Nippon works on the Shape Dispatch Desk. Last Friday he went to the dentist to have two teeth out. The dentist ended up removing twelve. Twelve! That’s over a third of the traditional thirty-two adult tooth quota. He’s twenty-four years old and has – or had – twelve rotten teeth. A dozen decaying fangs. How does that happen? Was he brushing with jam and rinsing with Sunny Delight? Moisturising his gums with Lemon Curd? Flossing with spaghetti?

Anyway, Nippon hasn’t been saying a lot this week. Or even opening his mouth much. His lips are vacuum sealed. He’s like a fashion model, all pouts and smouldering glances. Only once did I see him unfasten his maw more than a millimetre and it was like looking into a vandalised graveyard. Half the stones were missing and somebody had spray painted the rest with urine.

I actually feel sorry for him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a petty spiteful turd with all the likeability of a petty spiteful turd, but he’s twenty-four and just lost twelve teeth. Twelve! Anymore and his face will start to collapse in on itself. His flesh will look like water going down the drain of his mouth. He’ll look like he’s swallowed a black hole. He’ll look like a pensioner who’s had seventeen facelifts.

Still, thinking about his dental demolition derby has taken my mind off the omnipresent heat. And the droning industrial fans that just move it from one bit of the building to another… twelve, though? What the actual hell was the idiot doing?

THE END

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