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If you don't like my kisses, honey,
Here's what I will do:
I'll go see a girl in purple,
Kiss this sad world toodle-oo.
If you don't want my lovin',
Why should I take up all this space?
I'll get off this old planet,
Let some sweet baby have my place.

The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.

"That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.

You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left.

The woman had a lot of facial hair—an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.

"To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.