Alright, | think that’s all the time | got. You will all be assigned cubes 
and shit next week, so try not to break anything or die until then. Oh, 
uh... have fun and stuff. 


Teeth, Dearie 


Hello, dearie. 


Oh hush now, those stories are greatly over exaggerated. | am not a 
demon, and | most certainly am not hellspawn. My mother would 
take offense to that, you know. No need to be rude! That was down 
right mannerless. You should be ashamed. Now now, that's alright. 
We all make mistakes sometimes. | suppose it's not your fault 
anyways, the name they gave me is rather intimidating, isn't it? The 
"Toothed Goddess". Do | look like | have more than the average set 
of teeth? Well, yes, they are a tad whiter and straighter than the 
average lady's chompers, but | think "toothed" is a bit much, don't 
you? Jane. Call me Jane, dearie. No, | insist! All this numerical 
nonsense fuddles my mind, and "Goddess" is a bit too formal for 
what | have in mind. | was hoping you and | could have a chat. 
That's all. Just a little chat, no harm in words, right? 


What do | want to talk about? Well, | am the alleged "Toothed 
Goddess" aren't I? A little grandiose, but | do enjoy discussing those 
little pearls. | mean, that's all | do, isn't it? Babble on about the little 
gems people have hidden up under their gums? Hardly warrants 
them keeping me locked up here if | do say so. | doubt they go 
around locking up other people who talk about teeth. But | suppose 
that's my lot in life, isn't it? Take you for example, I'm sure whatever 
you did to get here is much worse than whatever silly thing they 
accused me of. Hmmm, I'd rather show you. It doesn't quite... 
translate, when | explain it. | want us to try a little something, if you 
don't mind. No, I'm not going to force you to do anything. No, | don't 
have any kind of super powers. No, I'm not going to-what are those 
people telling you out there?! | just want to talk! And, | want you to 
listen. That's all. Now, let's chat, shall we? 


Teeth. Tell me, do you floss? Everyday? Lies, | know you don't. | 
can tell. Your dentist doesn't bother you about it every time you drop 
by for nothing, does he? Yes, well, maybe you should take better 


care. Those are your adult teeth, aren't they? They're not going to 
grow back, you know. Go on, run your tongue over them. Smooth, 
aren't they? Like little, slippery pieces of linoleum stuck up in your 
gums. | know this may be an odd request, but could you touch one? 
That one, the upper lateral incisor. Hmff. Top tooth, next to your two 
front teeth. Yes, that one. Go ahead, touch it. Oh please, I'm asking 
you to poke your tooth, not rob a bank! Just take your index finger, 
and...touch it. You did it with your tongue, didn't you? Just...there 
we go. 


Feel it. Still smooth, isn't it? Hard to imagine something on the 
human body can be so perfectly smooth. Make sure you take it all 
in. No one knows your teeth like you do. No one knows about that 
subtle little hitch, that little bump, those itty bitty ridges from where it 
erupted. No one knows the exact curve and length, except for you. 
Why can't you take better care of something that is so innately part 
of you? Still touching it? Go on, experiment a little. Ooh, did you feel 
that? Push on it again. Gently, now. Feel that slight give? No one 
would be able to tell looking at it, but you can feel it, can't you? You 
can feel it, that tiniest bit of wiggle. That microscopic give when you 
ever so gently press it. Makes you shiver a bit, doesn't it? 


Now, | want you to gently, ever so gently, pinch it. With your 
forefinger and thumb, grip the very tip...there we go. Go on now, this 
isn't anything your teeth wouldn't experience if you brushed them 
every once in a while. You're not hurting anything, are you? You're 
just touching. Nothing wrong with that. You can feel it now, can't 
you? That wiggle? No, I'm not doing anything. Your teeth are just 
naturally loose. You may not realize it, but your teeth aren't actually 
part of your head. | know, bear with me. They may be there, but they 
aren't part of it. Sure, they fit snugly, but they're just attached is all. 
No more, no less. A bit of flesh and nerve stringing those lumps of 
calcium to your gums. Starting to ache a bit now, isn't it? | know, it's 
almost a pleasant ache. You can get an almost perverted pleasure 
in the way they hurt, can't you? The way they press into your gums? 
It's starting to wiggle a bit more now, | can tell from here. You've 
loosened it, from just a little bit of pressure. Exciting, isn't it? 


Teeth are fragile things, dearie. They aren't meant to be used like 
that. You keep wiggling, now. You'll be disappointed if you stop. 


That ache, that bit of relief from where it shlocks back and forth; you 
wouldn't have that any more if you stopped. It's awfully loose now. 
Yes, it's visible from here. You can probably taste it now. A bit of 
iron on your tongue? Don't worry, that's perfectly normal. Don't stop. 
You know, I'm willing to bet it has a bit of give going up and down 
now, too. Why don't you try it? Only a bit? Well, that's fine. Just keep 
working at it. Ooh, | bet that feels nice. That ache. That soreness 
building deep down? That's the root, dearie. You've got it wiggled so 
much you can feel the root. Don't stop. 


