David was crouched within the leghole of his big steel desk, convinced that his deodorant could likely be his undoing. He was sure that the walking corpses that shuffled through the hallway and this and the adjoining examination room could smell his vibrant, living flesh, as well as the pungent man-scent coming from his armpits. His grandfather had used this same scent, strangely enough, to woo his grandmother into love, marriage, kids, grandkids, and then a plot at Beth El cemetery, although by that time most of the scent had worn off. And, truth be known, his grandmother was less “wooed” into the plot than “planted”.
“F**king enamel is no match,” said a gurgly, undead fellow just outside the door to the room where David hid. “Bone is pretty damned hard.”
“I stay with the soft innards, myself,” came a reply from similar gurgly voice. “Lungs have a consistency like a stiff crème brulee, if you use your imagination.”
Look, Einstein, if you want the crème de la crème, rather than just the crème brulee, you go for the brain. But there is one thing standing between your stomach and the brain.”
“A decomposing tongue?”
“The fricking brain pain, you moron. Ain't no way you're getting to the nice soft grey matter without popping that fricking walnut. Hence the problem.”
“I don't get it,” said the second voice after a long pause. “What's the problem again?”
“Have you noticed the shitty state of our teeth? As soon as we're resurrected, our fricking teeth turn into dodgy, splintery little yellow stumps. It don't matter if you had the teeth of fricking Tom Cruise in life...one minute after you wake up your teeth are for shit.”
“Yeah,” said the second voice, “my parents paid a load for my orthodontia when I was a kid...now look at these things.” He opened his jaw wide to show off yellow stumps and rotten gums.
“Well, kiddo,” said the first, “I want to change all that.”
“How you gonna' do that?”
“I have no idea. If we could just find a live one who knows something about teeth, I bet we could get some implants or some cosmetic bonding done before we eat the little nutter. “
“Where we gonna' find someone like that? And a live one, too?”
“I'm not sure,” said the first one, “but we sure ain't gonna find one in a synagogue. Come on, let's go.”
The two undead shuffled to the door of the clinic and paused. One looked at the sign near the entrance. “David R. Feldstein, DDS” read the engraved text.
“What the hell is a DDS?” asked the second corpse.
“It's a school around here, I think...a grade school,” said the first, heading out onto the street.
Still holding his breath under the desk, Justin gave thanks for these goyim zombies and for having opened his clinic in his native Dutchess County.