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Before timidly knocking on the stark white dental office door, Seymour Krelborn adjusted his grip on the heat-draining revolver wrapped in a "Mushnick and Son’s Florist" bag, his other hand steadying it. The store had stocked the new designs after rebranding and growing success.
A resonant “next” sounded from inside the office.
Seymour pushed open the white door, entering the room, and an overwhelming scent of iron bathed the air. Orin Scrivello D.D.S. was humming under his breath while mopping up a suspicious red liquid from the dental chair using a stained cloth, his back toward the door.
“I guess that's me, Doctor Scrivello,” Seymour said, pushing up his glasses with his shoulder as he clutched the paper bag. He lingered at the doorway.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked Orin, focusing on the dental tools on the tray table next to his chair. He adjusted each object to its correct position swiftly. He soaked up the lingering saliva and blood with the stained cloth.
“Uhh, Seymour Krelborn, we met yesterday…”
“Oh, of course, the guy with the plant,” Scrivello continued, wiping his tools.
“Right,” Seymour muttered, his grip tightened against the handle of the gun.
“And the bandaids…”
"Right." Stepping closer, Seymour pulled out the gun from the paper bag. He pointed it at the dentist’s back. Orin, wielding rust-tinted pliers, turned around to face his (assumed) next victim.
“And the gun,” Orin barked, his eyebrows raising. “So why are you pointing a gun at me, Seymour?”
“I…I…”
Seymour swallowed as Orin approached him, smirked, and reached for the gun with a forceful hand. He plucked it, and held it loosely in his palm. “Are you a little nervous about seeing a dentist?”
“What, no!” Seymour spluttered, stepping back slightly. Orin’s other hand grazed Seymour’s neck as he leaned in towards Seymour’s ear.
“It will only hurt a little.”
Seymour shifted nervously, “You don’t understand, I don’t want my teeth examined.”
What he really wanted was to shoot that little bugger right in -
“Of course you want your teeth examined,” Orin booped the brim of Seymour’s baseball cap with the tip of the gun, before depositing it neatly with his other tools. Now, Orin clutched more tightly around Seymour’s neck, “Say Ahh for me.”
“Nope, no way”
“Say AHH,” Orin commanded, forcefully holding Seymour’s jaw, who screeched, dropped the paper bag, and revealed his teeth for examination.
Tssking, Orin said, "Your mouth is a mess, kid. You’ve got cavities, you’ve got plague, you're impacted, you're abcessed!" He slammed Seymour into the dentist's chair. His hands pinned either side of Seymour's head, and a knee shoved between Seymour’s legs. "You’ll need a complete oral examination." Orin’s face, so close, his minty breath caressed Seymour’s cheeks.
“We’ll start with that-” Orin shoved his black latex gloves inside Seymour’s mouth, poking his molars, “- wisdom tooth”
Seymour, wriggling, exclaimed: “I’ve gotta go! I’ve got a plant to feed and all that…”
Withdrawing, Orin purred, "There is always time for dental hygiene, Seymour. You need immediate action." He snatched up a crusty and flaking dental drill from the tray table. It buzzed discordant static. Seymour swallowed, the lingering sting of latex still in his mouth.
“Uh, what's that?”
Orin rolled his eyes, “The drill.”
Seymour’s own widened, “It's rusty.”
“It's an antique. They don’t make them like this anymore, kid.” Orin held the drill delicately between his fingers, “This is going to be a challenge, this is going to be a pleasure.”
Oh Nope. Seymour slowly edged himself down the dental chair. The leather squeaked as he moved. He reached for the gun resting on the tray table, but Orin suddenly pounced. Orin grabbed Seymour’s wrist, pinning it against the leather armrest, and smirked.
“I’ll want some gas for this one,” his southern accent tinged with excitement.
“...Gas?”
“Nitrixe Oxide,” Orin said, as he slowly stepped back towards a storage cupboard door.
“Oh, thank god,” Seymour breathed, “I thought you weren’t gonna-”
“The gas isn’t for you, Seymour. It’s for me.”
What.
