Mort Finkelstein, Undead Dentist
04.27.09
First in a series of Flash Fiction pieces that I will be filing under the header QuicFicFix:
- A half hour after sunset, Red Dave shambles through the door with the paper sign that reads “Mort Finkelstein DDS.” He is inconsolable. The lights are out, and because this is not really Dr. Finkelstein’s office, there is no one at the front desk.
Red Dave is pale, thin, dressed in all black, making no effort to conceal his vampire-ness. He finds Dr. Finkelstein--“Call me Mort.”--in Exam 3.
Mort is short, stocky, Jewish, and brownish-green from rot. He may be some kind of a zombie. No one is too sure.
- Mort likes Exam 3 because it smells like Kelly, the dental hygienist who works there during the day. Or at least it smells like Kelly until it smells thoroughly of Mort, which is to say briefly.
Red Dave grumbles, sits down. He is not in physical pain, but his pride is wounded. “I was in a fight,” he explains. “Some macho nothing, trying to defend his girl. He took a swing at me. Hard.”
Red Dave massages his jaw, remembers.
“It was like in the movies. I spit out a tooth. Except...”
Mort smiles politely, pulls a surgical mask over his yellowed teeth. To make his point, Red Dave opens up his mouth wide, comically wide, like only a vampire’s mouth will open.
He is missing a fang.
“What kind of vampire only has one fang? It’s embarrassing. I was... uneven. Blood kept trickling out the corner of my mouth the whole time I was feeding. By the end I was so frustrated, I almost didn’t finish the girlfriend.”
Mort sticks his crumbly dead finger into Red Dave’s mouth, feeling where the tooth broke. “There’s enough that I can file it down, attach a falsey if you like.”
“A falsey? A false what? A false tooth? A false fang? Because a real fang is magic. Changes back and forth. I can’t seduce my prey with a false fang hanging out.” He simulates with a finger. “And I can’t keep feeding with just the one. This is your specialty. Don’t you have some voodoo so I can regrow it properly? Or a magic tooth to change back and forth?”
“Well, no. No voodoo. No magic teeth, unfortunately. But…” Mort considers. “There is a set solution for this sort of problem. Fairly common. Routine even... But I’m going to have to strap you down.”
Red Dave nods. He wants his new fang already. Mort reaches down and pulls three thick leather belts from his bag, straps Red Dave down tight across the wrists, ankles, chest.
He lets out a half-cough, half-chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just...” Mort does it again. Wheezes. “I had a vampire come in with this exact same problem, last week.”
“And you fixed him?” Red Dave asks, hopeful. “You got him a new fang?”
“Yes.” Mort reaches back into his bag, pulls out a steak. “But it took an entire week.”