The First of the Stoners
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 21: The Barber of New Pittsburgh
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 21: The Barber of New Pittsburgh - For readers of the Greenies Universe, this is where it all began. In 2135, nineteen-year-old Nathan Stoner is offered something no vermin has seen in generations: a real job. The catch? It's on Mars. Follow the first wave of colonists as they leave Earth behind and build the foundations of the society that will one day shape the entire Greenies timeline.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Science Fiction
New Pittsburgh, Mars
January 28, 2136
Leslie Bongwater—Lez to her friends—was more than ready to get the fuck out of Earth-town by the time motherfuckin’ Saturday rolled around.
Mister had become ill on Wednesday.
A gout flare-up. One of those diseases that modern medicine had not been able to cure, only prevent and make less severe with varying degrees of success.
Vermin and greenies did not get the gout.
It was a working-class ailment—upper-middle working class mostly—which meant managers and desk riders were particularly vulnerable. It was caused by eating too much protein-rich food and drinking too much beer. The body couldn’t get rid of all the uric acid through normal physiological waste removal processes, so it built up. Eventually, there would be enough of it that it came out of solution in the extremity joints of the body—particularly the dependent parts.
Like the toes and feet.
Uric acid out of solution consisted of a million or so microscopic crystals that had tiny little microscopic jagged edges. Those jagged edges pushed against tiny little nerve endings in the joints, which transmitted relentless, insistent pain impulses that could not be relieved by rubbing or shifting position.
It hurt. A lot.
And the thing was, Mister was proud of his condition.
It was a badge of honor among Earthlings on Mars to have earned a case of the gout. And the worse of a case you had, the longer you carried on with it before seeking medical attention, the more you made a show of limping around the office, the more effective you were judged to be at managing shit or counting beans.
But no one just took your word for it when you complained of this oh-so-painful affliction and played out the role of effective administrator for your peers and betters. Oh no. People would take advantage of that. You had to show documentation of your uric acid level as determined by an official lab scan. The higher the level, the more sympathy, envy, and time off you could reasonably get.
Of course, none of this was written down anywhere, none of it in the rules of official conduct. It was just the way the world—the solar system really—worked. You got the gout. You dragged it out and let it get worse until you literally could not take it anymore, until you were almost rendered non-ambulatory. And then you got the scan. That was the uric acid level you verified with. That was the one you presented as proof of malady.
But you couldn’t just whip it out and present it. You had to pretend you couldn’t remember the actual number so you were pulling up the report in the name of accurate storytelling. You then let your audience see the lab report. Those employees present at that conversation were the verifiers.
Lez did not participate in any of this. She simply observed.
Mister had been visibly limping for the better part of ten days now.
Yesterday had been the day of days. The day he had to actually go get the lab scan for verification and start taking the treatment.
Most people cut the pills in half before taking them. Or only took one every two days instead of every single day. The goal was a measurable but gradual decrease in that uric acid level until it dropped back to the high end of normal.
That was when you had to go back to work. You got a free ride as long as you had a verified uric acid level in the symptomatic range. With that, you were a long-suffering warrior being allowed to rest up after years of selflessly fighting the good fight. Once that level dropped into high-normal though, you were cured. Staying home a minute longer would make you a slacker and a lazybones. Having that sort of reputation instantly halted the climb up the old ladder.
And the old saying was true. If you were no longer climbing the ladder, you couldn’t stay in place. You had to start moving down.
Earthlings played the game for keeps.
The trick was to keep that level moving downward steadily but slowly. Too fast and your little gout vacation was over too soon. Too slow and the AI monitoring you started to suspect you were playing games and got more intrusive.
It was a delicate balance.
This was the second time now she had seen Mister play the game.
He was in misery in his bedroom, feet and hands both aching like rotten teeth. But he had painkillers now. And pills that changed the solubility of uric acid so it would stay in solution longer before becoming tiny little stabby crystals that fucked up your shit.
But it was Aimes’ job to be the family nurse, not hers.
The standard domestic help contract she had dermed when taking the job didn’t just say she shouldn’t do medically related tasks. It didn’t just say she shouldn’t do them on her days off.
It said she should never motherfuckin’ do them under any circumstance.
