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The Dentist (Portly Boy pt. 53) by Ray Printer Friendly

I refuse to believe that there’s anyone out there that isn’t afraid of a visit to the dentist, just as I refuse to believe that there’s a dentist out there that’s not an evil, sadistic, asshole. Going to the dentist hurts, man, that’s all there is to it. You don’t go to the dentist expecting a good time, a few laughs, or a happy story to tell afterward. You go expecting to be hurt, and the jerk-ass dentist always goes above and beyond your expectations, and then you get to drool on yourself for the rest of the afternoon because of the shit they inject into your lip that’s supposed to make it numb (and am I the only one out there that realizes the shots hurt almost as bad as anything else the dentist does? “I might feel a bit of pressure” my ass). The only thing even remotely fun is the laughing gas, but that’s all ruined because of the shit the dentist does to you while you’re zonked. It’s like getting good and drunk and then having eight guys walk in with pool sticks and beat you nearly to death—it just sort of screws up the fun-base of the experience.

I can’t imagine anyone coming from a loving environment and growing up to be a dentist; these have got to be the kids that pull the wings off of flies, kick dogs, and catch cute little kittens on fire. Because if you’re a dentist, you know you’re going into a job where you inflict terrible pain on your patients. To me, how someone ever decides to be a dentist is much more perplexing than why someone would move from dentist to torturer.

The guy standing above me, he had been a dentist at one time. I was sitting in his old office, and he was talking about how he used to love to hear the screams.

“If you don’t hear them scream, you’re doing something wrong,” he told me.

“Yeah, I used to work in customer service, and I tried to live by that same philosophy.”

“Ah, a funny guy. We’ll see how funny you are when you’ve soiled yourself because of the pain, when you’re begging for death, when your only thought is that of pleasing me so I’ll stop.”

“I feel kind of like that just listening to your stupid monologue. So I guess your mission is complete, you can go ahead and untie me, let me go, whatever.”

He chuckled menacingly. Or insanely. I don’t know which is was for sure, man, but it wasn’t a happy laugh, I’ll tell you that for sure. “My mission is far from over.”

He opened a giant black satchel that he had carried in with him, one of those bags like the old-timey doctors used to carry around with them when they made house calls in the movies. He began pulling out various items that all looked metal, shiny, and painful to the touch.

“I call myself the Extractor. It’s a play on words, you see, because I extract information, but to do that, I generally have to extract other things as well.”

“Very clever. You should get a PR guy, I hear they’re very trendy this year.”

“Because we don’t need any information from you, Flixxx has told me to enjoy myself. You don’t understand what a pleasure this will be.”

“I think ‘pleasure’ is relative at this point.”


“So, what, are you guys cousins or something?”

“He freed me from the institution.” He looked up at me, ignoring his shiny torturous devices for a moment, and smiled.

If you had asked me before if there was anything worse in the world than a dentist, I probably would have said no, and I probably would have said it without much thought. But there are worse things than a dentist. For example, there are dentists who have turned into torturers. There are torturer dentists that have escaped from mental institutions. There are torturer dentists that have escaped from mental institutions and are now standing over you while you’re tied down, and they’re grinning. I’m sure there are worse things than that in life, because that’s just how life is—every time you think you’ve seen the worst of it, some asshole jumps out from behind the bushes with a whole new bag of tricks that you never even would have imagined—but I would be hard-pressed to think of anything.

“Don’t have anything to say now, do you?”

The thing is, I had been pretty secure in my escape just moments before—what my plan was, was basically just overpowering Jimmy when he got close enough. Because even with his wicked-ass suit, he’s still just a little bitch, and I knew that I could take him.

This dentist guy, he wasn’t too big, but I didn’t think he was going to be any kind of a pushover. He was about six feet tall, with a shiny bald head that was sort of shaped like an upside down pear, and his glasses seemed to constantly catch the light, sort of like Tom Cruise’s smile, or a porn star’s genital piercing. He was dressed in whites, and had on the little plastic examination gloves. And no matter how often you looked at him, he always had a different shiny tool in his hand that looked like it was specifically made to harm.

“Do I get laughing gas?” I asked.



He finally decided on a tool, held it up tot eh light to examine it, and then stepped towards me.

“Just so you know,” I told him, “I soil myself when I get scared.”

“It’s one of the nastier aspects of this job.”

“Wow, what a freak.”

It was some sort of blade, I think, but I’m not really too sure. I know it was kind of pointy, though, because it touched down on my belly. I wouldn’t exactly call it a stab, because it didn’t break skin, or even tear the lame-ass material of my suit. It was enough to startle me, though, and my hands shot up and grabbed his wrist.

He got startled by this—I guess he generally only worked when his victims were tightly secured—and tried to take a step back. I sat up as he backed up, still holding his wrist, and then I punched him in the nose. I’m not big on the whole hitting people thing, mostly because I punch like a six year old girl—a really small one, with some sort of terminal illness that renders her almost motionless—and I hate being laughed at.

But I caught him right in the nose, and his eyes began watering, and his nose started dumping blood. As long as it isn’t mine, I generally don’t have any problem with seeing blood, but this guy’s nose was gushing, man. It was grossing me out, but I was afraid that if I let go of his hand, he would cut me up. I spun him around and tossed him at the window. My plan was, he would crash out through it, and then maybe I could like climb down a rain spout or something, I don’t know.

It always looks real easy to throw someone out of a window in the movies. I mean, if you’re in an action movie where people are on the fifteenth floor or higher, you can barely look at your watch without falling out of a window. You would think that after doing this Portly Boy nonsense for this long, I would eventually understand that life is not like the movies. I’ve never been accused of being a quick learner, though.

