Dennis Crawford’s knees were close to buckling from under him when he was led into the room by Martin Gutierrez and caught his first glimpse of Rick O’Shea. The lump in his throat felt like a fist was stuck.

He looked nervously to the doorway behind him. Martin Gutierrez remained standing there, arms folded and eyes on Dennis. 

Dennis considered making a break for it, blowing past Rick O’Shea’s associate, and making a last ditch attempt to get away from what he knew was about to come. But in his heart of hearts, he knew the futility of an escape attempt. He would be back. Whether he wanted to or not.

He returned his gaze to Rick O’Shea who appeared to have read his mind. 

“You don’t look too pleased to see me, Dennis.” O’Shea said.

“Err… no, I mean, yes, Mr. O’Shea. I’m pleased. Love it here.” Dennis said, with a quiver to his voice, “Love what you’ve done with the place too.”

He looked at the array of tools laid out before O’Shea and involuntarily gulped. O’Shea, in contrast, smiled a toothy smile at Dennis and gestured he come in and sit on the chair in front of O’Shea.

It was safe to say Rick O’Shea was a man who inspired fear. Physical size alone would do that. A man of six foot five, O’Shea boasted square shoulders that look like a set square had been used to shape them. Even his bushy eyebrows had a muscular quality; thick and curling upwards at the ends like they were flexing.

His hand rested alongside his tools. For someone with hands so large, he could use them deftly as if the implements were an extension of his fingers. They were known to have a dexterous flexibility, which was unusual for someone of his size. 

And he had his favourite tools, of course. Every professional does. 

Physical attributes aside, what set him apart was his approach to his work. His professionalism. A man of no-nonsense who took to his work with brutal efficiency, offering no emotion nor mercy. The job was the job. He had no time to sympathise with Dennis or anyone else who Gutierrez brought him.

Dennis sat down, lowering himself cautiously into the chair. O’Shea nodded to Gutierrez who dutifully closed the door.

O’Shea leaned over and pulled Dennis’ mouth open using a couple of those large yet dexterous fingers, and peered inside at the offending molar that was causing Dennis such murderous pain. 

“So, Dennis,” O’Shea said, reaching over to the tools, “Looks like it’s a root canal today. Try not to worry. This won’t hurt one bit…”