Over the white pain underground

Lying in back in the red fake leather automatic chair, they asked me
was I nervous when I asked for some water, of course not; I just had a
few drinks last night. The truth was my mouth was feeling like a
hookers badger my head felt like a French man was living in it and the
last thing I wanted was to be there. Looking into his eyes I could tell
he just couldn't wait to get started. I remember a young girl asking me
did I come from Liverpool because she had family their, I shook my head
and smiled, I m brave, come on rip it out&;#8230;Maybe I was
'nervous'.

'Its getting hot in here' he said through his mask, rolling his
shoulders as if he was limbering up for the next round, my jaw was
aching. I could hear her ferreting around behind; the radio was
playing, as she put her hands softly on either side of my head to
slowly tighten them. I didn't want to look up but I did, it was a very
brief glance, the kind you do when you're taking leak next too an old
man. If I had the choice I'd rather be washing my hands in a brimming
colostomy bag than being ravaged by these glimmering plyers, if only
life was like the Japanese endurance test that Tarrent T.V. beamed via
the terrestrial airways to our house on Sunday evenings. I tried to
keep alert; the numb sensation was a paradox to the pain I should have
been feeling. I tried closing my eyes; like I did when I was young
watching a soap opera sex scene, in the company of my parents, but the
problem this time was I couldn't sink any lower into this padded throne
of white pain. I wondered what would they say if I ask for a cushion?
Or starts fondling myself, ejaculating like some masochistic weirdo
with a torture fetish. I don t think any safe words will stop him now;
he's enjoying this far too much for my liking. I wondered was this guy
behind me on the tube escalator last week when I had really bad wind?
Yes, I think that's it; I'm the victim of consequential revenge. I
wonder if this is what James Redfield meant?

'Bite on this' he said. The young assistant took away the blackened
remnants to wash them; they thought I was weird because I wanted to
take them home. A trophy of self-neglect. There was no way I was
letting them go now, this was when my mind (some how now rapidly over
active) filled with visions of my rotten teeth like empty vessels
dragged up from the depths, maybe fron an Atlantis rescue mission that
failed, I imagined them fronting a badly designed poster campaign in a
slimed back street surgery in some remote Anglican village in hope to
deter to all with teeth from the heinous crime of not brushing on time.
So I made a decision to pocket them and deny myself any future
embarrassment. Maybe I could make a claim? File a law suite? No win no
fee, take my rotten molar, and sue Ribena for false advertising. If I
remember correctly have numerous photographs, which span over the past
twelve years with me drinking that acrid juice, and if I can't find
them then there is always Adobe Photoshop. Imagine that, toothless man
fakes photographs to sue leading soft drink giant! Maybe the master
plan, to take down the mighty 'toothfriendly' foundation is not such a
winner after all; a little extravagant a tad eccentric, but I have
heard of stranger happenings. As you can tell by now my emotions where
in motion. Impaired by the very thought being a toothless dinosaur, I
was grasping to any ideal. Looking for some one to blame other than
myself, yes, I didn't want to admit it but I was the root of the
problem, lazyitis, a curable malfunction, by the aid of aquiring a
drive for daily activities that are so easy to forget. Besides all that
I had to have my teeth back, my tongue had fondled them for many years,
it had observed the change decay brings.

Well what a sting, you have to pay for this torture, and the worst
thing is your unable to argue the point. Stumbling out of the
sterilised chamber silently smiling in a half jest with the masochist
in the moustache (feeling like I should put on a brave face, and look
matcho for the invisible crowd, that we imagine is an ever present in
times of small dilemma. Forget that I just had an encounter the devil
dentist of manor house, and my brave face was more like Paul
McCartney's frog chorus). I remember looking at the receptionists
slightly embarrassed smile, she knew this guy had messed up a routine
extraction, but I thought how nice it was of her to give me that extra
swab to soak up the blood from this numb crater. (I mean this thing was
massive, I imagine some kind of gum sucking parasite would be in
heaven, screaming operatic memoirs, listening to the echoes of missing
enamel). I made my way over to the reception, no doubt with the same
startled look the lady behind the desk had seen before. I handed my
documents to her; one thought on my chequebook and the other on the
hole. This is where they sting you, right in the pocket. What could I
say? My mouth was stuffed with swabs the size of God's tampons, and was
told to bite!

Escaping the horror of the fake red leather chair, wondering why people
pay to be spanked raw without general anaesthetic. I remember trying to
keep myself amused by my capacity to dwell on past events. I made my
way across the dual carriageway to the happy shopper. Half way down the
road past a paint stained church next to a cheap Irish theme bar, an
English wind skirted the traffic and seeped through the giant tampax in
my mouth chilling the open-ended nerve petruding from my wound. Every
breath made the hunger for painkillers more intense. Carefully reaching
inside my mouth I pulled out the infested swab. I remember aching for a
hotter climate so I could open wide and let the sun dry out the hole,
no such natural saviour today, just a nip of the old breeze to add to
the spice. I wanted to keep my mouth closed, but the incessant drooling
was hard to swallow, it just had to come out. As I reached the
newsagent I looked up to the smell of a butcher's shop, a menagerie of
sullen images overtook me, looking back it put a temporary hold on my
sorrowfulness.

The shop was near empty; all I wanted was painkillers and a newspaper.
I thought was only ten minutes away from the luxury of my bed (the
place of dreams). I waited then waited more and more for the old lady
in front, to get sorted out. 'Come on get on with it' I muttered, the
queue slowly building up behind. A sudden haze glazed my usual
compassion for lifes past history makers, my impatience started to
evolve in a tide of hatred for this innocent little woman. I started to
looking more closer at her brown fingers nails, sepia stained top lip,
a rancid smell emanating from her pensioners pores, eating its way into
the sweet atmosphere, curling up the papers, and turning astro belts
and aniseed balls yellow. I thought about picking her up and dumping
her in the butcher's mincer next door, I would of done it but the fear
of the smell infecting me leaving me rotten like a defected child
hidden away in the sewer chambers at the pinnacle of Plato's republic.
A deluge of bronze coin strunned over the shoptellers counter, she was
well aware of the fuss she made, ' all eyes on me' I imagined she was
thinking. The old bint donned her plastic rain shield and shuffled past
me, I wanted to burn the hairs on her top lip while she slept.

I said thank you to the shopkeeper admiring his patience, the tide of
anxiousness melting away with exchange of a friendly goodbye.