The in-home caregiving lobby group had successfully gotten that added to all modern domestic help contracts about ten years before.
Still, Lez had done Aimes a solid despite being off the clock. She had made breakfast for the whole family, mostly because she didn’t want to have to clean up Aimes’ mess when she clocked in Monday morning. She also made them lunch and a dinner they would just have to zap.
This she did while the kids were at Accounting Camp and Mister was watching a holo show on his deathbed in his bedroom.
And now, it was just past 14:30. She would be heading out the door soon.
She was dressed in her best greenie-wear, something she only donned when she had to go to Greenie-town. Simple blue shorts that hung to mid-thigh. A pullover shirt with a picture of a marijuana leaf on it and the brand name of AgriCorp Green.
Lez had never smoked actual AgriCorp Green before. Even Aimes and Mister didn’t smoke that shit very often. It was very expensive. So Lez couldn’t smoke it, but she could pay a hundred and fifty dollars for a shirt that advertised it.
The irony of that had never occurred to her. She just thought it was a static shirt that helped express her greenie identity.
Amelia didn’t want her to go.
She was pretending it was about Mister, but it really wasn’t. She was afraid of Lez hooking up with a greenie. Probably a boy but maybe a girl. It was a jealousy thing but Aimes had a certain fiction she liked to maintain, even when it was only the two of them.
“I just don’t think it’s safe for you down there with all those greenies,” Aimes was telling her now. She had lowered her voice to a whisper.
“I am a greenie, remember?” Lez asked her. “I have the greenie accent and everything.”
“That’s my point,” Aimes said. “You won’t see them coming and they’ll have the advantage over you.”
“Huh?” Lez said. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Amelia said with a little pout.
“Are you afraid I’m going to ... you know ... with a greenie?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Aimes said righteously. “I’m not jealous or anything. You have to know that, sweetie. I have nothing to be jealous about.”
“I do know that, lover,” Lez whispered back, though she knew no such thing. “I’m just trying to ease your mind before it starts thinking bummer thoughts. That’s all. I’ve never even met any other woman before who does what you and I do.” This was a lie, of course, just like when Aimes said the same thing to her.
“We’re just being affectionate, lover,” Aimes said, smiling.
“Yes,” Lez said. “You were particularly affectionate last night. Licked and sucked my twat for half an hour. Made me come four times.”
“Shhh,” Aimes hushed her, blushing. “Don’t say it aloud. Beatrice will hear.”
“Bee-Bop will hear?” Lez said incredulously. “Bee-Bop watches us. Every time. Smells us while we’re doing it. Categorizes the sounds we make. Analyzes how we do it, how often we do it, and how long it takes, don’t you, Bee-Bop?”
Beatrice whispered too. Another irony missed. “That is correct information, Mistress. Now please instruct your greenie not to call me Bee-Bop.”
“Don’t call her Bee-Bop, lover,” Aimes said with no command in her tone.
“I would never do that,” Lez said. “That’s like calling a Martian a greenie. It’s wrong.”
“I completely agree, Lez,” Aimes said.
“There. You see?” Beatrice asked. “We have had this same conversation forty-two separate times now. You always say that, but she always calls me Bee-Bop again and you fail to discipline her.”
“Wow,” Lez said. “I didn’t know it was that many.”
“Forty-one too many,” Beatrice said.
“Hush, Beatrice,” Aimes said. “Lez and I are talking. Don’t be a ninny-boo-binny.”
Lez raised her eyebrows a bit. For Aimes, those were some strong words. Fighting words even.
“Look, sweetie,” Lez told her. “I’m just going to visit Nate-dawg and his friends. He’s gonna cook a good old greenie meal for me and one of his friends is going to cut my hair for me. For only a hundred and fifty dollars.”
This seemed to alarm Aimes more than anything.
“You’re going to let a greenie cut your hair?” she asked in near horror. “If he charges only a hundred fifty he can’t possibly be licensed.”
“It’s a she,” Lez told her.
“A girl haircutter!” Aimes practically cried. In Earthling culture, haircutters and stylists were all males. And they always spoke with a lisp and made exaggerated hand gestures and were really dramatic. No one knew why haircutters were supposed to act that way, but if you didn’t, no one would let you cut their hair.