“In fact, I will use my special gas mask,” he grinned. “Stay right there, Seymour,” Orin said, patting his head, smirking, before briskly entering the storage cupboard, slamming the door behind him.
Slowly standing up from the dentist chair, Seymour reached toward the tools and clutched the cold revolver in his palms.
Do it. Shoot him now.
His hands shook as he stared down at the trigger, just a flicker of pressure needed.
A manic laugh echoed…
Do it now. The timing was perfect while he was high and defenseless. Do it for Audrey, so she doesn’t have to put up with the pig for another day. No more bruises nor abuse-
Orin’s throaty cackle rebounded throughout the sterile tomb.
Why did he choose to kill a violent, sadistic creep? He, Seymour, who never even stands up against his own father figure…
But think of fortune and fame, the business’s success. What about Love; If not for the plant, for Audrey, sweet, lovely Audrey-
Bursting open, the storage cupboard door revealed Orin, his eyes dilated in glee, laughter guttural, influenced by the gas from the mask penetrating his lungs.
Shit, he couldn’t do this.
Seymour frantically sat back in the chair, quickly shoving the gun behind his back with one hand and readjusting his glasses with his other.
“Oh, Seymour, I am flying now.” Orin laughed, spinning on the spot, his legs unsteady. “The things we are going to do to your mouth, HA” Wobbly he approached Seymour, reaching towards his face, lightly brushing against his lips.
Seymour tensed in the chair and tightened his grip around the gun handle.
“I’ll just take the mask off now,” he attempted to get a grip of the mask’s strapping and tubing, but his drug-weakened fingers slipped, he couldn’t take hold to loosen it, “I can’t get it off.”
What?
“Jesus Christ, I could aphixiate in here,” Orin breathed, letting out another throat-aching holler. “Seymour, boy, give me a hand, will ya?” leaning his head over Seymour's nose, his hands once again pinned on either side of Seymour’s shoulders, gripping at his sweater vest. The mask fogged up with Orin’s laboured, wheezing breaths.
“Well…” Seymour turned his face away from Scrivello’s and slowly inched out the gun from behind his back, holding it at his side.
“Well? He says WELL?”
Now, the gun was fully in Orin’s view and pointed directly at his chest. Orin blinked for a few seconds before cackling and jumping back. “Kid’s got a god-damn REVOLVER. I guess you wouldn’t help me, would you?”
Seymour, who didn’t reply, smiled nervously. If he stays in the chair, the dentist can die without blood directly on his hands. If Orin died from suffocation, although a rotten way to go, Seymour’s morals would surely be somewhat intact. His Saviour could simply be laissez-faire.
Continuing to struggle with the nobs, straps, and tubing, Orin seemed to get them even more mixed up as he pulled, turned, and adjusted. His hands were frantic and his grip slipping. “Help me. Now.” He cried out breathlessly. He stumbled on the edge of the dentist chair, knocking over everything off the tray table with a clatter. A shrieking smash came from a mirror he had knocked from the wall. Orin, laughing at the mess, fell down to the terrazzo. Seymour shrank back, staying in the chair.
“Are you satisfied?” Orin wheezed up to Seymour from the floor, arms and legs splayed, energy spent. His breathing came in ragged, soft gasps, “I've… laughed … myself .. to…”
Orin’s movement became stilted as he lay on the cold, white tile, which had a crusty, brown tinted substance still lingering in the grout-
“Death.” Seymour breathed out, heart hammering in his chest.
…
Oh god, what does he do now? He killed someone. There is a dead body in front of him, and he is responsible for it. He technically didn’t actually kill him, but transporting a dead body seems pretty suspicious, chopping up the dead body…
Yeah, if he gets caught, he’s finished. Oh God.
He got up quickly from the dentist chair and wrung his hands through his hairHe took in the state of the room. Dental tools sprawled everywhere Seymour’s baseball cap lying at the corpse’s feet. He needed to clean up fast, so he was not at the crime scene too long to make it seem as if The Dentist had left from work, got caught on the way home, got mugged. If someone checked the appointment records, Seymour would not be a firm suspect.
