The Horton Dilemma [ONC 2022]

BUCKET LIST ITEM #3: SPA DAY

I decide to walk to the spa Nakomi has booked for us, as it's only a few blocks from my place. The sun is shining, and I've forgotten my sunglasses because I've been a space-case lately, for obvious reasons.

A young man walking past me in college-core attire studies me without subtlety. Then he points at me. "You're Izzy Belvin, aren't you?"

"Guilty?" I wish I'd remembered my glasses.

Hoping that he merely wants an autograph, I begin to put my happy face on, but my smile is greeted by his scowl.

"If you've come up with such an amazing food source that is both sustainable and bizarrely nutritious, why aren't you ending world hunger? Why are you taking your intellectual property to Mars with you?"

"I'm not taking all of it to Mars; there are plenty of Belvin grasshopper farms here on Earth, too."

"And let me guess: the farmers had to pay good money for that IP, didn't they?"

"Well we can't just let anybody have them..."

"Oh. So letting some people starve is preferable to you?"

I struggle to find the right words. "That's not what I meant. It's just that the grasshoppers have to be carefully bred and regulated. We don't want them entering the natural ecosystem. That could have devastating consequences."

The man looks unconvinced by my argument. "People like you just don't care about those of us on the lower rungs of society. All you care about is profit. Profit and ownership. Earth is running out of land; let's see how much of Mars we can claim, right? Let's leave everyone unworthy behind to enjoy the ruined planet."

My hands held up, I say, "Whatever," and walk away. Not my most graceful comeback. It isn't even really a comeback; it feels more like the admittance of a defeat.

Trying to forget about the man's words as I complete my journey to the spa proves difficult, but by the time I enter the doors, I've nearly forgotten. Focus on the day ahead, I tell myself. Focus and forget.

Nakomi is already inside, and she hugs me warmly as soon as I enter, gesturing to the overhead screen displaying the menu of options, which I begin to read.

Part of me enjoys spa days. Being pampered and forced to relax is something all of us need, in my honest opinion.

But the other part of me wonders why spa days disguise what seem like various forms of torture so well, as shown on the display menu: Wet and dry saunas that can sizzle someone's skin and melt their extremities off. Cryogenic therapy capable of freezing one to death. Sensory deprivation tanks that cut one off from all sights, sounds, smells, and sensations. Deep tissue massage (ouch).

The newer forms of torture are the worst, I think. Sensory overload tanks (recommended to be followed by lite massages and naps). Hyper-electric massage beds. Sensory-deprivation oxygen-aided sludge tanks ("great for the mind and the skin"). Nanobot-aided deep-tissue massages (double ouch). And the newest form of leech extraction, which uses genetically enhanced leeches for the ultimate toxin and blood clot removal. (My rival, the creator of these foul creatures, calls herself the Queen of Leeches; so original.)

Being boiled or frozen; pricked with needles or slammed with rocks; fed on by leeches; or locked in the quiet dark with nothing to keep one company except one's own thoughts: how is all of this supposed to be therapeutic?

"Let's do the sludge tank!" Nakomi says excitedly; somehow, I knew she would pick that option. "I haven't tried it yet!"

"Oh, joy," I exclaim. "I've always wanted to go swimming in sludge."