Maw has a minion!

Gullet the Toothy Ink Blotch

You put your tooth under your pillow excitedly; greedy for the prize in the morning. Maybe it's just some spare change. Maybe it's a toy of some sort. What do you care as long as you get it?
You sleep.
When you wake up, there's a shiny half-dollar next to your head. Lifting your pillow, you see no sign of your tooth. However, you do notice some wet spots on your bedsheets and carpet.
You don't care.
Over the years, you lose teeth and trade them for gifts. Your tooth is always gone in the morning; your giftalways on your pillow or nightstand. The wet spots always there.
You get older.
You have few baby teeth left. You barely get anything special as a gift for the tooth. You stop spotting the wet blotches. One night, you've just lost your very last baby tooth. It's puny, but surprisingly well-cared for, unlike some of your adult teeth. You look it over, you shrug.
You throw it away.
You awake, drooling, light-headed, groggy. All you hear is crunching and a sucking sound. Your whole chin is soaking wet and warm. You manage to lift one heavy arm and wipe at it.
It's sticky.
You groan and the crunching stops. Blinking, eyes struggling to focus, you see a dark shape on your carpet.
"Dog. Quit it. Get out." You mumble, but it sounds wrong. Why can't you stop drooling? What's that awful taste? Why can't you feel your mouth? The crunching noise begins again.
Blood.
Your brain registers the taste and you begin to spit and cough. God, what's happening? Bolting upright, you twist and flick the switch on your lamp.
You're covered in it.
Your own blood drenches your pajama shirt, your hands, your pillow. Gasping for breath, you bring your hands to your mouth.
Gone.
Your teeth, every one, is missing. Only bloody sockets remain. Becoming faint, eyes blurring, you roll to face the door and your dog. Perhaps your dog can bring some stability to your faltering sanity.
Nope.
What's sitting, cross-legged, on your floor is definitely not your dog. It has no eyes, only a long, smooth forehead that shifts from bone and flesh to a thin metallic covering. Two small slits sit slightly below where eye sockets should be, above an impossibly large mouth. Drool drips from it's jaw and plops onto your carpet, leaving a wet stain.
Teeth.
Cradled in the folds of its cloak are your teeth. It picks a molar up, sniffs it. Runs it's long, black tongue against it. Pops it into it's mouth like an M&M and sucks away.
Sick.
Your stomach flops and dinner's spaghetti is suddenly pushing at your throat for escape. You tumble from your bed and the thing tilts its head at you. You see your tooth being run against its tongue.
You gag.
It crunches down and as it chews, it examines your remaining teeth in its pile. It picks up an incisor with a nasty cavity. It sniffs it, shakes its head while letting out a snort of disgust, and tosses it next to four other teeth with cavities.
It stands.
It pockets your leftover teeth and glides to your garbage. It plucks your very last baby tooth from the can. Puny, but surprisingly well-cared for; unlike some of your adult teeth. It sniffs and coos happily. It places your tooth onto its tongue and swallows it whole. It turns to you. In a pleasant, almost soothing voice, it murmurs, "All lost teeth belong to me."
You sleep.



Adopted 6/13/11 from Jerome.


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