|The Story||The Authors|
Thing One looked at Thing Two: |
I think that this does not portend
To which Thing Two replied with rare economy of words:
By the prickly pricking of my nape:
And so they did, with the mutely curried Anita in tow, great wafts of turmeric and coriandor scenting her wake...
Meanwhile, back in Jake's unending nightmare, the Tooth Bitch was having one foul day, and Jake and the hapless Mr. Tickles were, of course, being made to pay for it in spades.
|The Toothbitch was in the middle of inflicting unspeakable tortures (to her own immense pleasure) on the hapless and witless Jake and Mr. Tickles. Their howls of mortal agony were suddenly interrupted when a large material vortex opened up in the wall before them and out of it tumbled ol' Doc Smack.|
Ah, yes, Dr. Smack, that rake, that old goat! Cartoon stars whirled
about his wooly grey head... The years had not been kind to him,
the AMA had revoked his right to practice, and the benevolent white
lab-smock and gleaming caduceus had been replaced by greasy checked
pants and the epitomal dirty-old-man raincoat (Burberry or London
Fog, at least 20 years old and 3 three sizes too large; identifying
characteristics become more subtly impossoble to pin down after that...)
What his own ruination of his former self hadn't managed to corrupt and pervert, Jake's nightmare had taken care of... A thin spigot of drool extended from the Doctor's bewhiskered maw, wound in and among the fleshy ruts of his jowls, and ended in a growing wet patch on the front of his wine-stained T-shirt.
When he saw the Tooth Bitch, his rheumed eyes comprehended only the female form, at which sight the charred circuitry and tinkertoy mechanicistics of his brain began to perform the only real task they were still capable of performing (years of irresponsibly glugging Woolite'll do it to you; so watch out, kids...) —
In otherwords, he opened his filthy raincoat and flashed the Tooth Bitch.
|The tooth bitch gaped, her crudley painted red mouth gaping open, revealing no teeth.|
|Her mouth transformed and melted into a smile, she laughed, a deep, dirty, grunting sound, and slowley began to advance towards Jake. She swung her hips as seductivly as she could, and the fat which hung off her stomach roiled and swung with them. Jake felt sick, but he knew what needed to be done. He had to escape this evil, he could not be a sex slave any longer. The Tooth Bitches grotesquely voluptuous body slid closer. Jake closed his eyes and he could feel the puffs of sulphourous breath as she stopped directly infront of him. With strength he did not know he possessed, he kicked out his legs and hit her in the head. She fell to the ground unconscious. With his toes he poked at her body and removed the knife she carried around her waist. Painstakingly he lifted it to his mouth (thank God he had been in gymnastics when he was a child) and then proceeded to cut the bonds that held him. He was free! He tied his ancient raincoat together again and ran out of the Tooth Bitches sex prison after giving the bag herself one final kick. He giggled as he ran.|
|It was not only gymnastics which had helped him with is bodily contortions handling the knife away from the limp body of his captor. Jake was exceedingly fond of yoga. He used it to keep his body limber. His mind in shape. And his soul at peace.|
Only a mind as demented as Jake's could have convinced itself of a
lie of such grandiose proportions... Vanquish the Tooth Bitch? Why,
a girl might as well go to war with her own heart! |
Lifting her bruised self from the glass-strewn sidewalk of Jake's nightmares, the Tooth Bitch brushed dust and gravel from her vinyl miniskirt, sighed at yet another run in her nylons, and fingered the switchblade in the pocket of her leather jacket. Jake. Oh Jale. First she was gonna bitch-slap that nasty, naughty boy so hard his poor Momma would feel it! And then she was gonna remove the source of all these problems from inbetween Jake's skinny white legs. The Lord knew, she had tried, she had sweated over the boy's re-education, but Jake — well, some dogs are just born bad, as her Granny used to say. Ain't nothing to but but put them out of yours an' mine an' God's an' everyone's misery...