by Strand, Jeff
EVERYTHING HAS TEETH
A Short Story Collection
By Jeff Strand
Everything Has Teeth copyright 2017 by Jeff Strand
Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
The Tipping Point
Nails
Stumps
John Henry, The Steel-Drivin' Man
Fair Trade
Chiggers
Cry
The Fierce Stabbing and Subsequent Post-Death Vengeance of Scooter Brown
It's Bath Time!
Alien Face
Apocalypse of the Yard Gnome
Dead Bigfoot on the Lawn
Gross-Out: The Return
Deformed Son
The Origin of Slashy
Secret Message (Decoded)
The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried to Destroy the World
The Eggman Falleth
The Story of My First Kiss
Dad (A True Story)
Bad Bratwurst
Story Notes
INTRODUCTION
Welcome, welcome, welcome! Glad to have you here. It seems like there are about eighty thousand frickin' new books coming out every day, so I'm pleased you chose this one. Actually, I'm pleased even if it wasn't your choice. Any way you're being forced to read this is fine by me.
My name's Samuel. Don't call me Sam. I know, that Strand guy usually writes the introductions to his own short story collections, but...well, he's not available right now. Don't worry; he's fine.
Fine-ish. Alive, anyway.
He's right here, helplessly watching me type this. Nod your head at the nice people, Strand. Whoops, I guess he can't. Heh heh.
I'm here to welcome you to Everything Has Teeth. Oooh, sinister title, huh? We have a nice batch of gleefully macabre tales here for you. A lot of unpleasantness and a lot of silliness. Some tales to tickle your funny bone and some tales to break it.
About that title. Have you ever woken up and discovered that everything has teeth?
You don't freak out at first. You're like, "No need to panic. Obviously I'm dreaming, because when I went to sleep, the foot of my bed was not lined with teeth." It has to be a dream. There are teeth on your dresser, your television, your ceiling. That doesn't happen in the waking world.
You close your eyes. Hmmm. It sure doesn't seem like you're dreaming.
You open them again. Everything still has teeth.
They're not vampire fangs or anything like that. Just regular teeth. Some have cavities. Some have fillings. Some are in the advanced stages of decay—should've flossed!
You cast aside the blanket, which also has teeth, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your bedroom carpet is gone. It's just teeth now. Mostly molars. You walk across the room, screaming with every step, not daring to look down to see what this is doing to your feet, praying that the living room will be different.
Spoiler alert: It's not. Everything has teeth.
In fact, even the air has teeth. They're just floating around.
There's a man in your living room.
Shadowy guy. Grinning. Holding a scythe.
Yes, the scythe is lined with teeth.
Technically, you understand that the teeth on the scythe make it less dangerous for you; after all, it's not as sharp, right? You know this, but still, when there's a shadowy grinning guy in your living room holding a teeth-lined scythe, you're going to be uncomfortable.
"Is this a dream?" you ask.
The shadowy man shakes his head. "No," he says. "But it is a metaphor."
"Oh," you say.
"So it's not as bad as if the world was suddenly literally covered with teeth, but it's worse than if you got to wake up and say, 'Thank God it was just a dream!'"
Your living room looks normal again. The man is gone.
But you still know that everything has teeth.
Before we get to the actual stories, let me see if Mr. Strand has anything else he'd like to add. Uh-oh, he's not doing well. Looks like this will be a posthumous publication. Oh well, that might help sales.
He's making a mess. These authors are so inconsiderate about where they bleed.
Before his untimely and wet departure from this world, he scribbled a note asking me to thank Tod Clark, Donna Fitzpatrick, Lynne Hansen, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, and Rhonda Rettig for their assistance, but I see no reason to grant his last wishes.
Enjoy the stories.
Don't get bit.
THE TIPPING POINT
"Did that lady seem weird to you?"
Warren glanced over his shoulder at the woman who'd just entered the restaurant. She seemed pretty normal for a middle-aged rich person. "No," he said, looking back at Julia. "Should she have?"
"Her eyes were a little strange."
"Strange how?"
"Never mind. I didn't get a good look at her." Julia gave him a nervous smile then slid her finger down the side of the menu. "What were you going to order?"
The cheapest thing I can find, Warren thought. Maybe a side salad with a glass of tap water. His co-worker Pat had said the place was "a bit spendy," but this did not come close to describing the horrific nature of the numbers in front of him. After opening the menu Warren had broken into a cold sweat. An actual, literal cold sweat.
He'd suspected that he made the wrong restaurant choice when they pulled in and discovered that Denton's only had valet parking. Warren wasn't even completely sure how valet parking worked; did you pay them in advance, or when you got your car back? It was an annoying waste of money, considering that he'd never felt particularly inconvenienced by the act of parking his own vehicle and walking the extra fifty feet. But of course he didn't complain in front of Julia.
