A woman is preparing to be married next month. She's excited about the big day, and the one thing she wants more than anything else it to have a nice, deep tan. To this end, she heads down to a local tanning salon. It's one of those self-service places; basically a small shop with a bunch of coin operated machines. She strips off, inserts her money and climbs inside. Twenty minutes later she emerges a little bit more brown.
But it's not enough. She wants more. A few days later she heads back for another session, and another the day after that. She's getting close to the tan she wants, but it's still not enough . . . and the wedding's getting ever closer.
The night before the rehearsal, she heads down to the salon once more. This time, when her time on the bed expires, she just puts more money in. Not once, or twice, but five times. By the time the salon's finally closing up for the night she's dizzy and dehydrated, but she finally has the deep-gold tan she wants. She heads home and falls into bed.
And there she stays, forever. Her family find her the next day, dead and shrivelled, organs cooked to perfection from the inside out.
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