When the horrible silence of death had dropped across the world, the ship came to a rest. The shoreline was deserted, the people long since dropped off to bed, then their hearts all stopped at once. The two men from the boat departed, and looked around the doomed utopia. A whole beach to themselves. They were looking forward to many beaches to themselves, many empty streets, lonely dinners and dark rooms.
Soylent Green was not made from people. It was made of cyanide.
They stood, trying to decide if yelling this proclamtion was worth the trouble. They decided, in the end, to leave it for some more melodramatic entity. This, of course, meant it never got done.