Not Earthling fucks anyway. Greenies just wanted to know if you could do it and how much for it to be done.
“Girls can cut hair too,” Lez told her. “That’s why she’s so inexpensive. It’s under the table shiii ... uh ... stuff. I’ve seen holos of her work. She knows what she’s doing.”
“You can’t just judge based on looking at holos,” Aimes said.
“Actually, I think you can,” Lez said. “What’s the worst that can happen? If she messes up my hair, I’ll just wear hats or scarves until it grows back.”
“That’s not the point,” Aimes cried.
“What is the point then, sweetums?” Lez asked. “Are you afraid I’m going to hook up with a greenie boy?”
And that, right there, was the heart of Aimes’ issue.
She was jealous. Possessive even. And she would never admit it even if tortured.
How pussy.
“Of course not!” Aimes declared quite righteously. “I know that you’re not that kind of girl. You would never do anything with a greenie.” She pondered for a moment. “Or a boy,” she added. “Not until you get married and have to, anyway.”
“That’s right, sweetums,” Lez said. “That would be perverted. A proper lady does not just throw her affections around, even if she is just a greenie.”
Aimes gave her a little smile. “You do listen to me,” she said.
“Of course I do, lovebug,” she told her. “I love being affectionate with you. There is no way I could be affectionate with a greenie like that. Or any other girl but you.”
“I guess I’m just being a nervous Nellie,” Aimes said.
“That’s okay, luscious,” Lez said. “I kind of like it when you get all irrationally angry over me. It shows you really love me.”
“I really do, lover,” Aimes said.
“I know,” Lez told her. And she did. “And I love you too.” And she did.
Even if Aimes was an ass-sucking Earthling.
And that was a literal statement, as a matter of fact. Aimes had a little thing about her butthole. It had been rather startling the first time she’d stuck her tongue up there, but it really did feel good.
Lez just wouldn’t kiss her afterwards until she brushed her teeth.
She gave her lover a kiss goodbye, not worrying about Mister wandering out and catching it. Though Bee-Bop ranted and raged about their illegal relationship when talking to them alone, she understood the worship word was secrecy. She had a standing order to warn them if Mister or anyone else was approaching while they were engaging in something intimate. And she would follow that order without question. She could be prissy all she wanted in normal discussion, but she would lay down her very life to protect their secret if such a thing was possible.
And the prime directive governing warnings during sexual activity had been reprogrammed.
That was for damn sure.
It had been Bee-Bop herself who suggested that alteration. Which was weird, but Mars was a weird fuckin’ place.
She had learned that if nothing else.
She strapped on her butt-pack and pocketed her clinker. She rode the elevator down to the lobby and walked out to the street.
No one greeted her. She was pretty much invisible. Just one of the many greenie domestic engineers out on a mission. Shopping maybe. Or running an errand for her mistress. Or maybe heading south to get a haircut by her own people. Whatever it was, greenies out and about in Earth-town were about as common as roaches in a roach motel. As long as she didn’t try to linger anywhere, no one would bother her. Or even notice her, really.
Once out on the street, she turned south and began walking.
The boundary between Earth-town and Greenie-town was not marked on any map. It didn’t have to be. 18th Avenue was the dividing line. North of the east-west thoroughfare was where the Earthlings all lived. South of it was where the greenies lived—those who were not live-in house-bitches, that was.
She knew it wasn’t possible under currently understood physics and the laws of structural engineering, but she felt considerably lighter once she was fully immersed in Greenie-town.
She was among her people now.
Something she hadn’t spent nearly enough time doing since moving north of “the One-Eight,” as it was called, over a year ago now.
She relished the overheard conversations full of good old vermin profanity, the cultural base of the evolving greenie language.
One did not just walk down the street in Greenie-town. One walked down the fuckin’ street. Or sometimes even the motherfuckin’ street. And one did not go engage in mild intoxicant use for recreation. One got themselves some fuckin’ beer and buds and got wasted and shit.
A smile formed on her face as she continued farther south than she’d been in months.
She didn’t even realize she was smiling.
The complete walk took twenty-one minutes. Pimple had made the call on that one, landing within sixteen seconds of her actual ETA. Lez didn’t even notice, let alone thank Pimple for her efficiency. It was so commonplace it was beyond notice.
