The Face-Lifting Machine

(An Unreliable Narrator’s Tale)

Ah, my dear listener, gather close—but not too close, for I have a story that will stretch your credulity like taffy in the hands of a sugar-crazed child. It’s about the Face-Lifting Machine, a wondrous, terrible, and possibly imaginary invention that promised eternal youth… or something far worse.  

Now, you must understand that I heard this tale from a man in a tavern who swore he’d seen it himself—though he also claimed to have once wrestled a mermaid, so take that as you will.  

The Inventor’s Folly  

Dr. Erasmus P. Holloway was a man of vision—or so he insisted, though his spectacles were perpetually smudged. A disgraced surgeon turned self-proclaimed "aesthetic engineer," he toiled in a cluttered workshop where the scent of burnt wiring and lavender face cream hung thick in the air.  

One stormy evening, after a particularly unfortunate incident involving a botched nose job and an angry duchess, Holloway stumbled upon his magnum opus—the Face-Lifting Machine. A contraption of brass, steam, and questionable ethics, it promised to "rejuvenate the visage without the inconvenience of surgery, pain, or common sense."  

How It Worked (Or Didn’t) 

The machine was simple in theory:  

1. The subject sat in a velvet-lined chair.  

2. A series of mechanical hands (some with fingers missing, but let’s not dwell on that) would gently pluck, smooth, and rearrange the facial features.  

3. A final blast of "revitalizing steam" (which smelled suspiciously of cabbage) would seal the transformation.  

Holloway tested it first on his long-suffering assistant, Barnaby, who emerged looking different—not necessarily younger, but certainly different. His left eyebrow now resided near his ear, and his smile had acquired a curious third dimple. Still, Holloway declared it a resounding success.  

The Public’s Folly  

Word spread. The desperate, the vain, and the terminally curious flocked to Holloway’s parlor. A baroness left with lips so plump she could barely speak. A poet found his frown permanently upturned into a grin, much to the horror of his melancholic admirers. And then there was Madame Zorina, the aging circus performer who demanded "a face that could stop time itself."

What happened next? Ah, well…  

The Twist (Or Was It?)  

Madame Zorina sat in the chair. The machine whirred. The steam hissed. And when the smoke cleared…  

She was gone.

Not dead, mind you—gone. In her place sat a perfectly smooth, featureless mannequin’s head, still warm to the touch. Holloway, ever the showman, declared this "the ultimate facelift—a return to blank potential!"  

The crowd, after a moment of stunned silence, burst into applause. (People will clap for anything if you say it’s art.)  

The Aftermath (Or So I’m Told)  

Holloway vanished soon after—some say he fled to the Alps to refine his invention. Others claim he became the machine, his own face stretched and polished into oblivion.  

As for the Face-Lifting Machine? Well, if you listen closely on foggy nights near old apothecaries, you might hear the faint whir of gears… and the distant, cheerful screams of those who sought perfection.  

Moral of the Story? 

—Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  

—Machines are terrifying.  

—Never trust a man who smells like cabbage and hubris.  

Now, do you dare take a seat in the chair? Or are you wise enough to age gracefully—wrinkles, warts, and all?  

(The narrator winks, but one eye stays shut a beat too long. You decide whether to trust them.)