-- America’s Mouth Is Full of Blood --
Metal scrapes enamel. That specific sound teeth make when hygienist finds the tender spot. My mouth stretched wide by latex fingers and chrome instruments. Can’t speak. Can’t swallow. Can’t look away from the ceiling TV where CNN scrolls red banners about political assassination.
“Just a little pressure here,” she says, digging deeper.
Minnesota lawmaker dead. Husband dead. Second lawmaker critical.
The suction tube gurgles pink water. Taste of iron and mint. My tongue trapped under dental dam while democracy bleeds out on mute television. Perfect fucking symmetry.
Phone in pocket buzzes against hip bone. Can’t check it. Hands gripping armrests like I’m falling out of a republic.
“You’ve got some buildup on the lower incisors,” hygienist continues, oblivious or indifferent to the news crawl. “Have you been flossing?”
Assassination at 2 AM. Man dressed as cop. AK-style weapons. The details drip into consciousness like novocaine, numbing everything they touch. I try to nod about flossing but the tools prevent movement. Democracy’s molars crumble while I can’t even close my jaw.
Melissa Hortman. Dead at scene. Multiple gunshot wounds.
The overhead light burns retinal afterimages. Hygienist hums something unrecognizable. Country music or hymn or both. Her gloved fingers taste like institutional latex, that specific medical flavor of enforced vulnerability. I breathe through my nose. Count ceiling tiles. Try not to think about how this same helplessness scales up to continental collapse.
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