He knew he'd made the wrong restaurant choice when the guy who led them to their table was in a frickin' tuxedo. But at that point, what could he do? He was trapped. Women tended to be unimpressed when their dates shrieked "Eeek! Too expensive!" and fled the restaurant with their tail between their legs.
Of course, Warren also knew that having his credit card declined would negatively impact his chances of there being a second date. However, if he went cheap on his own entrée and pretended that he was too full for dessert, he was pretty sure that he could avoid a mortifying end to the meal.
In their e-mail exchanges, Julia had said that she wasn't much of a drinker. Warren had originally hoped that she'd make an exception for tonight, but now he prayed that she wouldn't be in a boozy mood.
When she'd opened the door to her apartment, Warren was pleasantly surprised to see that she actually looked like her picture. Maybe the lighting in the photo was a bit more flattering than the lighting in the hallway, hiding a couple of smile lines and crow's feet, but he didn't care much about looks; it was just nice to discover that somebody was being honest. In fact, though she said she was thirty-eight, she could've lied and knocked at least five years off that without him being suspicious.
Her hair was different. Still blonde, but she'd worn it pinned up in the photo, and now it hung down almost to her shoulders. He was glad to see that her beautiful blue eyes had not been Photoshopped. She had the fabulous curvy body of a woman who exercis
ed regularly but was not afraid of the occasional hot fudge sundae.
She was, in fact, the most true-to-the-photo woman he'd met since being pressured into the online dating world two years ago. His teenaged daughter Yvonne, who had done most of the pressuring on their every-other-weekend together, would have been horrified to discover that about half of these dates ended up in one-night stands. The others had included some "just no chemistry" dates, a couple that did have chemistry but still went nowhere, and one where Warren had to explain that, yes, he understood that a regular date would cost about the same, but that he really wished she'd told him she was a hooker beforehand.
Julia was the closest he'd ever come to falling in love with somebody before he met them. She was funny. Not just funny, witty. She knew how to use capitalization and punctuation. She'd never been married and had no kids, but she didn't seem bothered by him having a local ex-wife and she claimed to love teenagers.
They'd e-mailed back and forth enough to fill the novel he'd always planned to write someday. He'd wanted to do a video chat, but Julia said she wasn't comfortable talking to a webcam.
Three of those e-mails had involved him asking her out for coffee and/or lunch and/or dinner, but she wasn't ready yet. Then, earlier today, he'd gotten a message from her that said, "Oh, what the hell am I waiting for? Would you like to take me out to dinner tonight?" He quickly asked his co-worker Pat for a restaurant recommendation. They only had a nine-fifteen reservation open, but with so little notice on a Friday night he was lucky to get in at all.
The conversation during their drive to the restaurant had not flowed quite as smoothly as he'd hoped, but there weren't any uncomfortable silences or faux pas moments. There was a spark for certain, and once they got over the nerves, he thought they'd be talking like old friends.
Now he just needed to not max out his Visa card and look like a complete jackass. He really should have pushed for a more specific description of "a little spendy" or looked at an online menu.
"Hmmm, I'm not sure," he said, turning the page of his menu. "It all looks great." If he and Julia were truly meant for each other, he should be able to say Hey, I messed up and didn't sufficiently research this place, and I don't get paid until next Friday, so if you could order something on the lower end of the price spectrum, that would be really helpful. But he wasn't going to do that. He'd save the I'm really poor talk for the second date.
The dinner salads, though ridiculously overpriced for lettuce, seemed to be the cheapest item, and she might think he was a healthy diner. She might also think, Well, if he's getting a salad, I should get one, too.
He noticed that she was gazing across the restaurant. After a moment, she noticed him noticing her, and blushed a bit. "Sorry."
"Is everything okay?"
"Everything is perfect."
* * *
Julia had made up her mind almost right away: this guy was definitely getting third-date sex.
She'd never slept with somebody before that point and never would, but assuming that he didn't punch a puppy or start spewing racist epithets, their third date was going to be at her place, with pizza delivered.
Physically, he wasn't her usual type—tattoo-free, conservative haircut, no sense of danger—but he was traditionally handsome and in good shape. He kind of looked like a seventh grade teacher she'd once had a crush on.
She did sort of wish that he'd picked a different restaurant. She felt underdressed and places this fancy gave her the creeps. In the future, she'd steer him to restaurants that had only one size of fork, especially since she didn't think social workers like him made all that much money.
And she also sort of wished that she hadn't said anything about the woman. She didn't want Warren to think she was paranoid. All the lady really did was open her eyes kind of wide and then blink a lot. Maybe she'd lost a contact lens.
"I may go for the dinner salad with grilled chicken," Warren said.
That was an odd pick for a high-end seafood place. She glanced at the menu and inwardly smiled as she realized the motive for his choice.
"That sounds delicious. I think I'll get the same thing."
The waiter approached their table. At least he didn't look snooty. "Hello, my name is Michael and I'll be taking care of you this evening. May I start you off with a bottle of wine?"
