Allergic to Light

From his earliest childhood years, Aaron Lichtberg had heard stories passed down from his great-grandparents about that one glorious day in the distant past, when light had burst thru the perpetual gloom, almost blinding the inhabitants on the ground.  That tale had motivated and galvanized him into discovering a way to provide a whole city with the same sort of light from day to day.  Once he hit paydirt, he had determined to spread the brilliance across the globe----for free!

Darkborough loomed on the horizon, that megalopolis famous for its neon lights, which glared into the ever sunless sky 24/7.  DB's, as the inhabitants referred to themselves, had never questioned the lack of sunlight.  How could they?  They had never seen it, or even heard of it.  Sunlight was as foreign to them as mini-skirts were to the Taliban. 

Lichtberg approached the city in his loaded semi.  In the Middle Disadvantaged Regions, he had successfully enlightened several smaller places, including Dimville, Fogton and Dusky;  he was banking on DBs' having heard the rave reviews from afar.  He was convinced they'd jump on his sun-enhancement program.

"Sun-enhancement program?" the mayor asked, peering over his specs, eyebrows arched.  "You've got to be kidding, pal!  We lost the sun here millenia ago.  Its existence is a myth at this point.  We carefully avoid polluting our children's minds with even the word."

"But surely you heard from places like Dimville, Sir!" Lichtberg insisted.  "They're basking in the newfound luster of natural light!"

The mayor snorted.  "Luctorburg, folks in places like Dimville are cerebrally challenged.  They'll fall for any sort of trick.  I mean, they still believe in that absurd byzantine book, THE RETURN OF THE SUN.  We all know that Sir Charles Dogwhine disproved all that falderol eons ago."

"Indeed," chimed in Darkborough's CEO of Electrical Power, "his successors also amply proved the superiority of electric lighting over the barbarian version from the sky.  Only Neanderthals prefer the sun."

Disheartened, Lichtberg returned to his semi.  As he started to drive out of the city, he was greeted with wall-to-wall hastily painted posters, signs and banners, held by thousands of designer-clad DBs, young and old, from all walks of life.  Like a giant Nuernberg rally of yore, the demonstrators chanted the message of their signs:  "Just don't preach to us!  Just don't preach to us!"