She walked through the doors of Tower 8 fully thirty minutes early. An absurd amount of early for a greenie or even an Earthling.
This was not because she didn’t trust Pimple’s ETA number—on the contrary, if Pimple said it, it was the fuckin’ law, greenie!—but because she wanted to get away from Aimes and her I’m-not-jealous bullshit.
Although, in truth, it was kind of hot to have someone be jealous over her. Especially someone who had given her four cases of the holy fuckin’ shudders last night while licking and sucking on her fuckin’ twat. And yes, that had included a preliminary butthole reaming to start the festivities.
Her relationship with Aimes was based on love, but sex was a big-ass part of that love. And since she had been born a vermin girl and had upgraded to greenie and was getting it on with her mistress, that love could be complicated at times.
On several levels.
And so, with thirty minutes to kill and with a social taboo against arriving early, she browsed the shops.
She could do that here without drawing suspicion.
Yes, she could shop in the market and boutique in Aimes’ building, but only if she had authorization from Aimes to do so and was using the household account and not her own.
Not that she could afford anything in that fuckin’ place anyway.
She went up and down the aisles in the AgriCorp store and bought herself a bottle of cola and a pitless peach. It was the good kind of cola. The kind made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup. She then wandered over to the electronics store and checked out the latest in clinkers. She was thinking about upgrading to the new Maxima 12,001. Better holo graphics. Faster quantum processor. More per month, of course, both in monthly fees and bandwidth fees.
She munched on her peach and sipped from her cola as she looked over the spec sheets and admired the forms of the new devices. No one cared if she ate and drank while she browsed in Greenie-town. In Earth-town, she might very well have been arrested, even if she wasn’t a greenie.
From there, she went to the public shitter in the lobby so she could offload.
It was a decent shitter. No weird-ass body smells, just some kind of air freshener shit. The shitter-paper was full. The shitter itself auto-flushed when needed and not prematurely. The water was warm when she washed her hands.
Much better than the shitter back in the pee-hue in Texas where she’d grown up. Not nearly as nice as the public shitter in Aimes’ building. She’d gone in there once after eating a few too many pitless peaches and experiencing a shitter emergency. Fuckin’ music played in that bitch! There was a holo screen in every stall showing waterfalls and oceans and other Earthling shit. No ads on those holos either. And the shitter seats? Padded and warmed. With a stream of water to clean your asshole even. Fuckin’ classy shit.
She wandered a little more until it was time. She then laid derm for the elevator. She had been authorized in the system and no alarm was sounded. That meant Nate-dawg had approved her ass—and the rest of her—to come on up for a fuckaround, which was the greenie word for informal social meeting ritual.
She had to wait a long time for the elevator. Almost five minutes. She’d forgotten that about greenie are-hues. They didn’t have as many elevators and they had more residents trying to get upstairs. That ate up all of the reserve time she’d planned to kill by pacing around in the halls after identifying the correct door.
She followed the signs and navigated to Nate-dawg’s rezzie. She laid derm on the pad. The door slid open without ceremony, as it should.
In Earth-town, auto-entry was rarely authorized. Earthlings wanted to eyeball their visitors on a holo stage first, even if they were expecting them. Greenies just liked people to show up when expected and walk the fuck in. Why waste time on doorway ceremonial shit? It was inefficient.
She walked into a standard two-bedroom are-hue that was no different than a million or so others that had been built to house greenies—the little worker bees of Mars.
There was a woman sitting on the couch. Tall. Brunette. Pretty. She was a greenie. Lez could tell just by her clothes.
In the kitchen, Nate-dawg and another male—his butt-buddy most likely—were chopping up onions and smashing crackers with a rolling pin.
“Hey,” the woman on the couch said. “I’m Lissa. Are you the bitch whose hair I’m cutting?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lez said. “I’m Lez. Nate-dawg said you were the shit. And I saw the holo of the other girls.”
“Xan and Roxy,” Lissa said. “They’ll be over in a little bit. They never miss motherfuckin’ meatloaf night. Is your ass stayin’ for Nate-dawg’s meat? He said he invited your ass.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lez said. “I can’t wait to taste his meat.”
Neither of the women placed any sexual connotation on this exchange. Meat was not a word used for penis or the presentation of such in their culture. It just meant meat.
