THE TOOTH FAIRY

FADE IN:

Int featureless room

A bare bulb hangs over a small industrial table in the middle of the room. TOOTH, a hard-bitten, 30 something woman, sits smoking a cigarette. She wears an orange jumpsuit with a number stenciled on the front pocket. Two diaphanous wings poke out from hand-made slits cut into the back.

Tooth takes a long drag.

TOOTH

Yeah, I did it. Is that what you want to hear? Think I can make it on Springer now? Get that interview with Barbara? Really make myself a household name? That's not why I did it you know, to get on TV, get back a little bit of my fifteen minutes. I know that's what everyone's saying -- all the tabloids -- professional jealousy, that I'm just some bitter, washed-up old hag who can't take failure. I know what it looks like, what I look like -- rode hard, put away wet -- but that's not why I did it.

(she takes another drag from her cigarette)

OK, I'll admit it, I'm a little bitter, but, come on, who wouldn't be? When I was younger, just starting out, it was all so exciting. There was so much possibility. That whole glass ceiling thing, it just sounded like excuses; just a bunch of women who didn't really have what it took trying to make themselves feel better. And you know what? I was fucking great at what I did -- I am fucking great -- nobody else even comes close. I'm a specialist, a professional. Unique. So much like him.

(another drag)

So why is it that I make 40% less? Why is it that he gets all the kooshy speaking gigs? Yeah, I admit it, I'm a little bitter, but that's not why I did it. Even with all that stuff about showing my age. Showing my age? Now what the hell does that have to do with how well I do my job? The little brats aren't even supposed to see me, right? And, OK, so that rankles just a bit, especially when you look at him. I mean, he's the geriatric's geriatric; if George Burns, and Bob Hope were added up you'd get him. But does anyone ever talk about that effecting his job performance? Hell no, it's an asset. He's up to the Z in Alzheimers, but, like a fine wine, he gets better with age, and me? I'm like a carton of milk -- couplea days over my due date, and all of a sudden everyone wants to dump me down the drain. I just show a couple of extra wrinkles, or a couple extra pounds ... I won't even go into that one -- he can jiggle like a bowl full of ... well, you've heard it all before. But me, God forbid I have a cookie at lunch, or an extra helping of spaghetti ...

(another drag)

OK, I know I'm not making a good case for myself here, but I'm serious, it wasn't bitterness, it wasn't jealousy. I mean I'd be lying if I said they didn't factor in, didn't effect me, but it's so much more tawdry than that. It's like an episode of Dynasty. I don't even know why I was at that seminar. It's not like I learn anything from them. I guess it was a nice way to take a little vacation without actually taking a vacation, you know? He was there. He'd just given a talk called 'Belief in the age of post modernism: how ghosts and UFOs work for you'. It was good. I'll give him that, he knew his stuff. So, I was standing there waiting to talk to him afterwards -- I don't really know why -- To ask him some questions maybe. And the Easter Bunny, he's being his normal sycophantish self -- such an uncle Tom -- asking all these compliments disguised as questions: "Every year the lead in to Christmas gets longer and longer. How are you able to consistently increase the value of your holiday cache?" That kind of crap, and I look over at Chris, and see this polite little smile, the one that says, "Why won't this guy shut up? I just need a drink."

(another drag)

I didn't want to come across as a groupie. There is something about him, a confidence that just radiates. All of a sudden I'm cutting off Easter, blurting out "I just wanted to tell you how big of a fan I am" like I'm 13. He responds saying how much her respects my work, admires me. He is such a charmer. He even knows details, like how every year I've increased the rate per tooth, keeping a couple of steps ahead of inflation, even with my dwindling funding. It feels like he's been following my career. It's amazing what a little flattery can do. And I'm feeling vulnerable, especially after the Star published all those bikini vacation photos of me in Aruba under the headline, "Baby Ruth Fairy." The next thing I know we're at the hotel bar. He's buying -- putting everything on his card -- expense account. It's a good conversation. It's so rare I get to talk to another professional -- someone who can really relate to all the things I've got to deal with -- like the fact that I'm so freaked out by some of the neighborhoods I have to go into that I've started carrying a gun. I mean, civilians just don't understand that kind of stuff. And suddenly it's last call, and the bars closing up, and I still haven't had anything to eat, and my head is spinning just a little bit, just enough, and he's inviting me up to his room -- just to get some room service you understand, just something to eat -- and I know better, but he's got these apple cheeks, and the crinkly little corn flower blue eyes, and he's old enough to be my grandfather ... Old enough to be my grandfather.

(one last drag)

It's all such a blur. It all mixes together. I can hear him say how lonely he is, how he and Mrs. Claus ... how they don't even touch any more. How long it's been since he kissed anyone. Then it's his herring breath, that scratchy beard, all over me. I'm struggling, but he's so strong -- from carrying all those presents I guess. He's shoving me down, calling me his "little Ho Ho Ho." Pulling up my skirt. I can feel his thing, out, like a worm, dribbling on my thigh. It's too much. It's all too much. The whole room starts to dim like I'm going blind. I can hear them all in my head, saying how much I must have wanted it. How I wouldn't have been up there if I didn't. Then, out of nowhere, there's the flash. Lightning. He looks so surprised when he flies off me, slow motion, like a big fat white bird soaring. He hits the ground with this wet thud. I look down, and there's my gun in my hand. Smoke oozing out. It's almost pretty, like a flower. It's not until they are carrying me away, not until I can feel the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists, that it sinks in ... I just shot Santa Claus. I killed him. And you know what? If I could go back in time, if I had it to do all over again, I'm pretty sure I'd shoot him again.

FADE TO BLACK.