The bristles pass me by again.
The Incisors get all the action. The property values in the extreme back of the mouth have really diminished of late; it’s like there just isn’t enough room for all of us in here. While the front choppers with their beach front property are doused in minty flouride, I’m back here in the ghetto marinating in Java Monster and Coke Zero, the remnants of the Knight’s pathetic attempts to balance poor nutrition and a sedentary lifestyle with his dream of looking like his fictionalized version of himself.
I lack advancement.
I should have been evicted years ago, the Molars tell me. But they’re no better than me. They shirk their duties, letting food particles pass over them and sticking me with all the real work. It’s worse. Those bastards can chew while I can only gnaw–they always leave me encrusted and unfulfilled.
Does no one appreciate my wisdom?
After a few years of this, anyone would crack, right? I thought that maybe if I cut like the Incisors, those bristles might come my way and clean up the neighborhood. I mean sure, there’s the occasional dousing of Listerine, but it’s like sweeping the streets with acid rain. So when I finally broke, I made myself hard, sharp. Steak knives have nothing on me. And now that the Knight has actually cut some weight, my jagged edge is right up against the inside of his cheek.
Swallow. Do you feel me now? Bite down. Do you taste blood? Try giving that lecture over Hamlet with that iron taste in your throat. You deserve this. You didn’t even notice when I splintered off, when my crown burst! How could you be so cruel? I mean, I am a part of you, after all.
I am part of you whether you want me or not.
Wait! What’s that mirror doing back here? You… You didn’t! A dentist? You vile betrayer! Molars, are you really going to let those needles get past you? Damn you! Don’t you dare numb that cheek! No, wait! I’ve changed my mind! I can deal with the ghetto! So what if I can’t keep up with the Incisors? Please let me stay! I can change! I’ll get some counseling, file myself down, live as half a tooth! Please, please don’t make me go!
“Come on,” mutters the Dentist. “You don’t really want to stay in there, do you?”
But the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will! And makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of–
And the Knight somehow manages though the Novocain, the last thing I shall ever hear:
“Goodnight, Sweet Prince.”