"Diet Coke," said Julia.
"Is Diet Pepsi okay?"
"Sure."
"And for you, sir?"
"Do you have root beer?"
Now the waiter looked a bit snooty. "No, sir."
"Dr. Pepper?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's what I'll have, then."
"Would you care for an appetizer? Caprese, lobster bisque...?"
Lobster bisque sounded fantastic. But when Warren gave her a questioning look, she shook her head. "If I have an appetizer I won't be able to finish my salad."
The waiter nodded. "I'll be right back with your drinks and some fresh bread."
"Actually, I think we're ready to order," said Julia.
"Not a problem at all. What would you like?"
"I'd like the dinner salad with grilled chicken," she said, pointing at its picture on the menu. Why was the lady walking across the restaurant again?
"What kind of dressing would you like? We've got bleu cheese, thousand island, raspberry vinaigrette..."
"Raspberry vinaigrette."
The waiter didn't write that down. It was too classy of a restaurant for the waiter to write down their orders. "And for you, sir?"
"Same thing."
"With raspberry vinaigrette?"
"No, sorry, do you have ranch?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ranch would be great."
"Not a problem. I'll be right back."
The waiter left. Warren looked relieved. He smiled at her, and it was such a winning smile—twinkling eyes and everything—that that she knew he probably didn't have to usually wait for the third date to get a lady into bed.
"I guess it's kind of silly to come to a seafood place and get the chicken salad," said Warren, "but it sounded good."
"It'll probably be the best dinner salad we've ever had. Gourmet carrots and stuff."
The woman was pacing. Right in the middle of a fancy restaurant, she was pacing back and forth. An elderly couple glared at her.
"Do you think that's weird?" Julia asked, gesturing for Warren to look back over his shoulder.
He glanced back. "What?"
"That lady from before. Doesn't she seem kind of odd?"
Warren watched the lady for a moment, then returned his attention to Julia. "She does look kind of irate. You think she had a fight with her husband or something?"
"Would that make her pace around like that? I'm thinking drugs."
"Seriously?" Warren looked back at the lady, then at Julia again. "Maybe. Should we help her?"
"No, I mean, it doesn't seem like she's OD'ing or anything. I'm probably just being nosy. But her eyes were weird."
"Like, glowing?"
She smiled. "No, not like glowing."
"Dilated?"
"I didn't see her close enough to tell. I wouldn't be surprised. She was mostly just blinking weird."
"Blinking weird?" Warren wasn't making fun of her, bless him, but it had sounded ridiculous as soon as she said it. Somebody blinking more rapidly than normal was not exactly reason to be on high alert. Julia hoped there was nothing wrong with her, but, ultimately, it was not a crime to pace around a restaurant.
A waiter—not theirs—approached the woman. His back was to Julia and she couldn't hear what he said. The woman looked at the floor, as if embarrassed, then nodded and returned to the part of the restaurant that Julia couldn't see.
"She's definitely off her meds or something," said Julia. "Poor thing."
"So tell me some more about your job," Warren urged.
"Oh, I love it. As of the beginning of this year, I only have to be in the office twice a week, which completely rock
s. It saves on gas, I can sleep an extra half hour, and I can work in my pajamas."
"Do you?"
"Work in my pajamas?"
"Yeah."
"You'd better believe it. All the time. It was kind of embarrassing the first time the mailman brought a package to my door at two in the afternoon and I was still in jammies, but I got over it. When I'm in the office, it's just business casual, so that's not too bad. About once a quarter the big boss will fly in from New Jersey, and that's not the most fun day, but overall..."
She trailed off as the woman walked into view again. The woman stopped to peer at what the elderly couple was eating, then adjusted a painting on the wall, then walked over to the hostess's station.
Either she had a legitimate problem, in which case she needed help, or she was just being extremely annoying.
"She back?" asked Warren.
Julia nodded.
"Want me to ask her if she's okay?"
"No, no, that's fine. I can ignore her. Sorry for being distracted. That's not very polite of me."
"It's totally cool."
The waiter arrived with their drinks and bread. Julia considered saying something to him, then quickly decided against it.
"Wow," she said, after the waiter had gone. "Three different kinds of rolls."
"Only the best," said Warren.
Julia picked a roll out of the basket, then realized that the woman was staring directly at her.
Oh, shit, she thought, but didn't say out loud, as the woman walked straight over to them. She pulled out the empty chair between Warren and Julia and sat down at their table.
* * *
"Can we help you?" Warren asked.
"Sure. No. I don't know." The woman, who was probably about fifty, had long black hair with gray roots, and she twisted a lock of it around her index finger. "Why are you all up in my business?"
"We're not," said Warren.
"Your wife keeps staring at me."
"She just wanted to make sure you were okay," Warren told her. Didn't part of the expense of a fancy restaurant include not being harassed by psychos during your meal?