Disclaimer: I own nothing publicly recognizable. No money is being made from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This story is rated T, (there is a decided lack of sex or sexual references) however the language used is probably more worthy of an M rating. Comb likes to say 'fuck' a lot.

Sharp Teeth and Sweet Revenge

I hate his hands.

I found myself wishing that the piano lid would snap shut on his fingers or that he'd slam them in a car door, anything to get him to pick me up and use me. Granted, I knew that without working fingers, using me would be a little bit on the difficult side, but if I was lucky, he'd be left with at least a thumb and one other undamaged finger. That would work in theory. He could still grip me, and it wasn't too much to ask, I thought.

Edward's hands; the thought of them made me want to shudder in revulsion and jealousy. They were disgustingly perfect with their long, tapering fingers and short, manicured nails. Every so often I would hear a piano playing from another room, and I knew, I just knew that it was those fucking hands—his fucking hands—showing off. I swore they could hear me practically grinding my teeth in jealousy, and it seemed like when they sensed it, the playing would become ten times louder. You'd think that they'd be happy enough playing the piano and scratching his balls, but no. The arrogant little fuckers had to encroach on my territory and mock me daily by doing my job. Edward and his hands didn't seem to understand or care that fingers aren't meant to straighten and tidy up hair—combs are. It was infuriating. Forget China and India; my job was outsourced to the five fucking phalanges. What's worse, I had to seeit happen.

He'd sit on his couch and stare off into space, his CD player breaking up the silence the way it always did when he was alone in his room. Sometimes I'd feel a little bad for him then—he looked so lonely—but then a hand would raise, higher and higher, and I'd watch him drag his fingers through the thick, luscious hair I'd ached to touch for so long. Any previous sympathy I'd felt dissipated pretty quickly when he did that.

Fucking evil hands and their owner.

I'd show them.

One day, I decided to take revenge.

It ended up taking me a whole week to completely plan it, but I was certain that I would succeed in the end. My plan was simple enough: I would collect as much environmental grime as I could and wait for his mother to do her periodic dusting. Because I'd be so encrusted, she would have to pick me up and work the crud out of each one of my teeth. Then I'd use my oh-so-subtle power of comb-ic suggestion to have her place me on the couch, points-up. With any luck, he'd sit on me, bruise his ass, and remember that I existed. Then when he began to use me on a regular basis, I'd find a way to coat my handle in a flesh-eating bacterium and claim my revenge against his hands. They'd never know what hit them.

Heady anticipation had filled me as I pictured his black, dying hands and his pain and confusion as they wasted and rotted away. I imagined him gazing at his bandage-covered stumps sadly, helplessly as his mother combed his hair with me. I bristled in excitement. If I possessed a mouth, it would have been smiling viciously. Everything would be perfect.

I know now that my plan was seriously flawed. I hadn't counted on the fact that he's got an ass like fucking marble. When he sat on me, his hard ass didn't bruise, oh no! Instead, one of my teeth gave a sickening crack as it broke cleanly off. I screamed in absolute fucking agony.

"What was that?" he mumbled, looking around his bedroom confusedly, still sitting on me.

I hadn't noticed his query; the pain had faded away suddenly, and I was now busy cursing up a storm and lamenting my new handicap. My life was over! Who would ever want a busted comb? I'd be relegated to the bottom of a drawer, stuck with bitchy bobby pins or some fat-ass hairbrush for company. Shit, I'd be so ugly now…

"A comb?"

I shut up and then ventured a reply after a moment. Yes, a fucking comb. Get off of me. I decided that I'd better cover my bases, just in case he could hear me. He did have a marble ass, after all. Who's to say the rest of him was normal?

He eased himself off the couch and looked down at me, blinking in disbelief. "You can't be serious," he muttered.

Better fucking believe it.

"Combs aren't sentient. This has got to be a joke." He looked wildly around the room. "Emmett? Did you do this?"

"Do what?" I heard Emmett call back from his room.

Edward continued to blink at me, apparently dumbfounded. I got the sense that this was a new feeling for him.

Yes, Einstein, a comb is talking to you.

"How?"

How the hell should I know? I'm a fucking comb, remember?

He frowned. "You should really mind your language."

Well, you're the only one who can hear me, so what's the point?

"Am I the only one who can?"

As far as I know.

He rolled his eyes. "Why is this the first time I've heard you?"

No fucking clue. It could be because you sat on me. That really fucking hurt, by the way.

"I gathered as much," he said, running a hand through his messy, bronze hair.

Fucking hell!

"What now?"

Do you have to do that with me sitting here?

"What?"

If I had eyes to roll, I would have rolled them now. Your hands are doing my job, dumbass. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to sit here uselessly, day after day, and watch you do that?

