Gary sat back down and planted his feet firmly on the floor, like a man preparing for a difficult conversation with reality.

“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s think.”

The pills weren’t working anymore. Or maybe they were, and this was simply the best he was going to get without professional intervention. Either way, continuing to chemically suppress the issue felt less like medicine and more like trying to drown a house fire with a teaspoon.

He considered calling a dentist. Booking an appointment. Paying money. Actual money. The sort of money that could otherwise be spent on beer, takeaway, or absolutely nothing at all.

Then there was the other option.

The one involving tools. The one he hadn’t fully admitted to himself yet. The one that started with “How hard can it be?” and usually ended with sirens.

Gary glanced toward the kitchen drawer. The tools lived there. Screwdrivers. Pliers. Things that had no business anywhere near human teeth.

His phone buzzed again.

She’s in tonight btw.

Gary exhaled slowly.

The pub wasn’t just an escape. It was an opportunity. A stupid, painful, wildly optimistic opportunity—but optimism had always been his strongest character trait, mostly because it required no effort.

He stood, wincing, and reached for his jacket.

What does Gary do?

Embrace the madness and attempt DIY extraction → Page 9 Head to the pub with a plan (or something like one) → Page 13