The Dubious Assassin - No Dental Insurance

in #writing5 years ago (edited)

This is an episode in my series of a dubious assassin and her struggles with everyday life

Source

Pain. In the tender blanket that hugs my teeth. Ergo dentist. More pain. My wallet.

Assassins hired on contracts have the worst medical benefits and dental insurance is laughable sans laughing gas. That's how I came to be at a dental clinic run from a garage. Mr A is of uncertain nationality and has the dark, brooding looks that have been patented by dentists.

You might think I earn well. Let me tell you about something. Assassins are dime a dozen. Conscience is a cheap commodity. While I make as much as any junior employee whose performance appraisal does not include dead bodies, I don't have enough to pay the tooth fairy fiend.

I sit on an uncomfortable recliner that seems like a refurbished car seat. Mr A's mother is holding the spit pipe and his father hands him the tools.

"We don't have lidocaine, only this."

This seems like a homemade concoction of alcohol and nail polish remover.

Mr A gets on with the drilling, regardless of sonic waves of pain emanating from my body. He is looking into my eyes. with a small smile playing on his lips. He then proceeds to hum something sounds like a funeral march. Unfortunately for my ears, his music skills are as bad as his dental ones.

He wields that little needle, twisting it inside my gum like a dagger on an open wound. At this moment, I wish I could kill this man. But, I made a moral promise not to kill without a contract. If I go down that street, I'll almost everyone on it.

He then drives the needle right into my nerve. and I have my hand on his throats. All at once, his mother pulls a shotgun at me.

"Just get your filling and nobody gets hurt. If you try to kill us, we're prepared."

Then his father nods and picks up a pipe.

Mr A smiles ruefully at me and shows me the little needle.

After getting my filling for the root canal, I back off.

I wonder if they treated all customers like that.

Mr A comes running. He is holding a pill bottle.

"It is for the pain." He says apologetically.

He keeps on staring at me.

"What?" I lash out.

"Please hide your gun in a better place, my mother gets reminded of her gang days."

I sigh and realize why I'd never be a good assassin.

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