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Beauty In Death

Every now and then I’ll receive an inquiry from a certain type of person about plastic surgery.

You know the type of person I’m talking about.

Vain.

Narcissistic.

They’re more concerned about keeping up with the latest trends and appearances than siphoning out the poison that narcissism introduces to their bodies.

Not exactly my preferred clientele, but the credits are too good to say no to.

It’s the reason why I immediately consented Barb on the spot that day.

She wanted the works: boob job, tummy tuck, facelift.

She even paid Frightengale up front for some lip filler sessions.

When I explained to her that her preferred implant’s expiration date had passed, and the risks associated with it, she waived any negligence on my part in order to get the surgery done that day.

After all, the clock was ticking down on Zeus’s annual gala in two weeks.

And she just needed to shock everyone as the belle of the ball.

You know, it’s not often that I can find common ground with other Arcadians, let alone Titans here in Olympus.

So I was taken off guard when I found out there was someone else who’s in the business of making others look good.

This fashionista really can see all the fine details.

She could find the beauty in anyone.

I could never designate the correct sheen of lipstick to enhance the effects of a particularly-hued eyeshadow and mascara.

And being able to dexterously weft and warp a blouse that accentuates an otherwise bland woman’s proportions so that their stomach appears flatter and their B cups perk out like a couple of D’s will make you plenty of credits around here, if you can find the right clientele.

Seeing someone else hone their craft, using their instruments with as much precision as me is truly humbling.

But we are not cut from the same cloth, Narcissa.

You’re too preoccupied with inconsequential little things like beauty and inspiration to see the big picture:

Beauty alone won’t afford you the power you seek to influence the masses.

Because, as you will see, we all have a clock that’s ticking down.

Remember Barb?

She received all the attention she ever dreamed of at Zeus’s gala.

It was shocking how her bust starkly contrasted her petite waistline. And everyone marveled at how her the bright pink lipstick on her voluptuous lips complimented her perfectly contoured face.

The belle of the ball.

Barb was rushed emergently into my unit the next morning. She was too blinded by her narcissism to realize her body was rejecting those expired implants. And worse, the Botox in her lips had become toxic.

By the time she reached me it was too late, and I pronounced her dead on the spot from septic shock.

Your clock is ticking, Balenciaga.

I’m going to need you to waive me of any wrong doing before I make you the belle of the ball at Clash 305.

Then, your beauty shall finally influence the masses.

Yes, I’ll be the one making you look good for a change.

Just don’t be shocked to see that there’s beauty in death.

Dr. Death