Pull your lips up, | want to see. Ooh, yes, | can see the gums moving 
with it now. They're following it around like chewed bubblegum on a 
stick. It's a delightful picture. No, don't stop, | can almost see it. 
Twist it. Yes, twist it | want to see, it's so close, so loose! | bet you 
can taste it, can't you? Don't stop now. Keep twisting. Hear that? 
That little pop? Is it easier now? Shhh, don't cry. The pain will be 
worth it. You've almost got it. Keep going. | can see it. | can see the 
root. Pop. Pop pop pop. Almost. Don't stop. You've got to sever the 
nerve, dearie. Just one more. One more little pop. You're so close, 
don't stop now. You came this far, didn't you? Keep going. One 
more. One more- 


-aaaahhh...Mmmm, yes, that /s nice, isn't it? Go on, explore! There's 
no harm. Your tongue's never been there before, let it slide into that 
little gap. Yes, see? | told you you'd enjoy it. Don't cry, dearie. Shhh, 
give it here. Let Jane see. Mmmn,, this is a nice one, isn't it? Oh, no, 
this is mine now. Yes, if it weren't for me, it wouldn't be out right 
now, would it? It's only fair. | Knew you'd agree. Why don't you go 
ask the nice scientists if they'll give you some aspirin? I'm sure if you 
ask nicely, yes. Go on now. 


Hmmm? I'm sorry, | didn't quite catch that. You have a bit of a lisp 
now, for some strange reason. Am | what? Am | the tooth fairy? Oh, 
hee hee, oh my, dearie, no. I'm not the tooth fairy. I'm the Toothed 
Goddess. 


Tempting Fate 


The last living man on earth smiles to himself as he touches the 
silver crucifix at his throat, lifting it to his lips to kiss his savior, then 
looks around his small bungalow, checking to ensure that his lamps 
are brightly burning and will remain so until he returns, then steps 
out into the shadowy suburban streets. The moon is full and bright, 
of course, and white as the bleached teeth in a broken skull. 


He does not know yet, as he tugs at the lapels of his corduroy coat 
and adjusts his left ear bud petulantly, that he is the last living man. 
Certainly, he thinks, in a world so vast there must be others. 
Pockets, perhaps, of civilization remaining even untouched by the 
myriad otherworldly taints that have left him bereft of company. On 
optimistic days he keeps a weather eye on the horizons and glances 
curiously down side streets in hopes of spotting someone, anyone... 
There is no one. 


It's a cool October evening, and he chuckles as he sees the usual 
assortment of flapping bedsheet ghosts hanging from well 
manicured ornamental trees, and winks conspiratorially at a grinning 
jack o lantern. The soft guitar of his music blends neatly with the 
hiss of wind, and the sound of harsh laughter somewhere to his 
right. Grinning to himself, he takes a left, toward the park. 


This is not the first such evening walk he's taken, casting away the 
protection of his fortified home and meandering in the twilight, 
dodging the dangers of what the world has become, but it is the 
latest he's yet dared to do so. Already the distant streets echo with 
the occasional crash and shatter of the night's early merriment. The 
last man quickens his step and checks the small pistol in his pocket. 
One bullet, as always. He'd have no use for more than one, not 
anymore. 


The last man pauses by the buckled gates at the park's entrance to 
remove his crucifix, hanging it by the chain from a strangely tilted 


inside of the machine 
Settings Used: Tumble Dry, 30 Minutes, 'Delicates' 
List of output articles: 


* Five plastic wristbands, as used by modern morgues to 
identify bodies; each wristband had the name of a child that 
had died due to ingesting small toys or parts of toys. It should 
be noted that each name was traced to a different country, 
and that all five had died in the last year. 


« SCP-949 | SCP-950 | SCP-951 » 


wrought iron fencepost. He makes a note to retrieve it on the way 
back, and delves into the deeper dusk of the park. 


Under his feet crunch leaves and gravel and what he suspects was 
once bone as he idly ambles down a path leading to the tennis 
courts. It's a good night. At a certain point he pauses, reaching to his 
throat to ensure that he's left his crucifix behind, then plunges 
forward into a small clearing where the air is filled with a strange 
clicking rumble and the smell of grease and the battery acid tinge of 
electricity. He winces as one of the buttons of his jacket frees itself 
from the material with a gunshot crack and flies into the darkness, its 
edge nicking his cheek in passing. He'd forgotten about that one. 


Deeper still down the path, and his nose fills with a cloying sweet 
scent, floral and subtly entrancing. Lovely. He inhales deeply and 
quickens his pace as the slithery sound of lace rustles the leaves to 
his either side, and turns up the volume on his music before the soft 
singing can reach his ears. Laconic, he pulls a fistful of now 
worthless bills from a pocket and lets the wind carry them back like 
leaves over his shoulder, a tip for a performance he'd have died if 
he'd heard. 


