Bill figured the only reason why anyone became a dentist was because they took an unnatural delight in causing people pain. All those little kids who kicked puppies and poisoned goldfish who didn’t grow up to be serial killers, found outlets for their twisted proclivities in the mouths of innocent dental patients. Torturing small animals and younger siblings gave way to drilling bicuspids and extracting molars. That the depraved souls got paid to torment their victims was just a bonus. Not to mention the unlimited access to nitrous oxide.
Orin Scrivello – D.D.S. was painted in black on the frosted glass door. Bill wiped his sweating palms on his trousers before twisting the knob and stepping inside. The lobby was white and clean and the gray-haired receptionist greeted him with a kind smile. His hand shook as he grasped the pen to sign in, but he controlled his tremors enough to scratch out his name and the time of his appointment. He was twenty minutes early.
Easing himself into one of the blue chairs, Bill took a few deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing pulse. The receptionist gave him a sympathetic look, but it wasn’t nerves that caused his agitated state.
Bill was excited.
Dentists weren’t the only possible end product of a twisted childhood. Some became sadists and others, like Bill, evolved into masochists. He’d blocked from his memory the seeds of trauma that were planted in his subconscious which later germinated into his current predilection for having pain inflicted upon his person. But he had no interest in curing his unusual desires. In fact, he’d studied hard and acquired a good job just for the access to excellent dental benefits.
Dr. Scrivello would be the tenth dentist Bill had seen in three years. Most refused to treat Bill after only a few visits not because of his obvious disregard for brushing his teeth and his candy addiction, but because he refused any anesthetic during even the most invasive of procedures.
Bill was called back into the exam room by a cute dental assistant. He reclined in the big, white chair and clasped his hands together to keep from fidgeting. After a moment there was a clatter from the hallway that sounded like a metal tray dropping to the tile floor followed by a scream. Two hygienists ran past his room. Bill was wondering if he should be alarmed when a figure in green scrubs stepped into the doorway.
The man that Bill assumed was Dr. Scrivello had red hair that hung from beneath his surgical cap and into his dark-rimmed eyes. His scrubs were ripped and stained with blood. In his hands was a large, gleaming drill, blood dripping from the tip. The dentist stumbled into the room and made a moaning sound that was muffled by his blood speckled mask.
Bill bit his lip to hold back his squeal and gripped the arms of the chair. At long last, it appeared he had finally found a dentist that understood his needs.
Any Little Shop of Horrors fans out there? If you are, then you will have already noticed that this post is an homage to Steve Martin and Bill Murray’s scene in that movie. And, yes, I was singing “you’ll be a be a dentist (be a dentist)” to myself the whole time I was assembling this little guy, much to my husband’s dismay.
And I apologize for the late posting on this one. I have a very good excuse and as soon as I think of what it is I will let you know.
See my other zombie friends from previous months here.