Nate and his presumed butt-buddy saw her and stopped what they were doing. They both wiped their hands on a clean kitchen towel and walked over.
“Wassup, ho-bag?” Nate greeted.
“I came to get a little trim, dickweed,” she replied.
God, it felt good to speak freely in her own motherfuckin’ language.
They did not hug. It took a lot for a male and female who were not related by blood or marriage to one another to work their way up to that level. Martians were not huggers. They wanted to be, but their evolving society hadn’t quite caught up to that yet.
They shook hands instead.
And then Nate introduced the other young man.
“This is Tye, my fuckin’ butt-buddy,” Nate said. “Tye, Leslie. She’s the house-bitch at that Earthling-fuck’s place. The one I did my off-rec at.”
“What the fuck’s the haps?” Tye inquired, giving her the polite greenie version of ‘how do you do?’
“The Man riding my greenie ass, like fuckin’ always,” she replied, giving the polite reply to such an inquiry: ‘Same old fecal matter, different day of the week.’
Lissa had gotten up from the couch and walked over to join them.
“And this is Lissa,” Nate said. “She’s the bitch who’s gonna cut your fuckin’ hairs.”
“Wassup, slut-dawg?” Lissa greeted.
“Livin’ the fuckin’ dream, ho-bag,” Lez replied.
They shook hands, ending with a fist bump. Standard girl meeting girl shake. There were different handshakes for boys meeting girls or boys meeting boys and anyone meeting children. Different variations of grips, number of shakes, and style of fist bump. The greenies took their handshakes seriously.
“All right,” Lissa said. “Let me see what your ass brought me to work with.”
Lez turned around. Lissa stepped behind her and took the long blonde hair in both hands. She ran her fingers through it slowly, separating sections, lifting them away from Lez’s head and letting them fall again. She examined the ends, then worked her fingers through the hair near the scalp.
“Good hair,” Lissa finally said. “Thick enough to do shit with, but not too fuckin’ thick. You just want it shorter and styled?”
“Fuckin’ A. I need to get this shit under control.”
“How short?”
“To the shoulders. Low fuckin’ maintenance, know what I’m saying?”
“I know what you’re saying,” Lissa said. She ran her fingers through Lez’s hair one more time. “Buck-fifty.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Sounds like an assfuck, slut-dawg.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lissa said. “We’ll do the motherfucker as soon as Nate-dawg puts the meatloaf in the fuckin’ oven.”
Left with nothing to do for the moment, Lez followed them into the kitchen to watch Nate and Tye’s assembly process.
Nate had a kilo of fresh ground pseudo-beef. He had onions and a bowl that now contained a hundred or so grams of smashed-up cracker crumbs. Rye crackers even.
“Your ass was serious about using crackers instead of fuckin’ breadcrumbs,” she said.
“Fuckin’ A,” he told her. “Vermin moms in the pee-hue, which is where I learned this shit, generally do not have a supply of breadcrumbs on hand. So ... fuckin’ crackers.”
“Can you taste a difference between the rye crackers and the regular kind?” she asked.
“Yep,” he confirmed. “The rye ones give it a classier taste. You can use actual pieces of bread too. You just have to tear them up really small and shit.”
“Interesting,” she said.
And it was.
She could talk about cooking all fuckin’ day and into the night.
She watched him talk Tye through assembly of the meatloaf. Onions, egg protein, yellow mustard, salt, pepper, minced garlic, some New Jersey sauce—his pre-Cold War ancestors would have called it Worcestershire sauce, but most things European-named had been changed by this point.
And then she really looked at the amount of cracker crumbs he was about to use.
It didn’t seem like enough to her.
And then she saw why he wasn’t using as much when he put the meatloaf into the baking pan. He was forming it to the entire pan.
“That’s how you bake it?” she asked diplomatically.
“Yeah,” Nate said. “How the fuck else would I do it?”
He did not seem like he was asking that rhetorically or out of anger. He sounded like he really wanted an answer. An alternative.
This gave her confidence she otherwise might not have possessed.
“Well,” she said. “If you add more breadcrumbs—sorry, cracker crumbs—say another fifty grams or so, and maybe another fifty or so mils of the fuckin’ egg juice, you can form it so it stands up by itself in the pan.”
