left. These fuckers existed way before the green apocalypse and of course, all those fresh freaks of nature are a god given gift for them, a shit-ton of big and juicy apples to sink their black teeth in.

Except the apples are people. Those of us who actually woke up instead of dying in their sleep as their head turned into a giant melon or their liver into a really ripe avocado. Besides, people are just so funny to hunt, aren't they?

So, the Guilty Treasure squad hunts me for the hopefully insane amount of money some "undisclosed" big shot, tiny moral compass investor promised them on delivery, the Canadian government wants me to "return home" where apparently, I'll be treated as a national treasure and not at all dissected as I still breathe, and the Canadian people just want to drink my blood, plain and simple.

Well, I guess it'd be more convenient for any family across every province to buy themselves a brain-dead clone of me, stash it in a corner of their kitchen where the water fountain was, and stick a straw in my arm so they can gorge on Tim Horton coffee until their fucking heart explodes in their chest. A living coffee machine, who's never dreamed of that right?

I'm an idiot. I thought I'd be safe in the US. They have no idea what Tim Horton coffee is. Who would want me there right? They have their own countrymen to hunt, they have Starbucks coffee and McDonald's and all that good stuff, much better than what my blood's made of. They shouldn't have cared about me. Well, they don't, I guess. They care about their squad of hyenas giving them a good ride on national TV. Good for them. They don't give a shit, but here I am, hunted across fifty states.

I should have gone straight to Colombia. That's where the real coffee is. I should have found a way to get there. I heard they have their own coffee hunters too, chasing some poor assholes whose blood or tears or sweat is made of 100% Arabica. Next to him or her, I'm horse piss. Worse, Tim Horton coffee's already considered horse piss, but the kind everyone loves to death. I'd be closer to...an old patch of dirt that was peed on by ten generations of lames horses with bad kidneys.

So yeah, mistakes were made, but the world is fucked.

I'm not far from the Blackfeet reservation. I'll ask them for asylum. With a little luck they hate both the hunters and the government enough to let me stay a while. I can't be on the run much longer. The caffeine in my veins, it's killing me. My heart's beating so fast I feel like there's a German techno party inside my chest and everybody's on meth all the freaking time. I can barely sleep; I can barely walk.

The Blackfeet people will welcome me, I must believe that.

I'll let them drink me for free for as long as they want. With a little luck, they love bad coffee.

Chapter 4 - Told you I could change

May 19th.

Augusto's breath is always bad, but he can barely breathe anyway. On the Green Morning, he woke up feeling heavier than usual. His chest felt like a 40 pounds bowling ball, and each heartbeat smashed and crashed against his ribs like they were just a bunch of pins getting knocked all over the place from a perfectly executed strike.

He panicked of course and made things worse for himself straight away. He slammed a hand over his heart, let out a guttural yet pitiful squeal, rolled over and tumbled from his California king bed, breaking his nose and his little finger at the end of his grade A dive towards his brand new, freshly sanded, and oiled red oak floor.

Then he passed out, and when he woke up again, he'd peed himself and there was blood all over his beloved hardwood floor. His nose was a bulging mess crusted with dried blood and bubbly snot balls. Not his best Thursday morning.

It turned out that most of Augusto's heart was now a massive Beefsteak tomato, a 4-pounder red beauty that would have made any farmer proud, a juicy and plump beast whose pedicel grew out of Augusto's chest like a fluffy green nipple. The MRI had revealed the inner workings of the yummy organ, and it was indeed a marvelous thing: the four seed cavities acted as the atrium and ventricle chambers on both sides, the stigma grew out from the bottom of the fruit into large veins that connected to the unchanged human capillaries, allowing blood to flow to the lungs, abdomen, and brain. The radial pericarp assumed the role of the aorta, and the epidermis, well, it wrapped the whole bundle like a funky and bright New Year's gift delivered quite literally into your life or dropped inside your home where all your private stuff is.

Augusto was given a big heart, and he likes to think that it made him a better man. He wasn't the most generous person before. He was the kind of guy who'd always check his receipt after buying a pint of milk and a pack of light beers. And the cashiers were better off knowing how to count right, 'cause if there was a single missing euro-dime at the end of the transaction...well let's just say that this cashier had a good chance of going back home crying that night.

