When Cliff Hanger first visited my clinic I was completely star-struck,
“Mr Hanger,” I said, shaking his hand, “Er, erm, please, take a seat.”
“Thank you Doctor.”

I could hardly believe it. Sitting opposite me was arguably the most handsome actor in movie history, an angel of the silver screen.
“So,” I said, “Er, what brings you to my humble clinic?”
“I’ve been reliably informed you are one of the few remaining practitioners of cosmetic surgery, an expert in your field.”
“Well,” I blushed, “I suppose I am. But then, there’s not much call for it nowadays, not since the introduction of genetic screening over two centuries ago. As you know, there aren’t any real-life ugly people anymore, just the ones children laugh about in history books. My work is reconstruction, for patients who are unlucky enough to suffer disfiguring injuries, and so on.”
“So I’m told.”
“So tell me,” I said, “What can an underpaid plastic surgeon possibly do for a man such as yourself?”
“I want to change the way I look.”
“You want to change the way you look?” I echoed, making sure I’d heard him correctly.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve more than enough money to cover whatever it costs.”


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