"It's a habit." He shrugged. "I honestly didn't know that it bothered anything—anyone."

Well, it bothers me. It's like your hair is cheating on me with your hands. Oh, and thanks to you, I'm a fucking gimp comb now. I neglected to mention my failed plan. I knew he'd shit a brick if he found out about that. It's not every day that your comb plots revenge against you and your hands.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I idly wondered how far his little communication talent went. Could he hear everything I thought or just what I projected? He was one interesting motherfucker—

"Everything," he stated firmly. His gaze was stony as he crossed his arms in front of him.

What can I say? I panicked. Every thought I'd ever had ran through my mind, despite myself, and I watched his face grow harder as my plans unfolded for his perusal, from Project Bruise His Ass to Operation Flesh Eating Bacteria. I was completely silent and dumbfounded when my self-incriminating thoughts finally sputtered and ran out.

The silence between us was heavy and thick. Then he smiled. "Emmett, could you come here for a minute?" he called.

I heard some grumbling, an ominous-sounding crash, and then suddenly, the curly-headed hulk of his brother was there beside him.

This can't be good, I thought to myself.

"What's up?" Emmett asked.

"I need some help with something. Your locker's still next to Eric Yorkie's, right?"

"Yeah."

He picked me up. "Could you slip this into Yorkie's locker for me?"

Emmett eyed his brother suspiciously. "Why?"

"He accidently left it on my desk yesterday."

Emmett's expression went neutral. "Oh, sure. Why do you want me to do it though?"

"I just don't want to take the chance of running into him. His thoughts…" Edward trailed off with a slight shudder.

"That gross, huh?"

"You have no idea."

Emmett shrugged and reached for me. Edward's eyes gleamed strangely as he handed me over. I was instantly filled with dread. Who the fuck was Eric Yorkie?

Two days later, I found myself suffocating in Emmett's back pocket, panicking every time he moved. My teeth bent ominously each time he sat down, and I prayed for an end to the torture. After innumerable hours in his pocket, he suddenly pulled me out. I barely had enough time to take in the ugly school hallway before he shoved me into the air vents of a dank locker. I wanted to groan. This couldn't be good. Surrounded by darkness, I waited in trepidation to meet my new owner and swore to myself that I would never again attempt to communicate with people. This shit just wasn't worth it.

Sometime later, the locker opened and light flooded in. A face with dark brown eyes framed by greasy-looking hair peered in at me. It hit me then with the subtlety of a bowling ball. Yorkie was a fucking grease-head. Leave it to Edward Fucking Cullen to know how to torture a comb.

I watched Yorkie's eyes widen in surprise when he saw me, but then he just shrugged and pulled me out of the locker. Time seemed to stop as he raised me to his greasy, lank locks. Closer, and closer, and aughhh! What the fuck?! My teeth ran through his slick hair easily, and I cringed at the residue that was left on me. Ugh, grease and old hair products and it even had a smell to it! I wanted to die, to go into nonexistence, whatever combs did at the end. This was just horrible. I found myself regretting my earlier decisions, (though I would never regret my plot for revenge—damned hands deserve it) and longing for my dusty spot on Edward's dresser, even if Edward was a fucking douche bag.

Yorkie grinned at his reflection in the mirror hanging on his locker door, hastily shoved me into his back pocket, and slammed the locker door shut.

It was then that I knew for certain; my existence was totally fucked.

It's been six months now since Edward stuck me with Eric "The Grease-head" Yorkie, and I've hated every minute of it. Not only am I constantly used and coated in the slime from his hair, but he managed to break another one of my teeth, too, though I admit it might've been more my fault than anything. I'd been trying to commit combicide by blocking my teeth enough that his hair would get stuck, and I'd break in half, but I only succeeded in maiming myself again. I more or less gave up after that, (combicide is never the answer) though I still always dream that I'll finally have my revenge on Edward. In fact, I've recently begun making plans to escape from the human grease vat that is Eric Yorkie. Once I'm free from him, Edward and his smug, fucking hands will never know what hit them.

Epilogue:

Comb continues to plot his revenge to this day. However, his crusade took a heavy blow when Eric Yorkie decided to replace his "gimp comb" with a "pimp comb". Unperturbed, Comb is now attempting to drum up support for his cause by giving rousing speeches to his fellow dresser drawer captives, namely two rubber bands and a "fat-ass" hairbrush. Though escape and revenge are more unlikely than ever, he remains optimistic.

Edward never spared Comb a single thought. His attentions were soon focused on an intriguing new arrival at Forks High School. Edward, his hands, and his hair never knew what hit them.

A/N: No real combs were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.

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