Now he was the talk of the town and for sure, Barcelona is on the verge of becoming the kindest city in all of Europe thanks to Augusto's newfound benevolence and love of humanity. The ancient town has regained its soul, truly. When it had even lost it though, no one really knows, or care.

The “Miraculous” are alone and isolated no more. Augusto gives to them all; he visits the crippled and the dying and the boatloads of barely alive suckers out there, every single day that sweet baby Jesus lets him wheeze and cough through.

He not only spends his inheritance money on every charity registered in grand old Spain, but he invests his own time going from hospice to hospital to orphanage, every day of every week, risking his very life with every travel, and at the cost of great discomforts.

Augusto has a big heart, a huge heart, but it's a very bad one. It doesn't pump enough, it leaks, it’s squeezed against his ribs and his lungs. It makes Augusto suffer constantly. But he always seems happy. His eyes are bright and filled with compassion, his big oval face jitters with joy and shakes as the laughter of children ripples against his bouncy cheeks.

He used to have a hard gaze; cold blue eyes buried inside two round precipices. There was no room for others in Augusto's previous life. That's what he tells everyone. That's what he told that reporter on TV last night and the night before.

He's spreading his Green Morning curse-turned-gift tale, and if everyone looked at it like he does, there would be no more pain in the world. So he says.

In a way, Augusto could be the long sought-after answer to some of humanity's oldest philosophical questions: does your appearance define who you are? Can a horrible event change your life and the life of others for the better? Can a person really change? Or is that guy just the unhealthiest, most despicable and self-serving hypocrite of all times?

"It's the best thing that ever happened to me!"

So he says again and again.

Chapter 5 - A business like any other

December 20th

Children are worthless. They always were. Alexandra never liked them. The GM could have made kids much more valuable to her, but it hasn't affected a single one of them.

Not one, seriously.

Billions dead on the break of an otherwise perfectly normal new year's day, dead before they even had a chance at opening their eyes. Millions of pregnant women, either dead too, or giving birth to perfectly normal freaking babies. Even those who got knocked up after that Morning and started pushing them out all over the world for the past few months: not a single veggie crossbreed, not one messed up "Miraculous" specimen, not a god damn shrieking freakshow. Only happy, healthy babies.

Well for the most part. Nature still hasn't eradicated all the "regular" genetic defects like Down syndrome, progeria, albinism, Huntington's, or the good old club foot. And the GM certainly didn't lower the odds of coming into the world with fetal alcohol syndrome. The numbers for that one went through the roof all the way to Mars!

Worthless, Alexandra spits out inside her mind, what a waste.

Of course, it didn't make any sense. Scientists were, and still are, completely stumped with the manifest non-transmission of the botanic genes from parents to offspring. They run their tests and their try to find answers but so far, they're falling short. It's not like there's that many functional scientists left in the world anyway, Alexandra thinks. The Green Morning killed all the good ones or left them drooling all over a community hospice bed, bathing in their own excrements. Or, she chuckles inside, it sent them right over the edge and into my paws.

But as expected, it hasn't affected her business that much. She just adapted to the new state of the world, like they all do in her line of work. And boy is she good at her job.

She's waiting for her buyer on the 21st floor of the L7 Myeongdong Hotel, Seoul. Not very inconspicuous, but that's exactly what she's looking for. She's sipping on one of the house's signature cocktails, a "Ciel de Seoul" as they call it. A blend of Vodka, Elderflower and Blue Curacao syrup with just a touch of lime. Why cocktail names here always must be in French, she can't figure out. So damn lame. But it tastes alright. Alexandra doesn't care about languages. She cares even less for Korea and France.

Aren't kids great? The man asks in a high-pitch, silky voice.

"Hell no", Alexandra answers as she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. "You're late again".

"I know, I'm sorry, you know how it is...".

"Yeah yeah, I know". She smiles at him. A predatory, yet sensual smile like the one you'd give a lover you want to punch as much as you want to shag.