The dentist guy hit the window, bounced back a little, and fell on his ass. He reached for another tool, and I kicked him in the face. His head knocked against the wall and he crumpled. In the movies, the bad guy always fakes unconsciousness or death, and then he suddenly reaches up and grabs your ankle or something. I know that movies aren’t real, all right? But I wasn’t taking a chance.

I kicked him in the head a couple more times, just to make sure that he was really out for the count. I didn’t bother checking his pulse or anything like that, I just headed for the door. It was still locked, which meant that I was going to have to go through his pockets to look for keys.

This is also where the bad guy wakes up and grabs you. I kicked him a couple more times, just to be on the safe side, and then I searched through his pockets until I found his keys. I spent another couple of minutes trying each key, until I found the one that unlocked the door, and then I was on the stairwell. I wasn’t sure where Jimmy was, but after kicking the sit out of the dentist guy, I was kind of experiencing a weird sort of blood lust.

I wondered for a second if this is what made football so popular, if this is why young men turned into brainless jocks that ran around hurting others and slapping each other on the butt. I still couldn’t see the appeal, though. I mean, how many organized sports are there where you get to kick an unconscious enemy in the head over and over again? Something like that would definitely make a sport like golf much more interesting. Tiger Woods just smacks a guy in the back of head with his club, then starts stomping on his face? I’d watch.

Anyways, I made it to the bottom of the stairs without running into anyone who wanted to kill me, and I opened the front door. The hippy was sitting on the stoop, smoking a jay.

“Hey, man, what’s happening?”

“Not much,” I told him. “Where’s that waste of sperm Jimmy at?”

“He ran down to the deli to get a sandwich. I bet he would have picked you up if he knew you were going to show up.”

“I doubt it. So what’s your story, man?”

“Mine? Nothing. I’m just hanging out.”

“What were you doing in Jimmy’s evil lair?”

“Watching TV, man.”

“Ah. Well listen, man. You seem like an okay guy—maybe a little annoying because you’re an idiot pothead, but you seem nice enough.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just watch out who you hang with, all right? That guy Jimmy, he’s a pretty bad egg. You don’t want to be associated with him and the stupid crap he’s pulling.”

“Cool. So you’re leaving?”

“Yep. Take it easy, Steve the Magnificent.”

“Got it covered,” he said, and leaned back against the stoop and took another hit.

I started walking down the street and made it about two blocks before I realized that I had no idea where I was. I walked into the closest store to ask for directions, and I saw Jimmy standing at the counter, eating a sandwich. He was still dressed up in his stupid suit, looking through newspaper. I walked over and punched him in the face.

“Hey! Hey, what are you doing?” the shopkeeper yelled with a thick accent. He was a big Greek man, his head bald except for the ring of grey hair around his ears and the back of his head, Fryer Tuck style. He was wearing a white t-shirt over thick arms, and blue jeans, and he looked like he wouldn’t have much trouble stomping me if I didn’t explain things really quickly.

“I’m going to kick the shit out of this guy. You should probably call the cops.”

“Help!” Jimmy screamed. “Help me, someone! This man is assaulting me!”

“Leave that man alone!”

“He kidnapped me, man. He tied me up and got a dentist to come in and torture me.” I punched Jimmy again, and I think I was kind of getting the hang of it. Of course, punching Jimmy Flicks is like a step above punching one of those inflatable plastic things that you used to get for Christmas and you’d punch them around and they just kept popping back up. Until the cat tried to sharpen it’s claws and then you had a pile of sand and plastic. And then the cat pooped in the sand. I hate the holidays.

“Is this true?” The shopkeeper asked Jimmy.

“He wasn’t a dentist—he was a mental patient.”

“A mental patient who used to be a dentist,” I said, and punched Jimmy again.

“Please, sir, stop hitting him. We will restrain him, and we will call the police.”

“I’m going to hit him one more time,” I said. The shopkeeper rolled his eyes and looked away. I hit Jimmy one more time, and then once more for good measure.


“Yeah. Thanks, man.”

The shopkeeper pulled a length of rope out from under the counter, and then walked over and began tying Jimmy up.

“Why do you have rope under your counter?” I asked him.

“My friend, you have never worked in a deli, have you?”


“There are things you don’t want to know.”

“Good enough.”

He finished with Jimmy and then went to call the cops. As we waited he looked me over. “You are the fat man from the news, yeah?”


“I have a friend who sees your website. He goes for the naked women, but he says you tell a story on there.”


“Will you tell this one?”

“Count on it. You have a business card?”

He smiled and handed me a card. I tucked it into my fanny pack and tossed him a pair of the Judge’s panties. “Hold on to these, man—maybe they’ll be worth some money someday.”


The cops showed up and carted Jimmy away, and Arnie stumbled up and gave away beer to anyone who was passing by.

“Where’s the Portmobile at?” I asked him.

“Still in that lot, I hope. I don’t know, really—I was running away. Did you get the information?”

“Beats me, man. Maybe.” I opened my fanny pack, with the intention of pulling out the folder I had found down in the evil lair, and tossing it all cool-like to him, but a bunch of panties fell out onto the floor, and the cops started giving me weird looks. I picked up the panties, stuffed them back into the fanny pack and told Arnie, “Look, man, we’ll discuss this later.”

We caught a cab to the vacant lot, and the Portmobile was still there, undamaged. Apparently the Judge hadn’t seen it. I wasn’t sure to what extent I had damaged the evil lair, but it was creeping up on three in the morning, and I didn’t really care. We jumped into the Portmobile and drove home.

Arnie kept trying to talk to me, but I didn’t have the strength to keep calling him an idiot, so I just ignored him, and turned up the music really loud. I was beat, man. I flopped down onto my futon as soon as we got to the Drunk Tank, and I was asleep almost immediately.


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