Sing, Goddess, the trials of Saint Nicholas, our at-first-reluctant savior who in the end took on the task of fixing God the Father’s rotten botch of a creation, slapdash from the word go, by rejiggering the human psyche.
Sing too, O Lubricious Lady, the Tooth Fairy’s store of impotence and frustration, her unbridled delight in her new co-conspirator Venga—exiled from the race of golden girls—and their most ferocious attempts to sink humankind in the bottomless muck and mire of abject depravity.
Neither neglect the hairpin precision—oh let’s give it its true name, shall we?—the obsessive-compulsive delivery expertise of that unsexed voyeur, the Easter Bunny, without which expertise this tale would have ended in tragedy.
Finally and not least, sing the hurt and displeasure of the Father God, his estrangement from the Son in favor of the Shame Son got upon the Divine Mother some years past.
Begin then, Sweet Goddess, with an establishing shot of the Tooth Fairy’s island, viewing it first from rain-heavy clouds in all its panoramic splendor, then sweeping in upon the former ash nymph as her now dozen imps, come back from their murderous spree on Christmas Eve, finish ravishing her.
Off she throws them, thrilled by their savage assault yet revolted by their stench, their dull-witted ugliness, the vile poison that defines them to the core.
“Scum-sucking sons of a whore,” she screamed as she sprang up to reclaim her power, “get you gone!” Her necklace of teeth clattered upon her chest.
Six times she left- and right-fisted the arms of two imps. Six times she starfished them in greasy spangles to far-flung corners of her island.
Into the air she leaped, corkscrewing through ocean waves to wash their vile spunk from her flesh. Sucking in sea water at her quim, again and again she shot it out in a power douche, killing hapless sea creatures that chanced to swim by. Then, gulping gallon after gallon of ocean, she shat showers of enriched water that drew shimmering schools of fish, growing larger and hardier as they swam through it.
Again airborne, she surveyed her island.
Far off, she spotted the shore where thirteen milk-chocolate eggs from the Divine Mother’s breast milk, overlaid with gold leaf, repelled her and her brood.
“Damn them to hell and back!” she said, recalling Santa, his bitch-wife Rachel and her bitch-daughter Wendy, the mewling Easter Bunny, and especially that turncoat motherfucker Chuff, once the butt and scorn of his brother imps, now a token resident at the North Pole.
One day, she vowed, she would reclaim that shore and blast those eggs to smithereens.
Upon the shore she squatted. Through the pelting rain she gazed toward the far horizon, her stiff nipples dripping water on her belly.
She had made the mistake—near daybreak, as she wrapped up her nightly round of bedroom visits—of listening in on what a few brats had said to their bitch-mommies about the coins beneath their pillows.
They held such saccharine notions of her. None had a clue how loathsome they were to her. Greater than her rage at being robbed of her hatred of them upon entering their bedrooms was the rage their notions of her engendered.
One sleepy-eyed cockwielder had blinked up from his pillow at the sow who’d whelped him. “Mommy,” he said, “do you think Santa and the Tooth Fairy were here at the same time? I bet they’re friends.”
“They must be, Timmy. I’m sure of it. But the night is short and they have so many houses to visit. More than likely, they show up at different times. But one thing you can count on. They both love you dearly.”
Love little gap-toothed Timmy?
Love the latest roster of snot-nosed brats?
She would have loved to lop their blithering heads off and swallow their skulls for supper.
Had it not been for an intriguing smudge smeared on the horizon, the Tooth Fairy would have indulged her hatred of children for hours.
But that smudge, dark and shiny, beguiled her.
No threat there.
Rather, an urgent groin-centered buzz that meant something alluring this way came.
Had she sensed anything to be feared about it, she would have said this thing, whatever it was, traveled at an alarming speed. But what she felt was the speed of delicious anticipation and an urgent desire about to be fulfilled.
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