Wrath of the Toothfairy

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I’m NOT a fairy!

My name is Adelphe.  I am a sister of Artemis.  You wouldn’t know me by name, but you know my title and job description. I am the Tooth-Fairy. I bet you just got all excited and giddy. You have pleasant memories of sticking your baby teeth under your pillow and waking up to find a roll of cash under your pillow. Have you ever wondered what I do with those broken, plaque covered little teeth those rotten, snot-nosed, money-grubbing, little crumb snatchers leave behind? I deliver them to the bridge trolls, Grook, Maolk and Dave. They grind them into flour and make Troll Bridge Cookies, which the mythical creatures in my realm enjoy immensely. I get half a cent per tooth. That’s a complete rip off, especially considering the rate of inflation, the strain of lifting and hauling bone fragments and lack of vacation days I receive! I fly around all night and still have to work 20 hours a week on my second job at McGriffins to get my ends to face each other. The chances of my ends ever meeting are slim to none, and slim left town.

I have no social life. I don’t get to hang out and dance and gather flowers with the other nymphs and fairies. I work 365 days a year. I’m tired of it! Santa gets eight months off, the Easter Bunny gets fifty-one weeks off, the Leprechaun works when he feels like it. And don’t give me that line about, “The Stork works year round just like you,” because it’s a lie from the very pit of Hades! The Stork goes home every night! He has weekends off and four weeks vacation! He has a team that delivers those stinky bundles of ever seeping bodily fluids to parents who seem to enjoy wiping up after those leaky little beings. I deserve some time off!

All I want is a little respect. Stop calling me a fairy, I’m a NYMPH, not a fairy! Pay me what I’m worth! The bag I carry is bigger than Santa’s and I don’t have the benefit of eight magical reindeer to carry me around the world.  Can I at least get that much? Last week, a set of six-year-old twins left me a letter informing me that I owe them money from my last visit. Can you believe the nerve? I left them $10 each. They were expecting $20 each. Can you believe those brats? I even had a forty-year old put his front teeth, which were knocked out during a bar fight, under his pillow. Do you know what I left him? A lump of coal!

I quit. I leave it to the parents to reach under the pillows of their sleeping children, without waking them, to retrieve nasty little teeth, and leave behind their entire wallet. I’ll send all the forty-year-old bar brawlers to Grook, Maolk and Dave. They can grind their teeth, use their flesh for stew and add the remaining skeletons to their baked goods. I will quit my job at McGriffins and do what nymphs do best, hang out with the sister nymphs, dancing along river beds and gathering flowers.

Copyright 2013 Nike Binger Marshall

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