"Toothache"

  "Fuck!" James screamed, clutching the side of his jaw like it had just turned traitor.

  "What's wrong?!" Jennifer shot up in bed, already bracing for some dumbass catastrophe.

  "It feels like somebody lit my gums on fire! What the fuck!" he wailed, pacing the room like a man who’d just been told his teeth owed the mob money.

  Jennifer winced in sympathy. "Oh shit, baby, sounds like you’ve got an abscess. I’ve had those before. It’s awful. But relax, relax, there are dentists who are used to this shit—hold on."

  James waited, curled up like a dying beetle, while Jennifer made a few calls. He rocked back and forth whispering curses under his breath.

  "Uh... so... some bad news," Jennifer finally said, chewing her lip.

  James stared at her like she just told him she ran over his dog. Twice.

  "Yeah... the place I used to go to doesn’t take our insurance anymore. But! I did get you an appointment. Next week."

  James felt his heart rupture like an overcooked bratwurst. "Are you fucking serious?! Give me the goddamn phone!" He snatched it like it was his last chance at salvation.

  "Hey, whoa, I’m sorry you’re going through this, okay? I’m on your side—" Jennifer tried.

  “Bah! You fucked it up! You didn’t tell them how serious this is, you fucking bitch! You’re always against me. Always—"

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "911 emergency, do you need fire, ambulance, or police?" came the voice on the phone, cutting him off.

  James boomed into the receiver, "Fuck! I need a fucking dentist, my fuckin tooth—"

  "Sir. This is 911. This line is for emergencies. You need to call a dentist, stupid."

  James’s jaw tightened, along with his fists. “I did! They can’t see me till next week!”

  "Well, see, there ya go. Just wait till Monday, ya egghead. And maybe brush better." Click.

  That did it.

  "FUCK IT! You won’t help?! I’ll just yank the fucker out myself!" he screamed, tossing the phone down.

  What James didn’t hear was the operator whispering: "We got a live one. Sounds suicidal or homicidal. Send SWAT."

  Moments later—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—a megaphone outside shouted:

  "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

  James peeked through the blinds.

  “Get your fuckin hands up or I’ll empty this fuckin magazine in your chest, asshole!” a voice barked.

  James turned pale. "Nice job, ya fuckin crybaby," Jennifer muttered. "Couldn’t just wait till Monday."

  James glared at her like she’d sold him out for gas money. “MY FUCKIN TOOTH FEELS LIKE IT’S ON FIRE, BITCH!” he roared.

  That was all it took.

  “We got hostile intent. Permission to engage?”

  A small pause.

  “Light him up.”

  BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.

  They breached the door and lit James up like Christmas in Kandahar.

  Miraculously, by divine comedy or tragic karma, James survived.

  But he would never walk again.

  When Jennifer visited him in the hospital, the doctor explained, “He’s going to need round-the-clock care. He likely won’t regain mobility.”

  Jennifer’s eyes glazed over. “Uh, yeah, let me stop you right there. We weren’t married.”

  The doctor blinked. “Oh… well, uh…”

  “Hey, doc?” she interrupted again.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “That moron’s tooth still hurting?”

  The doctor sighed. "The ones that didn’t end up on the floor seem fine now."

  Jennifer gave him two thumbs up. “See? Problem solved.” Then she left and never looked back.

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

  But if you're James... you probably should've just brushed your damn teeth.