JК
Danse Macabre :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 112 из 359His nurse says he has one more patient, a man named Fred Houseman.
"He says it's an emergency," she tells him.
"Houseman?" the dentist barks.
"Yes.” "Fred?” "Yes. . . do you know him?” "No . . . oh, no," the dentist says casually.
Houseman, it turns out, has come because Dr. Charles, the dentist who owned the practice previously, advertised himself as a "painless dentist"-and Houseman, although an ex-wrestler and footballer, is terrified of the dentist (as so many of us are . . . and Oboler damned well knows it).
Houseman's first uneasy moment comes when the doctor straps him into the dentist's chair.
He protests. The dentist tells him in a low, perfectly reasonable voice (and oh, how we suspect the reason in that voice! After all, who sounds more sane than a dangerous lunatic?) that "In order to keep this painless, there must be absolutely no movement.” There is a pause, and then the sound of straps being buckled.
Tightly.
"There," the dentist says soothingly. "Snug as a bug in a rug . . . that's a curious thin[, to call you, isn't it? You're no bug, are you? You're more the lover-boy type . . . aren't you?” Oh-oh , the morbid little guy inside speaks up. This looks bad for old Fred Houseman. Yes indeedy .
It is bad indeed. The dentist, still speaking in that low, pleasant, and oh-so-rational voice, continues to call Houseman "lover-boy." It turns out that Houseman ruined the girl who later became the dentist's wife; Houseman slandered her name from one end of town to the other.
The dentist found out that Houseman's regular dentist was Dr. Charles, and so he bought out Charles's practice, figuring that sooner or later Houseman would come back . . . come back to "the painless dentist.” And while he was waiting, the new dentist installed restraint straps on his chair.
Just for Fred Houseman.
All of this, of course, has parted company with any semblance of reality early on (but then, the same can be said of The Tempest -how's that for an impudent comparison?); yet the mind cares not a fig for that at this crucial juncture, and Oboler, of course, never cared at all; like the best writers of horror fiction, he is interested in effect above all else, preferably one that will wallop the listener like a twenty-pound chunk of slate. He achieves that quite nicely in "A Day at the Dentist's.” "W-What are you going to do?" Houseman asks fearfully, echoing the very question that has been troubling our own minds almost since the moment we were foolish enough to turn on this piece of coldblooded grue.
"He says it's an emergency," she tells him.
"Houseman?" the dentist barks.
"Yes.” "Fred?” "Yes. . . do you know him?” "No . . . oh, no," the dentist says casually.
Houseman, it turns out, has come because Dr. Charles, the dentist who owned the practice previously, advertised himself as a "painless dentist"-and Houseman, although an ex-wrestler and footballer, is terrified of the dentist (as so many of us are . . . and Oboler damned well knows it).
Houseman's first uneasy moment comes when the doctor straps him into the dentist's chair.
He protests. The dentist tells him in a low, perfectly reasonable voice (and oh, how we suspect the reason in that voice! After all, who sounds more sane than a dangerous lunatic?) that "In order to keep this painless, there must be absolutely no movement.” There is a pause, and then the sound of straps being buckled.
Tightly.
"There," the dentist says soothingly. "Snug as a bug in a rug . . . that's a curious thin[, to call you, isn't it? You're no bug, are you? You're more the lover-boy type . . . aren't you?” Oh-oh , the morbid little guy inside speaks up. This looks bad for old Fred Houseman. Yes indeedy .
It is bad indeed. The dentist, still speaking in that low, pleasant, and oh-so-rational voice, continues to call Houseman "lover-boy." It turns out that Houseman ruined the girl who later became the dentist's wife; Houseman slandered her name from one end of town to the other.
The dentist found out that Houseman's regular dentist was Dr. Charles, and so he bought out Charles's practice, figuring that sooner or later Houseman would come back . . . come back to "the painless dentist.” And while he was waiting, the new dentist installed restraint straps on his chair.
Just for Fred Houseman.
All of this, of course, has parted company with any semblance of reality early on (but then, the same can be said of The Tempest -how's that for an impudent comparison?); yet the mind cares not a fig for that at this crucial juncture, and Oboler, of course, never cared at all; like the best writers of horror fiction, he is interested in effect above all else, preferably one that will wallop the listener like a twenty-pound chunk of slate. He achieves that quite nicely in "A Day at the Dentist's.” "W-What are you going to do?" Houseman asks fearfully, echoing the very question that has been troubling our own minds almost since the moment we were foolish enough to turn on this piece of coldblooded grue.