The Toothfairy -- an excuse for dilenquency
Aielyn woke up as soon as night had completely fallen as she always did, no matter how long she had been up the day before.
*** (cue favorite flashback music) ***
Centuries back, she had tried to resist her tooth-collecting nature by challenging all-comers (more often then not trolls and ogres) to drinking contests.
That was a in time of magic (clearly), where fairies mixed with other fantastic beings, even their creators. It was also a time of unimaginable debauchery, so most of the magic happened at bars or other similar watering holes. This combination in effect … watered down the type of magic that actually happened, sadly (which is why most of the magical beings are no longer with us today. [True fact]). Actually, full disclosure, Aielyn was ‘created’ in a bar very similar to the ones she frequented. Her creator, an asshole of a centaur, took a dare that he could not create an entirely useless being that humanity would believe in longer than all of them (for, as we all should know, magic is only possible with the absolute belief of human beings). By ‘creating,’ I mean, he... well. You know. Yes, ‘old-god’ like with a very old-god-like amount. Apparently if magical beings waited long enough (but not too long where it dried out), they breath life into... it. Anyway, such was Aielyn’s unlikely becoming. Her creator did win his bet (for now magical beings are relegated to the magical realm of imagination but his toothfairy still flits between the imaginative realm and ours) although it took eons for his wager to bear fruit. And, at which point no one cared and fewer remembered its actually origin. The fact that he claimed to be the toothfairy’s creator was legend. And I use “legend” in the current sense of “hugely entertaining.” For, at least once a month the centaur would get absolutely pissed-drunk and go on about his own feats. And, at least once every second month, the story of Aielyn’s becoming would be reenacted (not-so-oddly co-inciding with the times her and her creator would frequent the same bar). The tired old centaur would whip out an equally tired old cock and tell the tale of how it spawned one of the very few remaining beings that could move between their (current) world and ours.
I guess it is no wonder that Aielyn drank as much as she did.
So, where were we. Oh, yes, the drinking contests. Of course, based on size differentials she almost always came in last as she was a mere 3 inches, where trolls could reach heights of 4 feet and ogres double that. She did her best to win though, in her first sets of rebellious years, and would often protest when they cut her off, claiming to have actually won.
“Fug you,” she would slur giving them the finger (which most of the drunken trolls would have to squint to even see at this point in time, muttering angrily upon processing her tiny offense). “Broporshn.. brop... booOOORRR,” she would burp and wipe off any liquid that had oozed out of her mouth off her face. “PROPorshunally,” she would articulate, “proPORshunally, I drank more than alllll you mumfuckrrrzz.”
At that point she would lose both the trolls and ogres and not because of her offensive behavior -- they had no concept of “proportions,” well articulated or not. Further, more often then not, once she had brought up the concept of proportions, she would take it upon herself to educate them on this topic. Equally as often, she gave this speech to their backs as they turned to more bawdy discourse.
“ProPORshunal means... it means you’re.... fuck’t, haHA.” She said to their backs, grabbing her crotch in a most un-fairy-like manner. “No, no, no, you ignoramushuz. It means, you’re bigger so you drink bigger drinks! Me finishing two of your fuckin pints is... a-fuckING-mazing! I’m a drinking goddEHH -- EEHH --” she vomited into one of the ogre’s pints, falling back onto her bum, arms braced behind herself as she took deep breaths, trying to regain equilibrium to finish her soliloquy. She opened her mouth in a lobsided, drooling mess (meant as a ‘got you’ smile) as the unsuspecting ogre took a swig of his pint, eyeballed his mug, then downed the rest and crashed the mug back on the table, narrowly missing Aeilyn’s feet.
“I’m a GODdess of drinkin’. I AM. You trolllls would need to drink two fugg’n KEGS and you ugly shit stinkin big nut havin’ -- EEHH --.” She took two long breaths, “OGRES would have to have two cunt lickin’ VATS.”
The wench clearing tables looked at Aielyn in a very disapproving manner, shaking her head as she picked up the pitchers and pints, “Really? The ‘c’ word? You should be ashamed of yourself. And it bein’ almost sundown, you’re preparin’ to go to wee one’s beds stinkin of puuuke, burps, bile, and beer. You’re a real piece of work” (Implying real shitty piece of work).
Aielyn’s response was to pull up her shirt and squeeze her (rather ample I might say) tits in the wenches general direction.
“What is that? What does that even meeeeeean, you sodded twit.” The wench pushed on Aielyn’s head, then pulled the fairy’s shirt back down over her exposed cannons, “I can’t even hear you, yer high pitched yammerin’. You’re cut off.”