Coming around the circle, now, back toward the park's entrance, a 
barely glimpsed movement in the distance makes him pause. He 
steps into the bright glow of a streetlamp and leans against its post 
to wait. 


He doesn't have to wait long. Soon enough they round the corner, 
eyes flashing, and stop at the edge of the circle of light. The last 
man nods to them, friendly, because they cannot reach him. The 
older one, dressed for the chill he cannot feel in a fuzzy down vest 
and cowboy hat, smiles wryly. "Good evening.”. The younger, 
female, who by looks was once his daughter, simply hisses in anger 
and crouches to throw a pebble at the light. "Evening." says the last 
man, pleasantly, and he smiles at her as he puts his pistol to his 
temple. She shrinks back, making a face, denied the prospect of a 
meal, and tugs at her elder's coat, pulling him away. 


When they've gone, the last man shrugs, pocketing his gun, and 
strolls out of the park, pausing to retrieve his crucifix and put it on. 
He heads home, flush with the exhilaration of danger, already 


planning his route for the next night's walk. There are so few things 
the last man living has left to make him feel alive. 


Tension 


"Why do you create art?" 


The man sitting across the table blinked his eyes, nervously 
adjusting his fedora. He nervously sipped his coffee, sugar-filled and 
stuffed with cream, and nervously patted down his trench coat. He 
looked at the woman who had asked him that question as if she had 
grown three more heads. 


"Excuse me?" he asked, nervously. 
"You heard me. Why do you create art?" 


The man let out a laugh. It wasn't really a laugh though, more as it 
was an exhalation of incredulity disguised as humor. 


"Why do | create art? Why is the sky blue? What kind of question is 
that, right?" 


The woman frowned at him, putting down her dark coffee, sugarless. 


"It's a very serious question, one that | will ask again. Why do you 
crea—" 


"Okay, okay, | get it, Jesus. You don't have to say it three times." 


The man pushed his glasses up on his nose, and if you had been 
there you would have sworn a beam of light had caught it at just the 
right angle to light up both lens and make him look cool for a 
second. But, that didn't really happen, and it just looked kind of 
awkward. 


"| create art because | want people to see it." 
"No, that's wrong. Try again." 


The man lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean, ‘that's wrong?" 


"Try again." repeated the woman, with an oppressive air of firmness. 
The man swallowed his pride and tried again. 


"| create art because it's fun, and it's a nice byproduct that other 
people can enjoy it." 


"No. Try again." 


The man was visibly sweating now. The tension in this humble cafe 
was rising by the second. He felt as though he should really take his 
trench coat off, but then he'd just look even more awkward than he 
already did. He sat there and contemplated for a moment, before 
shaking his head and sighing in exasperation. 


"| create art because | fucking can, okay? Is that what you want? Did 
you want me to adm—" 


"No. That's wrong. Try again." 


He was completely taken aback at this. He thought this was an 
interrogation or something, that his new associate was trying to get 
him to admit the "truth" of his little organization. He had always 
thought himself that nobody around here really knew why they were 
making their art, and he never found it necessary to beg the 
question "Am | Cool Yet?" because he thought he knew he never 
would be. 


So why now was she still pushing him further? What more could she 
possibly want out of him? An exposition? His life story? A 
breakdown of the causation of every single action he had ever taken 
in his life? He didn't trust this woman enough to tell her all of that! 


"Hello? | told you that's wrong. Try again, please?" 

The man spoke after several minutes of internal debate. 
"What is it exactly you want from me?" 

The woman seemed amused by this question. 


"Nothing major. | just want to know what I'm getting into before | 


decide to join your little group." 


Ah, right. He'd almost forgotten he was supposed to be the 
interviewer here, not her. She was just a nobody, joining their group. 
So why did he feel so oppressed by her? This frail little woman holds 
no power over me, he thought. He puffed himself up and tried to 
make himself look like the big macho man he always wanted to be, 
but he forgot to breathe in the process and started coughing instead. 


He looked up at the woman, who was merely looking back down at 
him. Her expression was completely unreadable, and that terrified 
him. 


"You want to know what you're getting into?" 


"Yes. | want to know why your group creates art, and | don't want an 
excuse like 'because you can.’ You're all unique people with your 
own goals, so | want to know yours. Why do you create art?" 


The man sighed, a deep and heavy sigh, as recognition finally 
dawned on him. She didn't want to know why his group made art. 
She didn't want to know why he thought he made art. No, she 
wanted to know why he really made art. It was a stupid reason, a 
selfish reason, and he didn't want to spill it, but by this point, he just 
wanted to get out of there more than anything and rationalized that 
this would be the best way to do so.