teefies
Swamp Witch
Inner Sanctum Nobility
♔ Champion ♔
Hi! I'm Gator, but you can call me Gator. (Teef is fine in dire circumstances. Alli is acceptable if you buy me a drink first.) I'm a 25 year old swamp monster who has once again emerged from the murky depths of obscurity to present my offerings. This time, instead of proffering driftwood and old bones, I'm just here to wander around and be a nuisance, primarily. My reptilian body has morphed into something pink and fleshy, probably the work of the bog witch that moved in a couple months back. (Lots of people are saying she transfigured that fisher boy, too, but I think his face always looked kind of like a frog's.)
Now that I'm a human being with thoughts and opinions, I also have the power to share some of those! For instance, those soft pink cookies that you get at the grocery store will always be terrible, and you're lying if you say otherwise. Also, everything tastes better when you make it yourself, and this was proven to me by an accomplished moonshine artist. I don't know his real name -- he insisted on being referred to only as Baja Blast. I met him at the end of a pier on the Gulf of Mexico, and traded him what was in my pocket for a sampling of his wares. Well, Baja Blast and I got to talking, as two human people often do, and I suppose something about the way I bared my giant rubber teeth and flicked my tail at him must have spooked him. He got all frightened and asked me what I was, and I had to think about that for a second, because it's not a question I got a lot as a gator. Well, this here is what I told to old Baja Blast.
I told him, "I try not to put much stock into what I think I am. The things we think we are are almost always not what we really are, and the things we really are don't actually matter that much, either. With all these swamp witches and crystal kings runnin' around, you probably won't stay one thing for very long nowadays anyway. You just are what you create, plain and simple. I've been writing for 13 years and drawing for 12. Does this make me a writer? An artist? Well, maybe, if I say it does. But then we're back to identity and stuff, and when you're a gator, identity just don't matter all that much, Baja Blast. You're askin' me what I am, but what you really wanna know is what I do."
"Well, then, what is that you do?" Baja's voice sounded so distant, like it was being swallowed by the thick, cloying smoke that had engulfed us. It was the only sound in an otherwise eardrum bursting silence. The silence lasted a long time before I answered.
"Whatever I want, dude."
There was just the gentle crashing of waves then, gentle crashing and Baja Blast staring me down. I don't know if he was scared of me or sick of me or just plain drunk, but he didn't say nothin' else. There was an empty mason jar between us. For a second I stared at it, and he stared at me, and then he got up, and he didn't say a word as he shambled away from the end of the pier and back towards solid ground. I never spoke to Baja Blast again, but I try to hunt down his shine when I can. I still have that mason jar. It's sitting on my shelf right now, filled with teeth, and love notes, and regret.
Now that I'm a human being with thoughts and opinions, I also have the power to share some of those! For instance, those soft pink cookies that you get at the grocery store will always be terrible, and you're lying if you say otherwise. Also, everything tastes better when you make it yourself, and this was proven to me by an accomplished moonshine artist. I don't know his real name -- he insisted on being referred to only as Baja Blast. I met him at the end of a pier on the Gulf of Mexico, and traded him what was in my pocket for a sampling of his wares. Well, Baja Blast and I got to talking, as two human people often do, and I suppose something about the way I bared my giant rubber teeth and flicked my tail at him must have spooked him. He got all frightened and asked me what I was, and I had to think about that for a second, because it's not a question I got a lot as a gator. Well, this here is what I told to old Baja Blast.
I told him, "I try not to put much stock into what I think I am. The things we think we are are almost always not what we really are, and the things we really are don't actually matter that much, either. With all these swamp witches and crystal kings runnin' around, you probably won't stay one thing for very long nowadays anyway. You just are what you create, plain and simple. I've been writing for 13 years and drawing for 12. Does this make me a writer? An artist? Well, maybe, if I say it does. But then we're back to identity and stuff, and when you're a gator, identity just don't matter all that much, Baja Blast. You're askin' me what I am, but what you really wanna know is what I do."
"Well, then, what is that you do?" Baja's voice sounded so distant, like it was being swallowed by the thick, cloying smoke that had engulfed us. It was the only sound in an otherwise eardrum bursting silence. The silence lasted a long time before I answered.
"Whatever I want, dude."
There was just the gentle crashing of waves then, gentle crashing and Baja Blast staring me down. I don't know if he was scared of me or sick of me or just plain drunk, but he didn't say nothin' else. There was an empty mason jar between us. For a second I stared at it, and he stared at me, and then he got up, and he didn't say a word as he shambled away from the end of the pier and back towards solid ground. I never spoke to Baja Blast again, but I try to hunt down his shine when I can. I still have that mason jar. It's sitting on my shelf right now, filled with teeth, and love notes, and regret.
