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Frequent Flyer

There was this one fellow who kept visiting my emergency room time and time again.

We call those of his ilk “frequent flyers” in the medical industry, and they typically have the same chief complaint each visit.

Frequent flyers are generally individuals with poor health: immunocompromised, drug addicts, poor, or a combination of the three.

This particular man, Harry, was as dirty as they come and fit that frequent flyer trifecta to a tee.

Dirt caked under his fingernails, looking like he was jonesing for his next fix, and always short on credits, Harry gained quite a reputation amongst my staff.

His chief complaint?

A toothache.

With every damn time I was forced to peer into his mouth, I swear his sore tooth turned blacker.

And every damn time I concluded his physical examination, I told Harry the same exact thing:

You need to see a dentist.

What is this, the second time in three weeks that you’ve come to visit me, Blacktooth?

You’re starting to gain a reputation as a frequent flyer to my clinic, but I am obligated to provide you a physical examination.

I see nothing has changed:

You’re still caked in dirt from head to toe.

You’re still looking like if you don’t immediately receive your next fix you’ll be out for blood.

And you’re still scavenging for credits like you’re on a never-ending treasure hunt.

It’s no wonder my staff views you as a nuisance.

And upon examination, I can see from your rotten, black tooth that you’ve yet to address your same ailment that I’ve twice diagnosed now since our paths first crossed:

Your damn toothache.

So it’s apparent to me that you do not take your health seriously since your sole focus when you’re not in my presence is merely getting your fix of whatever substance you use to get high on life.

We’ll I’m not going to be the one to fix you, nor will I be the one to provide you your next fix.

You’ve stepped foot into my clinic one too many times, dirt bag, and when you step foot into my ring at Clash 313, this doctor is about to treat you like the type of patient you present yourself to be:

A frequent flyer.

Nurse Frightengale will roll her eyes at the sight of you, and I will go through the motions of the same, tired routine with you, knowing full well what the end result will be:

I will provide you the professional medical advice that you need, and you will defer the proper intervention to fix your problem and instead seek out your next fix of Arcadian plasma.

Because you’re a frequent flyer, and if I have to beat the fact that you’ve once again visited the wrong medical professional into your poor, dirty head, then I’ll make it my job to do so.

Until then, I’ll tell you the same damn thing I told you last time:

It’s time for you to see a damn dentist.

Now take a deep breath, and close your eyes…

See you on the other side, Blacktooth.

Dr. Death