dentist therapist frumpy villainous potato mongoose

Creative Writing - Fiction. Assignment #?

Incorporate the provided vocabulary into a short story.

I'm a dentist, usually the person standing over the patient. Lying on my back and having someone else examine me makes me nervous. Plus, this lady gives me the creeps.
“Sooo how do you feel today, Christopher?”
How she became the most successful therapist this side of the bridge is beyond me. She's every cat-hair covered, mouth-breathing fifth grade teacher that still gives you nightmares about missing homework when you're 30. Open the dictionary to “frumpy” and you'd find a picture of her.
“I'm...”
I found out fast that telling her I'm fine only leads to deep psychoanalysis of how I carry hidden scars and suppressed fears and desires. Well, I probably will after the time I'm done with this therapy. Seriously, why did Madeline have to get the latex and non-latex gloves mixed up on the one Monday last month when I overslept my alarm, the Starbucks drive-through was closed for repairs, and the Prius broke down two blocks from the office? Still, I shouldn't have blown up at her like that... how was I to know that Doc Rossen would send me to therapy for it?
“I'm feeling....”
What's an empty, deep-sounding word?
“I'm confused about my... purpose.”
My purpose? Since when?
“I've been having strange dreams lately.” At least that was somewhat true.
Her face crackled open into a gray-toothed grin, not unlike the look on a child's face when he discovers the power of sunlight and a magnifying glass over an anthill. Her solidly penciled-in eyebrows rose into almost villainous arcs.
“Descriiiibe yourrr dreaaammm” she said, somewhere between a croak and a croon.
I swear, she is possessed.
“It seemed familiar, but ominous. Like reading a book you know the ending to, but somehow fearing that this time it won't turn out the same way.”
An intrigued murmur escaped her, and she scribbled something on her pad.
“I was eating my mom's potato salad... in the middle of a large cornfield. The stalks rose around me, and the sun was beating down... it seemed peaceful, but the air carried a heavy, unsettling feel.”
Unexpectedly, I could feel myself slipping back into the story-telling mindset, and my voice became low and relaxed. How long had it been since I'd spun such tales? I used to do it all the time with Jules.
“Suddenly, I noticed the slow hissing sound that had slowly been crescendoing behind me. My hands felt clammy, despite the heat.”
My eyes were closed, and the therapist and her cackles were somewhere in a forgotten dimension. I could feel the sun on my back; hear the rustling of the corn.
“The King Cobra... the master of the garden... whose only fear is the chatter of the mongoose.”
Jules and I used to read Rudyard Kipling to each other for hours.