Granted. You never said where you want it, so I’m gonna assume you want this new tooth to grow out your left armpit. I’m tempted to also have your other teeth fall out, since you said you only want one, but I’ll just leave it there for now.

Granted. Pain fills your mouth as your individual teeth begin to fuse, cutting through the gum line held each tooth in its own pocket. As blood starts to fill your mouth you try to spit it out. Your jaw fights to open but the fusion of your the top and bottom rows of teeth holds your mouth shut. The pain settles to a consistent throbbing as the fusion completes. As the days pass, your hunger grows. Unable to eat you become weaker and more desperate. You speak, through clenched jaw to doctors, dentists, endodontists and a spectrum of specialists with impressive sounding titles. They attempt to cut the monotooth, but it always fuses back together before the job is even a quarter done. A feeding tube is installed to keep you alive while specialists are brought in to study your unique condition. Xrays show that the fusion of your teeth goes all the way to the roots which is now just one singular root, winding it’s way through bone and tissue to connect the upper and lower halfs. Surgery is ruled out as it would require the complete removal of your mandible as well as palate, leaving you horribly mutilated, if you even survived the extremely risky surgery. Eventually you are released from the hospital. Papers are written and lectures are given about your case. Doctors have entire careers built on your condition and some even reach celebrity status. But you? You get used to keeping your mouth closed, to avoid gawkers. You barely speak, falling further into isolation. Your only consistent companion is the mountain of medical bills from all of the failed efforts to undo your wish.

Granted, a mammoth’s tusk shoots out of your jaw, filling your mouth to the point of almost choking you. What kills you is the sudden weight of the giant ivory loop that snaps your neck.