The Replacements
Published in Rock ‘n’ Roll is Dead by Bloodbound Books
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MOREY GRIGSBY DID NOT believe in body replacement. He did not believe a person needed a new body every five to ten years, nor did he believe that his would crap out on him. On his thirtieth birthday, however, he looked like he was ninety.
“Damn pollutants,” he muttered, combing the thin white hair over his bald spot. “Stupid planet killers.” He stuffed his partial denture into his mouth, clicking it into place. He showed his teeth at his reflection, leaned forward to examine a brown spot on his semitranslucent skin. “Damn stupid ignoramuses.”
“Honey,” his wife, Celia, now on her fourth body though she was only five years older than him, poked her head into the bathroom. “I think it’s time.” He knew by the
