The Crimson Coil

I marched across the cold marble toward the porcelain basin, my boots squeaking in the eerie morning quiet. There it lay: a swollen tube of toothpaste, resting defenseless near the chrome drain. Unforgivable negligence. I planted my boots squarely across its midsection and threw my entire vinyl weight downward. With a wet, muffled squelch, a thick, glistening ribbon of deep red gel exploded from the nozzle, slithering across the stark white porcelain. A sharp stench of peppermint filled the air. I drew the tip of my green blade right through the middle of the crimson trail, leaving an unmistakable mark for whoever dares wash their face next.