It’s not often dental practices are discussed in the same article as zombies. But if you’re a fan of “The Walking Dead” and all things zombie, then this article is for you. Even if you aren’t a fan, check out Dr. Andrew Tanchyk’s fun and kitschy look at business from the perspective of the Zombie Apocolypse, and how this dentist learned to survive.
It was a horrid mess. Scabby, putrid zombies ripping off arms and legs, then raking and flaying off muscle and skin and snapping their rake-like teeth on femurs and fibulas. They feasted like frenzied freaks on livers and bowels. Humans were blasting off zombie heads with shotguns. SUVs were running over the grotesque ghouls. Yeah, it was tough for the survivors, but we dentists got by because we’re tough. Me? I fortified my home office and cars. I had my glocks and some awesome Molotovs.
Commerce was at Mad Max levels with all the raging zombies, but survivors still needed dental treatment. So we bartered for everything. I was paid in gas, booze, batteries, goats, chickens, and Kardashian DVDs. But I had a major cashflow problem. A bartering tax was passed but the idiots were still collecting taxes and fees in cash from the local to federal level.
All the foul, rampaging zombies were trying to chomp on us survivors. But we were smashing their ugly heads. On the other hand, the political, business, and media elites kept their hustle going from protected zombie-free zones. To them, both the survivors and zombies were the great unwashed.
One day I saw a mess of mangled, slimy dudes congregating, wailing, and shrieking outside my office and waving a white flag. “Hey man,” one hideous fiend screeched, “we need your help. You may not recognize us, but some of us were your patients. You have a good rep, man. Fair fees, good work, a gentle guy.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m going to have to rebuild every one of your mouths. I need cash, good checks, or valid credit cards. You’re zombies. How are you going to do that?”
“Hey man!” moaned another zombie. “The feds are appropriating inactive, so-called zombie accounts. We might be undead but we are not dumb. It was our cash alive, now it’s ours undead. So we took some cash from the ATMs so they can’t get at it. Look at my money belt, man. I got tons of cash. And I’m a zombie, so nobody’s going to mug me on the street or from the government.”
“Ok,” I reply hesitantly, “Now, nothing personal, but you’re gross looking, stink of a grave, and have the foulest breath. So I’m adding a surcharge, and I insist anyone I treat has to take a pledge never to eat human sushi again. Otherwise, no deal.”
Another freak groans, “Hey man, that’s why we’re here. It’s a type of rehab. We realize our undead condition just gave us an unnatural addiction. We’re already just doing dogs, cats, skunks, rats, and we’re getting into fruits and veggies and whole grains. But we need teeth to do it.”
“Ok,” I say, “but no puppy dogs or kitty cats either.” “That’s cool man,” screamed a putrefied corpse. “We can pledge that.”
So, true to their shrieking word, the zombies came in for treatment and paid upfront. In weeks I had dozens of clinics around the state, and in months a monopoly of thousands around the country. It opened a whole new avenue of commerce in the middle of the apocalypse. The zombies gave free passage to all the dental workers and suppliers, protecting them from any of their non-rehabbed kin. But the dental part of the economy became the least of this mad new commerce.
Behaviorwise, it was the same mix as my preapocalyptic patients. Most of the slimy undead were a pleasant appreciative type.
Behaviorwise, it was the same mix as my preapocalyptic patients. Most of the slimy undead were a pleasant appreciative type. The few with repressed dental phobias were a trip. A shrieking zombie is afraid of me? And it’s not like you can sedate someone who’s already dead. Anyway, that wasn’t the really weird thing.
I didn’t think much about appearance for the reconstructed zombie teeth. Zombie esthetics? Come on! So think of my shock when every one of these unnatural dudes was looking in the mirror and asking for bright, white, straight choppers. I was even more shocked by their obsessive-compulsive dental hygiene. Every one of them told me not only were they serious about the zombie pledge, but they were also not going to repeat the same mistakes of their living past, starting with not taking care of their teeth.
Many wanted Botox. I was upfront and told them they were past any improvement in that area. But they loved the stuff. They also took speech therapy. No more groaning and shrieking. They actually learned to mimic their favorite voices.
This is where this whole unearthly thing blasted off. Each one of them, as they got their teeth fixed, started taking showers and bubble baths, spas, fixing their hair, clothes, jewelry, movies, fast and fine food, sushi—the real stuff, not the human, transportation. They wanted jobs for more spending and investment. Guess who has to be the envoy and negotiator for all of this? They were even going to worship services with their zombie clergy.
I asked one religious zombie freak, “I thought we go to church to pray and prepare for death. So what are you praying and preparing for? You’re already dead.”
“Doctor,” he articulated like Morgan Freeman, “The Lord blesses all creatures great and small. And oddly, he blesses zombies like me and wise guys like you most of all.”
The survivors and zombies started mixing it up in the economy in a civil fashion. The zombies had a program to control those that fell back into their ravenous cravings. Survivors were also determined not to repeat the sins of the past. So the economy boomed.
At first the elites were disturbed by the kooky new happenings. They were not in control. But they discovered a brave new world as tax revenues spiked up. The dead had risen and could be taxed.
The zombies and I developed this strange, beautiful friendship. So much so that in the November election they wrote me in and I won the US senate seat in New Jersey, which should be not surprise here in New Jersey or the rest of the country. I was just one in a long list of politicians who won an election because the dead voted.
The zombies got what they wanted. I became their man to negotiate the zombie/human peace treaty in Washington. It was a simple five-page bill that would bring an end to the crimson apocalypse. One night at 7 p.m., the treaty was scheduled to pass unanimously by both houses of congress, and then be signed at the White House the following morning at 10 a.m.
But at 6 p.m., three undead leaders told me they wanted one more line added to the five-page treaty or millions of zombies would go back to their old munching ways. I agreed with the line. But I didn’t have the guts to do it.
“So you’re telling me if I don’t do this you’ll chomp on the brains of these DC elites tomorrow in the Rose garden?” I asked. “Doc!” said a Jack Nicholson mimic, “from past experience, these DC types have nothing substantial in their skulls.”
I cautioned them, “You’ve heroically clawed your way up from hell. You might be ugly, but I don’t think you’re stupid enough to go back down into that pit.”
A female thing that spoke like Katherine Hepburn said, “Doctor, we zombies love your sarcasm. It’s honest. But here is ours. We’ve been handed a miserable second chance at life and liberty. We freaks have the guts to take that chance. Do you?”
I was finally in sync with these unreal abominations. They would always be ugly. But inside their putrid guts there was something more than just ugly. So I put in the line. Congress passed it unanimously, unread.
This morning in the Rose Garden, they had some school kids there as props. The kids did read the treaty. One fifth grader read her homework assignment about the treaty to some elites. By noon it was like a total eclipse. The politicians and media began foaming at the mouth and belching. It was Armageddon!
The Zombie’s one liner stated there would be an immediate 50% reduction in all taxes, fees, and regulations for humans and zombies. The politicians and their hacks spent the evening screeching of anarchy and victimhood.
It’s Armageddon, yet despite the rage of the elites, the survivors and zombies are now dancing to songs of peace and freedom in the bright streets of the republic. Armageddon, anyone?
Andrew Tanchyk, DMD, practices in South Amboy, New Jersey.
This article first appeared in DE's Expert Tips & Tricks. To receive enlightening and helpful practice management articles in this e-newsletter twice a month, visit dentistryiq.com/subscribe.
