“Always time for proper dental care,” Papadopoulos said, cruising back in.

He had in his hands a tray of the most horrifying medical devices I’d ever seen: misshapen hooks so sharp they glinted, a scalpel with form-fitting plastic grips, a thing that looked like tongs except much sharper, and a svelte handheld rotary blade. Each tool was constructed of lustrous silver. I’d consider them pretty awesome if they didn’t exist for the sole purpose of torturing Tub.

Papadopoulos bent over the instruments, fingers wiggling.

“Tobias’s case has been an inspiration to me. These tools here I invented in my personal lab. Forged and soldered them myself. It would not surprise me if I received an invitation to this year’s Dental Association Conference in Anaheim. No, it would not surprise me one bit.”

Papadopoulos took up a wrench and leaned over Tub with the look of a man eyeing a succulent turkey and deciding where to make the first cut.

“Ah, yes,” he purred. Metal squealed and popping noises came from teeth being driven tightly into sockets. The dentist’s body blocked the specifics of the attack, though I saw plenty of flailing from Tub’s limbs. Papadopoulos proceeded, unconcerned. “Aha. Yes. Yes. My, my, my!”

An unbearable five minutes later, the mad scientist straightened and exhaled with a great amount of pride. He released the prongs holding the four sides of Tub’s mouth and began to remove his rubber gloves.

“Rinse and spit. I’ll see you next week.”

Papadopoulos’s eyes caught mine as he passed. Rather, it was my agape mouth that caught his attention. He frowned and leaned in, inspecting my unbrushed rows.

“Mmm-hmm. There are things I could help you with. Make an appointment. It’ll change your life, son.”

He winked. I shuddered. He strode out the door with a clipboard containing the details of his next victim. He paused in the hallway, sniffing the air. He scowled, sniffed some more. He pressed an intercom button on the wall.

“Betty, I distinctly smell sewage. Could you get a plumber out here ASAP?”

Several curly hairs fluttered in the air after he was gone.

I clutched at the arm of the dentist chair.

“This isn’t a joke, Tub! I’m in trouble. We’re all in trouble, the whole town, the whole world! You have no clue. You have no idea what kind of things we’re dealing with here. There’s a whole land of—”

Tub held up a single finger. He sat tall, carefully picked up the paper cup of water, sipped it daintily, swished it around his cheeks, and then spit into the basin. He repeated the routine with fastidious care: sip, swish, spit. Then he took up the end of his paper bib and dabbed at his mouth until he was all clean and sat back in the chair. He sighed and turned to look at me. He parted his lips to speak and I squinted as the fluorescents shone off his mouthful of new metal.