Odontophobia

#2

It was a dark-haired lady with a French accent that had just spoken and who was now staring at the bizarre scene in front of her with a puzzled smile.

- Brian May? It's your turn. - she called again when no one answered.

- Come on, handsome! - whispered to his ear Freddie, emphasizing the concept while giving him a discreet pat on his butt.

Brian got up from his chair and began to torch his bony hands nervously: with the corner of his eye, he could see the faces of those who had now become his companions in misfortune, staring at him in anticipation. He took a deep breath and adjusted his tangled dark curls: if he were to fall, he would have done it as a hero, and with dignity. So he cleared his voice and with the calmer tone he managed to achieve, he thundered a loud (maybe too much loud) - I'm coming. -

Dominique Beyrand, assistant - as the card on his green coat said - went back to let him through and, before the door closed behind his shoulders, Brian clearly heard Freddie's "Kick everyone's ass, sweetheart!"

Inside the studio, everything was as he remembered: the aseptic white of the walls, the orthodontic unit that dominated in the middle of the room, the metal instruments that shone threateningly under the bright lights, and even the smell - that terrible smell of cleanliness and something else indefinable - was the same.

Brian gulped loudly, as a drop of sweat committed suicide on the collar of his shirt: it was starting to get too hot, and he couldn't unbutton it any further without risking to look like a boor, with his chest hair in plain sight.

- Please sit down, Dr Taylor will be here any minute. -

- Dr. Taylor? - And who was that now? He was starting to hyperventilate!
- Oh, have you not been informed? Dr. Foster is still recovering: you know, he's had a bad stroke and he needs to be at complete rest. But don't worry, you're in good hands: it was him who personally chose Dr Taylor as his replacement.

At that point, Brian was lying in his dental chair, pale as a ghost: he hated surprises even on Christmas Day, let alone in already problematic situations like this one.

- No, no, I must be visited by Dr. F-f-f-foster, not by others ... -

Dr. Foster was a short, fat little man in his mid-fifties, with frizzy red hair and dubious fashion sense: he had been taking care of him since elementary school, when Brian was a child with hypersensitive teeth and an insane passion for rigorously frozen fizzy drinks. Now, it wasn't a secret that Foster himself was the cause of his odontophobia, with his shallow eyes, sadistic smile and multicolored vests (he hadn't forgiven him yet for extracting treacherously three baby teeth from him, one two seconds apart from the other), but at least he knew what to expect: blood and pain.
That change of plan was driving him crazy: what if this Dr Taylor had been even worse? A Satan's henchman rising from the depths of Hell, carrying cutters and surgical aspirators? What if he had removed his molar without hesitation, and especially without anesthesia? He had to run away from there. Oh yes, he would have run out of that evil cave, grabbed Freddie and run as fast as his two meters of legs allowed him to.

He was about to get up and sneak away, when a bright voice rescued him from his nefarious thoughts.

- Here I am, Dom! -

For a moment, Brian thought he was on the set of one of those popular medical dramas, where doctors are all piles of muscles wearing masks and gowns, nurses were basically porn actresses and the brooms closet usually hosted orgies. Because never in his life had he seen such a damn sexy doctor (usually he had to deal with clones of Foster, lucky as he was, and old ladies), and worse, he was sexy even with that unlikely green cap he had on his blonde head.