With that, the wench picked up Aielyn, put her in a pouch and held her in her ample, meaty, hand ignoring the fairy’s sanctimonious maledictions. Aielyn fought hard against the callused hands of the wench, but her bites could not draw blood, and the wench was smart enough to wrap her up so she could do little but wriggle and curse. “You ugly ugly... UGly.. ugh..” Aielyn ended her invective by passing out, a little vomit trickling onto the wenches hand.
Four minutes later, she disappeared in a pestilent poof of pixie dust that, even centuries ago, sounded like the high-pitched strident whinge of dental machinery.
After each such sottish soiree, she “woke” up, or re-appeared, or re-booted, whatever; she awoke, in her nest, undebilitated by the drunken, debaucherous escapades of the night before. A tender smile was transfixed on her face, a smile that would not leave her beautiful countenance until she returned with a tooth. She hated that fucking smile, for no matter how pissed off she was with her lot in life (erm, did you read the second paragraph of this shit?!), every time she awoke that smile blessed her in the mirror, begging to be smashed in. But, the, err, “a” kicker was that the smile was so gentle and lovely that she could not feel it. So, every morning upon waking, she rushed to her mirror to check and see if the smile had left her face. Alas, every morning her spirits were dashed by the gorgeous shit-eating grin that would not change regardless of the hate in her heart for it.
Another kicker from Aielyn’s lot in life, was the fact that she could smell all the teeth that had fallen out of wee ones’ heads the day before. Her first breath was never her own (puke soaked) pillow she often woke up on, but an onslaught of individually abominable smells packaged in a bundle so pungent that it felt like a troll’s foot to the nose -- WHAMMMOO, bitch! This was compounded daily by the fact that, upon waking, her creator had had the fucking foresight (gall) to make her first breath the biggest, slowest, deepest intake of breath that her tiny lungs could hold.
*** (cue Soul II Soul's 'back to life, back to reality' music) ***
OOOOooo, yes, Aielyn hated her lot in life its accoutrements and today started just like any other.
“ffffffffffrrrrrrrrrrr,” went her nostrils for, roughly, eight seconds, slowly drawing in the sickly scents of children’s fallen teeth. No more trolls and ogre teeth to smell, those brethren of hers had receded from this age, confining themselves to the imaginary realm and children’s books, plotting an insidious return to the human realm every time a grubby, fat, little finger rubbed over their inked countenances. Narcissus’ nuts she hated those eight seconds of eternity!
“hhhhaaaaaaaaa,” went her mouth for, roughly, another eight seconds. Then, she felt her mouth. It seemed like, could it be? Aielyn grabbed her mirror and looked at her face, only to clench down hard in disappointment. She thought she was grinding her teeth together hard enough to reach bone, but all the mirror showed her was a very slight curl of her lips turned upward, darlingly impish and full of delight.
In her mind’s eye she smashed the mirror against her perfect dentition, obliterating her pearly whites into a million little pieces. But, in reality, she placed the mirror down calmly instead; she was magically and unequivocally bound to never utter a curse, nor was she able to do violence to herself or others. Until, that is, she returned with a tooth.
“Why give me a mind, a rational mind, and an amazing memory that has not forgotten one single morning if you’re not going to let me act how I want!” Aielyn screamed at the top of her lungs to her creator. Or rather, she asked, in a melifluous manner that would not wake even the tossing-est, turning-est child.
“Oh, rats.” Was what her mouth translated her mind’s torrent of rage into.
Giving up on resistance, Aielyn started her nightly rituals, which were mostly of her own creation (after innumerable attempts at rebellious rituals were deemed unrealizable). She ate, had her coffee, shit, showered, and shaved (yes, there, you filthy minded reader). Rebellion was futile at her job, but apparently she could put off the inevitable by making herself more presentable.
All she need do, each night, is bring home one thousand teeth. She shook her head at the absurdity of it. One thousand stinking teeth a night, what the fuck kind of existence is that? But, apparently, there was a weakness in her work clause. Either that or her union had lobbied very hard to get her off that improbable hook. Whatever way the end result resulted, turns out she could call a night a night as long as she brought back one tooth. To be clear, “calling it a night” meant that the restrictive impositions on her vanished. She could do whatever the hell she wanted after that first tooth was placed in her big-ass pile of centuries of collected teeth.
The fact that she had not learned of this loophole until last year really burned her (recently shaved) asshairs, but she tried not to think of that. Sooooo many long nights trying to bring back 1000 teeth, wait, no, no, don’t think of that, she thought as her mind started to waver between sanities.
