From: The Vampire’s Guide to Dental Hygiene

The dark, deserted, and pot-holed car park was no place to linger at any time; let alone at night. I shuddered that I had been reduced to this. When I decided on dentistry as a career, there was the prospect of a rapid rise up the ranks of the middle classes followed by a comfortable middle age and fulfillment in my senior years. But it seems people’s teeth, and the care thereof, feature very low on the rungs of the ladder of necessities when money is tight.

I avoided the mall after dark as far as possible but this particular evening I needed to collect important paperwork which I wanted to examine at home. As things stood it looked as if I would be another casualty of the economic climate within the month if my practice did not pick up and the likelihood of that happening was on a par with Doris Day making a comeback.

There was something spooky about the above-ground car park, the lights barely illuminating the gloom. I locked the car, striding quickly toward the darkened mouth of the arcade where my dental surgery lay. There was enough light pulsing from Video asty, the proprietor had never bothered to fix the N after it burned out, for me to see my way to the reinforced door of my shopfront. The plate glass bore the declaration that this was a DENTAL SURGERY, in large bold capitals, below which my name and qualifications were tastefully inscribed in gold lettering using a clean modern typeface. I’d escaped the more outrageous vandalism inflicted on the mall, having replaced the glass frontage only once after a break-in, and the only graffiti was the spray painted Jameel is a wanker down the tiles on the wall dividing my premises from those next door. Some of the lettering had splashed over onto my glass frontage but my attitude was that if it upset Jameel, let him clean it up.

Inside I was rifling through the desk in my consultation room when I heard the bell above the front door jingle. I could have kicked myself. In the hurry to get in and out, the security was such a complicated bugger I didn’t want to have to go through it twice, I had left the door unlocked. I’d also left the waiting room light blazing which must have been an open invitation to Rob Me.

Quickly picking up the cricket bat that I kept handy for such eventualities, I summoned up the courage to confront my would-be tormentors. Having the element of surprise in my favor, I switched off the desk light and crept toward the door, wrenching it open and launching myself into the waiting room with a loud and, I hoped, fearsome cry. I guessed I looked more like a frightened dickhead than a formidable opponent.

I did succeed in my intention, however, as the young man sitting patiently in one of the uncomfortable molded plastic waiting room chairs dropped the magazine he was flipping through to raise his hands to his face. He had that startled expression of a chook with its head cut off.

In the split second or so it took me to appraise the situation I realized he was actually a patient who had mistaken my surgery hours because the light was on. It was an easy surmise as his mouth was covered in blood which was still bubbling from between his lips. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like terror and shot to his feet ready to bolt. I dropped the bat, my eyes glued to his wound. The poor chap must have noticed my preoccupation and that I had dropped my weapon for he sat down with a look of utter defeat in his eyes.

Hoping I was conveying sympathy after my look of horror, I mumbled, “You poor bastard, what have they done to you?” I led him back to the surgery. This time I did remember to lock the door in case his attackers were still in the neighborhood, and switch off the waiting room light. I helped him into the chair and donned gloves and glasses before turning my attention to his plight.

“Can you open your mouth?” I asked.

Grimacing in pain, he opened up slightly. From a quick observation, the volume of blood obscured a thorough examination, it probably looked worse than it was although at this stage I didn’t understand where all the blood was coming from.

“This is going to hurt. I’m sorry,” I said as I began spraying saline solution into his mouth. He jerked a little at the initial contact but trusted me enough to go with it. Poking and prodding, scraping as gently as I could, I cleaned out his mouth then told him to rinse and spit. I was puzzled. His teeth were in fairly poor shape even apart from a plaque build-up and the beginnings of a cavity or two, but there was no sign of the source of the copious amounts of blood. One explanation that occurred to me but which I banished from my mind as far too fanciful for the 21st century was that he’d been snacking on a live animal.

Putting the instruments down, I righted the chair to take a good look at my patient now that I'd cleaned the blood from around his lips and chin. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips. He was a young man of exquisite beauty, his skin paler than I would have expected for the hot southern climate. He wore black clothing in the style of Goth and emo youth but his black shirt, now unfortunately stained with blood, hugged his body to reveal he had definition while his tight black jeans clung to a surprisingly inviting package. He wore a pair of fashionable leather boots with chains dangling around the ankle. He was a magnificent creature. I’m ashamed to say a primitive urge stirred my loins.

He must have seen me examine him almost forensically for he smiled and, in that moment, I was quite giddy with desire. I never allowed myself this sort of familiarity with my patients, it was highly unprofessional, but it was almost as if I were hypnotized by this succulent stranger.