The man sits down on the chair opposite Alexandra. He's not particularly handsome, but he knows how to present himself. If he didn't, he'd have been killed a long time ago.

"You look like a Nuit étoilée tonight", Alexandra decides. She swallows the remaining of her cocktail and signals the waiter with a short waive of her hand holding the empty glass. Poor guy has pineapple scales all over his face.

"You think so? What's in it?" The man unbuttons his black vest and crosses his legs. His condition is of those that can't be seen with the naked eye.

"Rum, Peachtree, wildberry syrup...some lemon of course". She likes the casual banter before the serious talk. "My treat".

"Alright then". He shrugs and rests his hands on his knees as Alexandra order his drink and a refill for hers.

"How are you feeling Ji-Hoon?" She's genuinely curious. He's the only stable relationship in her life, after all.

"Not croaking yet. They're gonna try a porcine valve transplant early next month and hope it stays...porcine. If it grows back into a fucking ostrich fern..."

"You'll be ok. Worst case scenario, you'll just feel tired all the time and give up on fried dumplings, right?"

"Something like that", he answers, flashing his bright white teeth at her. She would recognize that crooked canine anywhere. "So, what do you have for me?" Ji-Hoon doesn't like to talk about his condition. It's probably much worse that what he told her, but he looks good today, unlike the last time they saw each other for the truffle stool transaction.

"Vanilla hair", Alexandra starts. She takes a sip of her second cocktail but keeps her eyes locked to his. She wants to gauge his interest before moving on to the next item. Ji-Hoon just raises his eyebrows.

"Good growth speed?" he asks. He still hasn't touched his drink.

"You can harvest a whole pound per week if you pump her with enough vitamins".

"Nice", he answers with a half-smile. "Come on, tell me the rest".

"Cocoa kidneys. Of course, they don't grow, but he's the perfect candidate for genetic experimentation. You can just harvest the kidneys and try to grow them or something. See if you can't pass it on to some embryos. You never know. An actually useful kid could come out from this". Alexandra finishes her second drink. She's getting uncomfortable and the pain in her feet is waking up again despite the pills and the booze.

"I also got my hands on a girl who actually grows Matsutake mushrooms from her armpits, if you can believe that".

"Now this one I might just keep for myself!", Ji-Hoon says in an unctuous tone. He smiles, but his eyes stay cold as frozen spit. "You want to meet me at my place later to finalize the transaction? I'll take all of them, of course".

"Sure. Ten O'clock?"

"Yeah." Ji-Hoon gets up and throws a small pile of Won notes on the small round table, even though he still hasn't taken a single sip from his glass. "I'll see you then". He walks away, tips the poor pineapple face waiter, and disappears into the elevator.

Alexandra swallows his drink in one long swing and orders another. She has a good hour to kill and price tags to set. She feels her feet swelling inside her large hiking shoes.

Of all the things I could have gotten, the GM gave me Tofu feet. She hates that mushy flavorless shit. Now she'll have to live with it for the rest of her lives, or until the poor things crumble apart. Worse thing is, I can't even sell them.

She finds this pretty funny.

Interlude C - Randomly divine or divinely random

May 15th

Ade watches his students from the observation bay overlooking surgery room 3C. There's no space left in the autopsy room downstairs. A lot of people died this week. Most of them from a GM-related condition as always, although one of the two corpses laying under the knife today actually met his end from happenstance. If you can call slipping on a patch of leftover macaroni and cheese and smashing your head against the marble counter happenstance.

Medical practitioners are usually not required to perform autopsies for accidents, but this one’s "special condition" makes him a candidate for a more in-depth post-mortem analysis. His accident might be tied closely to his Green Morning's poisonous gift.

"Dr. Habib, what are your observations so far?" Ade asks through the microphone. He gave that autopsy to his interns for more than one reason. The stink is unbearable down there.

"The deceased is a Maurice O'Sullivan. Death was caused by a subdural hematoma resulting from a cranial fracture he sustained after falling against a slab of marble in his kitchen". Habib is 25 years old, and menthol leaves grow inside his nose instead of hair. A very tolerable condition. "The entirety of his skin is covered with a thin layer made of the pulp - or aril - of the Durian fruit".