Nate followed this, but had a really good question.
“Why?”
So she explained it.
“That makes all but the bottom exposed to direct heat in the oven. That lets a better crust form and helps heat the fuckin’ thing through more efficiently.” She shrugged. “It’ll turn out fine the way you’re doing it, but if you like that little crust, this gets you more of it. Lets the sauce cover more fuckin’ ground too.”
Nate was looking at her with respect.
“I never would’ve thought of that shit,” he said, “but it makes sense.”
He quickly dumped the meat concoction back into his mixing bowl and began to add more cracker crumbs and egg protein.
Once the meatloaf was in the oven, Nate constructed something Lez had never seen or heard of before.
He called it Macanchee.
Just like that. Muh-can-chee with accent on the second syllable.
Spelled it out and everything.
It was a pasta dish with cheese. Elbow macaroni boiled tender and then drained. Grated pepperjack cheese, some peppers, some milk protein, some bacon bits. Mix it all together. Bake it with the meatloaf for the last thirty minutes.
Nate-dawg claimed it was a common vermin side-dish and sometimes even a full-on motherfuckin’ meal dating back to at least World War III.
Lez had never seen it or heard of it before, but watching Nate and Tye make it made her very eager to taste the completed product.
For the veggie, Nate had some fresh spinach leaves grown in one of the Eden greenhouses. He was going to steam it.
Classy shit for a former vermin without any training.
“All right,” Nate said once the macanchee was prepped and standing by for its turn in the oven. “Let’s cut some fuckin’ hairs now.”
Lissa took charge of the haircutting operation.
She pulled one of the dining chairs over and put it on the tile in the kitchen. Lez sat in it and Lissa put a towel around her shoulders.
“You washed your hair,” Lissa told her. “I can smell it.”
“It seemed the reasonable fuckin’ thing to do before a haircut,” Lez said with a shrug. “Common sense, right?”
“Yep,” Lissa agreed. “But for some motherfuckers it ain’t so common.”
“You got that shit right,” Lez said.
Lissa assembled the tools of her unofficial trade. A pair of scissors, two brushes, and a water bottle with a spray nozzle on it. She also had a plastic box full of hairclips in multiple sizes and shapes.
She began to comb out Lez’s hair, long strokes designed for maximum coverage per stroke. Her hands slid through the hair gently, pulling it back from her neck and shoulders, stroking it.
It was strange that a girl was doing this.
Yes, Aimes ran her hands through her hair all the time, but that was private. This was in front of witnesses in a rezzie. It wasn’t sexual or affection. But it still felt nice. Really nice.
Once the hair was smooth and silky, with no two strands intertwined, it seemed, Lissa sprayed on some water and went to work, alternating between cutting and brushing and running fingers through sections of hair. Occasionally she would pin a section out of the way with one of the little clippie things.
Her blonde locks began to fall to the tile floor.
And every once in a while, when leaning over to adjust something or to catch an odd angle of scissors and hair, Lissa’s boobs would push into her back or her shoulder. Totally incidental contact. But it was boobs. And it felt good to have boobs touching her. Certainly better than some prancing male with a fake lisp, fake prancing, and a wife and child at home.
While she worked, Lissa and the others—who had gathered to watch the artist at work—kept up their conversation.
It didn’t take long before they found a topic her hosts were interested in.
“Nate-dawg told us them Earthlings you live with have two fuckin’ kids,” Lissa said. “Both legal.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lez replied. “Two crotch goblins from one bitch.”
“I just babysat a couple of kids like that. Fuckin’ rich-prick assholes already. How are the ones at your place?”
“They’re all right for Earthling kids,” Lez said. “Aimes—she’s their mom—is pretty good at keeping them in line. For the most part anyway. I like them, but they’re a fuckin’ handful sometimes. And there are days I wonder if I can take them out on a surface hike and just kind of let their asses wander off into the wastelands on a fuckin’ snipe hunt.”
“I don’t know how you do that shit,” Tye said, shaking his head. “I make it my business to stay far away from Earthlings at all times. You have to live with the motherfuckers.”
“Tell ‘em about fuckin’ accounting camp,” Nate said.
And so she did.
The looks on their faces were priceless.
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