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Chompers For Steve Mertz Old Maude, who lived in alleys, combed trashcans, and picked
rags, found the false teeth in a puddle of blood back of Denny's. Obvious thing
was that there had been a mugging, and some unfortunate who'd been wandering
around out back had gotten his or her brains beaten out, and then hauled off
somewhere for who knows what. But the teeth, which had probably hopped from the victim's
mouth like some kind of frightened animal, still remained, and the blood they
lay in was testimony to the terrible event. Maude picked them up, looked at them. Besides the blood there
were some pretty nasty coffee stains on the rear molars and what looked to be a
smidgen of cherry pie. One thing Maude could spot and tell with an amazing
degree of accuracy was a stain or a food dollop. Cruise alleyways and dig in
trash cans most of your life, and you get skilled. Now, Maude was a practical old girl, and, as she had about as
many teeth in her head as a pomegranate, she wiped the blood off on her
dress—high fashion circa 1920—and put those suckers right square in her gummy
little mouth. Somehow it seemed like the proper thing to do. Perfect fit. Couldn't have been any better than if they'd
been made for her. She got the old, blackened lettuce head out of her
carpetbag—she'd found the lettuce with a half a tomato back of Burger King—and
gave that vegetable a chomp. Sounded like the dropping of a guillotine as those
teeth snapped into the lettuce and then ground it to smithereens. Man, that was good for a change, thought
Maude, to be able to go at your food like a pig to trough. Gumming your
vittles gets old. The teeth seemed a little tighter in her mouth than a while
ago, but Maude felt certain that after a time she'd get used to them. It was
sad about the poor soul that had lost them, but that person's bad luck was her
fortune. Maude started toward the doorway she called home, and by the
time she'd gone a block she found that she was really hungry, which surprised
her. Not an hour back she'd eaten half a hamburger out of a Burger King
trashcan, three greasy fries, and half an apple pie. But, boy howdy, did she
want to chow down now. She felt like she could eat anything. She got the tomato half out of her bag, along with everything
else in there that looked edible, and began to eat. More she ate, hungrier she got. Pretty soon she was out of
goodies, and the sidewalk and the street started looking to her like the bottom
of a dinner plate that ought to be filled. God, but her belly burned. It was as
if she'd never eaten and had suddenly become aware of the need. She ground her big teeth and walked on. Half a block later
she spotted a big alley cat hanging head down over the lip of a trash can,
pawing for something to eat, and ummm, ummm, ummm, but that cat looked
tasty as a Dunkin' Donut. Chased that rascal for three blocks but didn't catch it. It
pulled a fade-out on her in a dark alley. Disgusted, but still very, very hungry, Maude left the alley
thinking: Chow, need me some chow. Beat cop O'Hara was twirling his nightstick when he saw her
nibbling the paint off a rusty old streetlamp. It was an old woman with a prune
face, and when he came up she stopped nibbling and
looked at him. She had the biggest, shiniest pair of choppers he had ever seen.
They stuck out from between her lips like a gator's teeth, and in the light of
the streetlamp, even as he watched, he thought for a moment that he had seen
them grow. And, by golly, they looked pointed now. O'Hara had walked his beat for twenty years, and he was used
to eccentrics and weird getups, but there was something particularly weird
about this one. The old woman smiled at
him. Man, there were a lot of teeth there. (More than a while
ago?) O'Hara thought: Now that's a crazy
thing to think. He was about six feet from her when she jumped him, teeth
gnashing, clicking together like a hundred cold Eskimo knees. They caught his
shirtsleeve and ripped it off; the cloth disappeared between those teeth fast
as a waiter's tip. O'Hara struck at her with his nightstick, but she caught that
in her mouth, and those teeth of hers began to rattle and snap like a pound
full of rabid dogs. Wasn't nothing left of that stick but toothpicks. He pulled his revolver, but she ate that too. Then she ate
O'Hara, didn't even leave a shoe. Little later on she ate a kid on a bicycle—the bicycle
too—and hit up a black hooker for dessert. But that didn't satisfy her. She was
still hungry, and, worse yet, the pickings had gotten lean. Long about midnight, this part of the city went dead except
for a bum or two, and she ate them. She kept thinking that if she could get
across town to Forty-second Street, she could have her fill of hookers, kids,
pimps, and heroin addicts. It'd be a regular buffet-style dinner. But that was such a long ways off
and she was sooooo hungry. And those damn teeth were so
big now she felt as if she needed a neck brace just to hold her head up. She started walking fast, and when she was about six blocks
away from the smorgasbord of Forty-second, her mouth started watering like
Niagara Falls. Suddenly she had an attack. She had to eat NOW—as in "a
while ago." Immediately. Halfway up her arm, she tried to stop. But my, was that
tasty. Those teeth went to work, a-chomping and a-rending, and pretty soon they
were as big as a bear trap, snapping flesh like it was chewing gum. Wasn't nothing left of Maude but a puddle of blood by the
time the teeth fell to the sidewalk, rapidly shrinking back to normal size. Harry, high on life and high on wine, wobbled down the
sidewalk, dangling left, dangling right. It was a wonder he didn't fall down. He saw the teeth lying in a puddle of blood, and having no
choppers of his own—the tooth fairy had them all—he decided, what the hell,
what can it hurt? Besides, he felt driven. Picking up the teeth, wiping them off, he placed them in his
mouth. Perfect fit. Like they were made for him. He wobbled off, thinking: Man,
but I'm hungry; gracious, but I sure could eat. "Chompers" was originally published in Rod Serling's Twilight Zone Magazine. It
later appeared in Bestsellers Guaranteed,
a collection of Lansdale's short stories published by Ace Books, and Bumper Crop, a collection published by
Golden Gryphon Press. "Chompers" © 1982 By
Bizarre Hands, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Come on by next Thursday for another heapin'
helping of that Mojo hospitality. A new story goes up every Thursday, so we'll
be expecting you then! |