He tossed his cap onto the chair with the "Mushnik and Son’s Florist" paper bag he had dropped during the struggle. A box of black latex gloves was sprawled on the floor. Seymour snapped on a pair to cover his fingerprints. He righted the tray table and threw each tool scattered back onto it, trying to make it seem neat with the loving care that Orin took towards them. Unsure exactly where each was supposed to go, he prayed it would not look too suspicious.
Kneeling, Seymour accidentally caught sight of his disheveled appearance in the broken mirror shards on the floor. Unruly black hair stuck up in all directions. His eyes were wide and puffy red, in stark contrast to his blanched, pale skin. His hands shook as he picked up each piece of the glass, hoping that the mirror wasn’t a sentimental item. He gathered each piece and placed them in a pile.
Seymour had only brought one garbage bag for the job, which was stuffed in his pocket. He couldn’t leave the glass in the office bin; it would be too suspicious, and someone would wonder why the mirror had been smashed. The Dentist is missing; it would be linked together, and he would get caught. The glass and the body would have to go in the same bag, but then how would he transport both the body and the glass cleanly, without unnecessarily mutilating? The glass may even break the bag, tearing and depositing the corpse on the street…
Seymour reached towards the stained cloth still lying on the floor. It was still slightly damp, but he transferred each piece of glass gently on top, and an ear-piercing scratching sound resonated as each was placed. Cringing, Seymour folded the edges over and shoved the package on the tray table. His attention is now needed at the dead body still lying at his feet.
His own breath came in quick gasps as he came closer to the corpse. Falling to his knees, laying a hand on its shoulder, the body was still slightly warm, but under Seymour’s touch, all heat seemed to be leached as he turned to stone.
Seymour carefully handled the mask, clearly seeing the solution to the puzzle, and undid all the straps that had confined the Dentist. Lying without the mask, Orin’s eyes were wide with fear, but his mouth twisted still in a manic grin. Choking on his own saliva, Seymour turned away, bringing a hand to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut…
Carrying the mask and tank, empty of any nitrous oxide, Seymour dragged it back into the cupboard, which was filled with a variety of dental equipment. Inside was a peculiar shrine to a woman he had never seen before, with fairy lights and candles. Weird.
He stored the murder weapon underneath a shelf and covered it behind a box of what appeared to be letters of encouragement from Orin’s mother. Hopefully no one would suspect The Dentist’s demise to be an overdose of his beloved nitrous oxide, which then the canister miraculously returned itself to the cupboard…
The sky peeking from behind the window blinds had lost its light, so Seymour knew he would be in darkness as he transported The Body. He began to edge closer, wondering how to stuff it inside the bag and transport it back downtown to the shop, all through the city and down to Skid Row… He would have to fold it up in some way; best would be with the knees tucked into the chest.
Don’t think.
The Dentist’s body was limp with death as Seymour attempted to contort the corpse into position. First, standing the torso upright, it threatened to overwhelm Seymour, as it slumped against his chest, suffocating and restricting his breath. Seymour held the back before lifting the knees with one hand so the body would form the correct position, barely manipulatable. Shuffling it slightly so the back was against the dentist chair, he grabbed the garbage bag with his free hand. Stiff limbs made it difficult to keep the arms and legs in place, but after some adjustments, Seymour managed to position the bag over the body’s head, across the shoulders and torso, all the way down to its arse and feet.
Seymour carefully tipped the body to its side so that he could later transport it, but he would leave it in that position for now. Unfortunately, an outline of the body could clearly be seen through the thin plastic of the garbage bag. Seymour needed to transport the body discreetly; he would need to attempt to make the shape seem more abstract rather than figurative.
Checking back to the storage cupboard, a tub on the top shelf was full of used dental napkins. There were visible blood stains and other gross substances littered throughout all of them. Ew. Seymour had to stifle a gag when he picked them up, even with his gloved hands blocking direct skin contact.
So, he stuffed the bag, creating a nice little discreet bag of trash to transport back and feed to his human-blood-eating plant. Actually, he wondered if Audrey II would appreciate the dental napkins, even if the blood on them was a rusted brown, crusty, and flaking to the touch… probably not.
Now Seymour needed to get the body out into the foyer, and through the back entrance, and down to Skid Row.