The young intern adjusts his surgical mask over his face and shuffles his feet. "It stinks horribly, Dr. Paul".

"Spare me your snide remarks Dr. Habib", Ade barks. But really, the kid's right. That guy probably died alone. Did everyone he ever loved leave him because of his stench? Ade wonders. That would be damn cold. He tries not to laugh in front of his students again. Cold, but funny...

"Sorry Dr. Paul", Habib answers without any trace of remorse in his voice. "The pulp made his skin greasier than the average person, which could have increased risks of slipping against low-resistance surfaces, such as hardwood floor or ceramic tiles".

"His kitchen was all maple wood", Ade remarks. "Poor man slipped on his own stink".

Dr. Habib turns and looks up at him but says nothing. He doesn't need to.

"Dr. Bennett, your turn", Ade directs his attention to his oldest student, a stocky girl blessed with incredibly long hands, the steadiest and fastest he ever witnessed. At least the Green Morning didn't punish her with pickle fingers or eggplant forearms. What a waste that would have been.

Ade sighs and looks at his right arm. Not holding a scalpel with that thing ever again, he thinks. But it smells so damn good...

"The deceased name was Nicolette Parish and she...starved to death". Her left hand, the one holding the scalpel, is hovering above her throat while her right-hand rests against her chest. She's about to slice into her esophagus all the way down to her stomach.

"The Event replaced her mouth with a large pea pod. The pod's pericarp acts are both her lips, effectively sealing them from any possible means of oral sustenance. Peas seeds do grow inside the pericarp, but when mature, they detach and fall outside her mouth via the pod's outer slit. She couldn't eat any of them..."

The GM turned her into Tantalus, Ade thinks. He doesn't want to laugh this time.

They all wonder the same thing. Everyone in the room and everyone left on Earth. What is the Green Morning telling us?

Was O'Sullivan a dirty man? A crooked man? Did he already stink on the inside before the GM made him stink on the outside for everyone to smell and know his true nature?

Was Parish a thief? A glutton? An ingrate? What could she possibly have done to deserve that horrible, cruel fate?

Some believe the Green Morning reveals people's true colors. A few believe it is completely random. Most believe it is tied to people's taste and guilty pleasures, or the opposite, that it represents what they loathe.

The answer, so far, eludes all of them.

One thing Ade knows for sure: his right arm smells delicious.

Chapter 6 - Cultists of the Juice

November 30th

There were a hundred and twenty-four GM-related "associations" in New Mexico today. They had all sprouted like tiny, messed up little mushrooms since the greatest awakening of our time, starting with the obvious "God's retribution" and the seriously uninspired "New New Testament".

Ironically enough, this one was kicked off by an agnostic and lonely middle school teacher who woke up with basil leaves where his eyes-brows used to be. He hadn't lost anyone important to him. He didn't suffer. But boy was he feeling good about himself now. Important. A beacon of hope and a conveyor of the New New God's message across the whole Santa Fe region.

There are many others, of course. Sects and non-profits and faiths and victims' associations...well to be honest, it's all mostly sects. The Cult of the Juice is by far the grossest one. Well, depending on your views on personal hygiene and bodily fluids.

Anna Sosa used to be a good-mannered, even-tempered, mostly friendly massage therapist working at the Eldorado Hotel & Spa in her native Santa Fe. Overnight, she became a red grape highway. Her sweat glands had mutated into plump grape berries, turned outward, exposed to the world, and to herself. Her epidermal ducts - also turned inside out, for the most part - looked like hard little green veins, a mix of the grape's stalk and skin.

Grape pulp would drip from these veins, and Anna would lick it, slurp the juice that came from herself, from her gift, from nature's glandular boon. She always did like grapes, but she never thought about buying them. Now they were all over her. What a sign from Heaven and the universe and the ancient ones underground, the younger and the elder gods and all this stuff!