Cleaned up and fed, she whined irritatingly out of existence, flitting along the best of the wretched toothsmells wafting toward her.
She reconstituted on the bedpost of her job’s bed, looking down in disgust at the job she had to do -- another boy, god these things are dirtier and smellier than trolls, she thought (really this was incorrect, but not by much, and the daily inhalation of the exceedingly foul smells little boys’ and girls’ lost tooths clearly was distorting her memory).
She looked around the bedpost, hoping against hope that she would not have to go under “another gat’damned fucking pillow” as she would later put it that night after a few (10) too many shots of jagermeister. As usual, there was no tooth on the bedpost. As usual, she was going to have to go under the pillow, risking life, limb, and breath to find whatever stinking dental mess lay beneath. She hopped down on the mattress and, taking a deep breath, started to crawl under the boy’s pillow.
Please be in a bag, please be in a bag, she thought as she centimetered forward in a military crawl kind of motion. Please be in a mother. fuuucking. baaag. she thought, this time more desperately as the intensity of the tooth-smell increased with each new portion of the pillow she crawled under. “Rrrrrrrropp,” Aielyn wretched, taking a breath as quickly as possible.
Then the boy rolled over, putting his head right on top of her own, pinning her face down into his mattress. Faint odors on urine and chocolate made their way through the overpowering gas of tooth and into her nose. I’m gonna kill you you gap-toothed, gummy, little shit eating maggot hard-on! she cursed as she frantically tried to squiggle from underneath.
Twisting, wriggling, and flopping turned out the be the most effective way for Eialyn to escape the weight of the boys head, but she lost her top on the way out.
“Oh dear” came out of her lips upon realizing this, for she knew she needed to RETRIEVE ALL ARTICLES OF CLOTHING, HAIRS, OR OBJECTS THAT YOU BRING WITH YOU. The mandate from her creator intoned itself in her head. Mandate these asshole, she thought and tried to double pump middle fingers to the ceiling. Without having retrieved even one tooth, however, Eialyn was only allowed to wave in a sweet, almost queenly, elbow-wrist elbow-wrist, manner.
Gritting her teeth, the bare-breasted toothfairy walked around to the other side of the boy’s pillow, took a deep breath, and dove back under. She saw the top of her shirt immediately and grabbed it, pushed forward with her toes and lifted the pillow bottom up like a tent so she could see a little in front of herself. Good god damn, did this kid ever brush? She thought, looking to the left and right, turning green as a reaction to the effluvium.
Aielyn wriggled forward, then lifted up another tiny tenting; there it lay. She shook her head in disgust; not even bagged, just sitting there like a pile of calcified shit and stinking more every second.
In a practiced flourish, she spun around on her back and lifted the pillow up even more with her legs. Her left arm reached across her body, unhitched her tooth-pack, flung it over the offending incisor, whipped it back across her body tightly sealing the top and containing the offending odors, and hitched the bag back onto her belt. Pausing to take a few deeper breaths, she crawled out and stood, arm akimbo, victoriously looking back at the little boys filthy face.
Aielyn wanted to do more -- she wanted to pound those peaceful pouty lips into hamburger, but she could do no harm. Instead, she dropped a 5-spot, gaping in wonder at the amount of inflation that had happened in less than a generation.
The toothfairy then rode her loophole, returning back to her nest instead of onto the next tooth. 1000 teeth my ass, you limp-dick mutant! she thought at her creator, re-materializing and pitching the tightly bagged tooth in her creator’s toothhole.
“Holy shit fucking freedom feels motherfucking better than being eaten out by Tinkerbell!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, smiling at her own invective ingenuity -- each night she tried to find the best, newest, way to cuss her verbal freedom and she had even impressed herself with this one. invective. “Now I want a stiff drink... and a stiffer cock! HaHa!” Liberation washed over her like ice-melt over dry riverbeds, in-fucking-vigoration-nation. She was already more drunk on freedom than she would get on spirits. Donning her shirt, she and headed out, flitting along to a favorite old watering hole of hers.
She did not stop speeding through the air until she was deep into the bar. Before her mind popped, she processed two details. First, her eyes recognized her creator, pounding a table in laughter, obviously drunk off his wizened ass. Second, her brain replayed what her ears had just heard the old bastard say, “And then, I thought it would be funny to make her allergic to teeth, you know, having to do that each night but getting violently ill every time she saw one? That shit still cracks me up.”
The aftermath is messy, but that is for next time. Good night!