If the earth is your mother and a god your father, the dentist is certainly your owner. Every year of your life you must allow one of them to bore holes into your mouth-bones. Does anyone come along and bore holes in your knee-caps or your rib-cage? No: but dentists hold that right forever. You will never be free of them. During every year of your life, someone else's hands are going to grope and fiddle inside your mouth; and you've got to believe them when they tell you that there IS something you can do to protect, to take care of, your teeth. In truth though, both you and they know full well that the ravages wrought on your system by the era's chemical and mechanical onslaught on victuals, is the pivotal point.

Now now, ‘all's fair’, isn't it; and they're mostly such affable people, haven’t you noticed: I mean they’re really charming, and you can't help loving them when the session’s over; can you. You're aware that they're engaged in that great humanitarian task of saving you from the consequences of the greed of others, and your own self-neglect.

So here I am, lying bib-ed and swaddled in this neon-lighted mausoleum, awaiting the attendance of my white-garbed angels; (not the crumpled bile green of hospitals, thank you). Ah! Here comes costly Klop, accompanied by his assistant. (I immediately rename her, ‘mediobot’). What's interesting about Dr. Klop is that he almost became a priest, but subsequently decided on dentistry: (presumably to acquire a larger flock).

After our greetings - me with my trembling-ly deferential smile and he with his impassive spriteliness - we began.

‘Eeny meeny miny moe
upper molars in we go.
2 root fillings one each side;
open mouthy nice and wide’

Anyhow, what he said did sound a bit like that! Well now; I'm reclining in my comfy cradle, as the mediobot turns to prepare the injection. I’m listening to my heart playing the smithy's refrain - not with my ears though; they are assailed by the interminable ooze of audio-slime extravasating from apertures in the coffin-lid above my corpse. The amplified sludge’s origins might have been musical: somehow though, I doubt it.

I stare at Klop’s lateral sulcus. Then I issue the order. “No injection thank you.”

His orbital fissures remain exposed and immobile. His zygomatic bone bucks. Swivelling three degrees, he tilts. “This is a ROOT filling sir.”

I know what I'm in for; but today, it’s MY turn. I inject my barb into him, in excruciatingly slow motion. “If, Dr. Klop, you find you're uncomfortable during the proceedings, perhaps then, you could resort to the anaesthetic.”

An ivory sliver of light emanates from between Klopp's wobbly pink lateral slats. “Whatever turns you on,” he snipes. Bubbles of wet salt are clustering on my cheeks. I bolt my hands to the arms of the chair, and my eyes to the loudspeaker. I concentrate on the twang, whine, and gush of the 'ooss' assailing my auricles.

A gyrating shaft-point purrs then nibbles. (Not once will I look into my owner’s eyes). With a smoldering screech, it cuts into my gut. As the snarl of the drill relinquishes its bite from time to time, I rejoice at the thought of Klop’s bewilderment. No sedative; no hypnosis: I shall endure.

The bubbling bore seers my root. Agony surges upwards from a raw cheekbone, engulfing my rigid corpse in its frozen dance. Klop, the mediobot, and I, are one.

PAIN.


It is over. Wordlessly, Klop and the mediobot scurry out of the surgery. Perhaps they can't think of anything to say to me.

A paroxysm of quivering takes hold of my body. It lasts, (with occasional intervals), for almost two weeks.
________________________________________________________________________________
I’ll personally send a copy of the mixed mp3 I made of this to anyone who asks. [FREE - I don't have to say!!]