She had founded the Cultists of the Juice a couple of months after she'd begun indulging in the delights her new body, and whatever forces from beyond, had bestowed upon her. She did it out of opportunism of course, and out of shame. This was, after all, pretty gross. She didn't feel like a pervert exactly but...well it didn't feel right. At first.

It smelled funny, for starters. A blend of sweat, fruit, and day-old wine. And the secretions were slimy, just enough to remind her that it wasn't just salty water anymore. And not just some fruit.

After a while, Anna was no longer satisfied with the mere taste of her armpits and feet and mammary glands. She wanted to find out what it looked like inside. What made the lumpy network tick. She wanted to do the things she had stopped doing to her body a long time ago. She figured that it was just a perfectly healthy manifestation of curiosity. Circumstances change, right? Anybody would have done the same.

A secret that Anna had never told anybody, was the truth behind the dozen small scar lines she bore behind both her calves, horizontal and parallel to each other.

Her mood wasn't always as even as her colleagues at the Spa thought it was. There were times where she would feel overwhelmed by emotions she could barely describe and her only way to vent them out for a while was to methodically slice through her skin with the same dull razor blade she used to shave her legs.

So, for once in her life, she had wanted to share with others. Share her past, her present, and welcome her future.

And what did she find out a mere few hours after posting her first dozen pamphlets?

That she wasn't alone.

Indeed, there were others like her. Or at least, somewhat similar. And she had been right.

Anybody would have done the same.

In her shabby little red house, she now shares herself with her group, her beloved fellow cultists of the juice; she shares her own fluids, and they share theirs. They taste each other. They grab slices of each other's proverbial fruits. There's no shame. No judgment. And she feels right at home for the first time in her life.

Chapter 7 – For a single bite of me

December 22nd

"Our guest today is the eminent and highly respected author of the New York times bestseller of the year: "why isn't there meat in my balls?", you've guessed it ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Doctor Berniiiiiiiiiiie Fiedeeeeeeeeeeel!!"

(Thunderous applause, stand-up ovation)

"How are you doing Dr. Fiedel? We're so happy to have you with us tonight!"

"I'm very well, Mr. Morris. Tip top shape".

"So, for the very small number of viewers who still haven't read your masterpiece, please give us a little rundown".

"Well, it's simple. I have traveled all over the world since the morning of the Green Awakening as I like to call it, to try and find the answer to one of the many questions that still stumps us all: why oh why, is it never meat? Why hasn't anyone on Earth been reported to have been "altered" with an animal-based part? We've had fruits, vegetables, fungi, even transformed products for Pete's sake! But not a simple animal tissue. I myself woke up with dried up raisins for balls, hence the name of my book, as you must know!"

(Laughter, round of applause)

"Thank you for the summary Dr. And again...so sorry about your balls".

"I appreciate it Duncan".

"Do you believe in the recent reports according to which a man with meatballs for eyes was sighted near Rio de Janeiro?"

"Just turn that crap off, will you?" Ade snaps at his husband and immediately feels bad. But really, how can he watch that bottomless tank of shit?

"Not a fan of the good pseudo doctor?" Ran answers, apparently not the least offended. "Don't you wish you had an arm made of filet mignon though?"

"That's not funny...I can already barely stop myself from eating that thing every single day", Ade says, wiggling his right arm in the air.

"I know, sorry". Ran brought him a glass of wine. "I wish I loved garlic bread even more than you do. That way, I would have eaten it already and you wouldn't have to feel guilty about the...autophagy aspect to the thing".

"Nah. Though, it'd be funny if you loved your cute little bok choi ears as much as I love my garlic bread arm. Then we'd both be screwed wanting to eat ourselves". Ran chuckles and absently strokes his sagging, green leafed right ear.

"I'd do it for you, you know!" he smiles and pours more wine in Ade’s glass. Of course, he would, Ade thinks. Clearly, I don't deserve him. I even find my own predicament so funny I could pee my pants just thinking about it. I mean, a medical examiner with a garlic bread arm? Come on...

"How about a nature documentary then? I really miss David Attenborough's voice".

Well, at least my arm smells better than death, Ade thinks.

"Sure thing. I miss him too..."