The Father of Teeth
Text for today: II Pulp cxiv-cxxviii
In an unrelated capacity, therefore, the Father of Teeth found himself on the way to a prestigious social function in the company of a wealthy lady. Compressed carbon glittered in her earlobes, and her shoulders were sheathed in the poisonous pelts of exotically toxic raccoons. She was a masterpiece of the primper's art, and the Father of Teeth held her saggy elbow reverently in the less hideously gnarled of his claws, because it stopped her from rattling too loudly as she stepped over the paupers sleeping in the street.
"Alas," the wealthy lady lamented as she minced, "what has happened to these people?"
"Bad luck, mostly," said the Father of Teeth. "One of the Creator's more reliable innovations."
"No, that can't be it," said the wealthy lady, "for if luck were involved, these jewels and furs of mine would be the repayment for my personal virtues in only the most limited and contingent sense, while in another and larger sense they might be considered little more than the leavings of mere chance. No creature endowed with a moral sense could live under such conditions, therefore it is plainly impossible."
"Well then," said the Father of Teeth, escorting her around a sleeper whose wheelchair made him a particularly inconvenient obstacle, "what has happened to these people?"
"They have lost all enterprise, all sense of the art of life," the wealthy lady said. "In olden times the poor entertained their betters with song and dance, with juggling and repartee, or with wrestling matches in which bones were broken, eyes gouged out and various animal species amusingly mistreated. These days there are no minstrels, no jesters or troubadours, and the only animals we see are these mangy idlers. A person of taste once said that one must play one's part well on the stage of life, otherwise the gods will throw things. It's no wonder the poor are so wretched these days, as they've forgotten their duty to the galleries."
Her various dewlaps wobbled so alarmingly that the Father of Teeth caused a curtain of velvet darkness to descend upon her, and made of himself a peep-hole through which she could look upon the gods. Immediately she did so, the carbon in her earlobes liquefied and trickled down her neck, while the dye ran screaming from her hair.
"You see now the quality of your audience," said the Father of Teeth, inserting his most glittering fangs. "Not a very friendly crowd, unimaginative and anything but charitable. Stage blood does not amuse them, and fake pain makes no impression." The hole in the darkness grinned, and extruded a furred and yellow tongue which yanked on a golden rope; the curtain ascended with a rattle, and a howl of anticipation went up from the cheap seats.
In an unrelated capacity, therefore, the Father of Teeth found himself on the way to a prestigious social function in the company of a wealthy lady. Compressed carbon glittered in her earlobes, and her shoulders were sheathed in the poisonous pelts of exotically toxic raccoons. She was a masterpiece of the primper's art, and the Father of Teeth held her saggy elbow reverently in the less hideously gnarled of his claws, because it stopped her from rattling too loudly as she stepped over the paupers sleeping in the street.
"Alas," the wealthy lady lamented as she minced, "what has happened to these people?"
"Bad luck, mostly," said the Father of Teeth. "One of the Creator's more reliable innovations."
"No, that can't be it," said the wealthy lady, "for if luck were involved, these jewels and furs of mine would be the repayment for my personal virtues in only the most limited and contingent sense, while in another and larger sense they might be considered little more than the leavings of mere chance. No creature endowed with a moral sense could live under such conditions, therefore it is plainly impossible."
"Well then," said the Father of Teeth, escorting her around a sleeper whose wheelchair made him a particularly inconvenient obstacle, "what has happened to these people?"
"They have lost all enterprise, all sense of the art of life," the wealthy lady said. "In olden times the poor entertained their betters with song and dance, with juggling and repartee, or with wrestling matches in which bones were broken, eyes gouged out and various animal species amusingly mistreated. These days there are no minstrels, no jesters or troubadours, and the only animals we see are these mangy idlers. A person of taste once said that one must play one's part well on the stage of life, otherwise the gods will throw things. It's no wonder the poor are so wretched these days, as they've forgotten their duty to the galleries."
Her various dewlaps wobbled so alarmingly that the Father of Teeth caused a curtain of velvet darkness to descend upon her, and made of himself a peep-hole through which she could look upon the gods. Immediately she did so, the carbon in her earlobes liquefied and trickled down her neck, while the dye ran screaming from her hair.
"You see now the quality of your audience," said the Father of Teeth, inserting his most glittering fangs. "Not a very friendly crowd, unimaginative and anything but charitable. Stage blood does not amuse them, and fake pain makes no impression." The hole in the darkness grinned, and extruded a furred and yellow tongue which yanked on a golden rope; the curtain ascended with a rattle, and a howl of anticipation went up from the cheap seats.
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