“He has many teeth,” he said. Then, very
slowly and deliberately his head turned until his gaze was fixed, again, out
the rain dotted window.
It seemed he was quietly contemplating the
inevitable takeover of the world. The petty insolence that surrounded him
disgusted him; one day, it would all be made right, one day…
All of a sudden, Harold wheeled around and landed
a punch square on the man’s face. There was a muffled whimper, and the scent of
blood filled the tiny room. A few tiny objects fell to the cold floor, with an
impersonal clink. Harold stopped for a second to gaze at the gaping hole that
the man’s mouth now was, and grinned, showing his impressive fangs. The very
world seemed to freeze, and the only sound to be heard was the ragged breathing of the man
in the chair, who sat there, broken, yet oddly defiant.
The man spat out the few teeth that remained in his mouth. Blood sprayed onto Harold’s shiny, expensive trousers.
Harold’s eyes had taken on a mad gleam, and he
looked terrifying as he sank his teeth into the man’s exposed neck.
“He had
many teeth,” he said, as he spat out flesh, and began to laugh.
