by Bill Tiepelman
Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk
“It’s just toothpaste,” Gary mumbled, shaking off his hangover like a wet dog shaking fleas. He squinted at the metallic tube beside the sink—dented, bulging, and weirdly... moist? He didn’t remember buying this brand. Or ever using a brand where the packaging growled when you touched it. Hungover logic has its own flavor of confidence, so he yanked the cap. Bad move. With a wet pop and an unnatural grunt, the tube exploded into motion. Out shot a creature, half-man, half-aluminum horror with skin like expired deli meat and a grin like a dental crime scene. It landed on the counter like a greased goblin and bellowed, "TIME TO BRUSH, B*TCH!" Gary screamed in a pitch previously reserved for flan-related emergencies. The creature leapt, squeezing its own midsection and spraying a fleshy pink paste all over Gary’s Sonicare like it owed him child support. "You want clean teeth or prison gums?” the tube-demon barked, violently frothing at the mouth. “I got 37 herbs and spices of minty domination!" Gary reached for the door, but it slammed shut on its own. The room smelled of spearmint and panic. “Wha—what the hell are you?” he whimpered, dodging another squirt of what might’ve been toothpaste or demonic tapioca. The thing flexed. “I’m Tuborax. Dental Warlord of the Seventh Sink. I’ve been squeezed by sinners and saints. I’ve freshened breath before battle. I’ve been used in prison—twice—and not just for brushing.” Gary blinked. “I... I just wanted fresh breath.” Tuborax leaned in, nostrils flaring like they were trying to commit a misdemeanor. “Fresh? No, Gary. You’re about to get spiritually flossed.” Then, from beneath the sink, something began to rumble. Something worse. Something... foamy. The cabinet under the sink burst open like a guilty confession. Out oozed a sticky foam with the consistency of half-melted shaving cream and the vibe of a frat house at 3 a.m. It smelled like peppermint, fear, and unresolved trauma. Tuborax’s eyes widened with manic glee. “Ahhh... the Mouthwash Abyss awakens. Perfect timing.” Gary slipped on a puddle of what he hoped was Listerine and fell backward, barely avoiding a toothbrush with more bristles than moral compass. “I just wanted to freshen up before my date!” he cried. “Date?” Tuborax sneered. “Son, your mouth smells like a tax audit. And you think you’re gonna smooch someone without me excavating that funk swamp? No. NO. I’ve seen mold less stubborn than your molars.” From the abyss, a voice echoed: “Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuushhhh.” Then it rose. An enormous, semi-translucent figure made entirely of mouthwash loomed overhead like a gelatinous god. Inside its minty belly, half-dissolved teeth swirled like haunted Chiclets. It gurgled, “I AM LISTERLORD.” Tuborax bowed slightly. “Yo, Listerlord. Long time, no spit.” Gary sat frozen in horror. Listerlord pointed a shimmering finger at him. “This one flosses once a quarter and thinks orange Tic Tacs count as oral care.” “They do!” Gary squeaked. “They’re citrusy!” “You’re about to be citrus-sanitized, boy,” Tuborax said, grabbing Gary by the collar. “Listerlord, initiate... the Deep Cleanse Protocol.” Suddenly, music blared from nowhere—something between EDM and Gregorian chant. Tuborax leapt into the air with the agility of a greased chimp and began brushing Gary’s teeth with a vengeance not seen since 80s action movies. The toothbrush vibrated like a jackhammer on ecstasy, each bristle doing penance for its sins. “OPEN WIDE,” screamed Listerlord, pouring gallons of minty fluid down Gary’s gullet until his soul tingled. His gums screamed. His tongue saw God. Somewhere in the distance, a molar tapped out Morse code for “help.” After what felt like a full rinse cycle at the Gates of Tartarus, it stopped. Gary lay on the bathroom floor, dazed, drooling, and breathing peppermint steam. Tuborax stood over him, hands on hips, smug as hell. “Congratulations. You’re clean enough to French kiss a nun in zero gravity.” Gary blinked. “What... just happened?” “You got disciplined,” Tuborax said. “And now... I must go. Another dirty mouth calls.” He saluted Gary with the toothbrush like a saber. “Remember: brush twice daily. Floss, even when you’re hungover. And never—never—buy store brand paste. That sh*t is evil.” With that, he dove back into the tube, which sealed shut with a pop and a burp that smelled faintly of wintergreen and regret. Gary sat up, minty tears rolling down his face. “I’m never skipping a dental appointment again.” Behind him, the tube twitched. It had been three weeks since The Incident. Gary no longer used store-brand toothpaste. Hell, he didn’t even go down that aisle. The mere crinkle of foil made his eyelid twitch. He had three electric toothbrushes now—named “Faith,” “Hope,” and “Oh God Not Again.” He flossed with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb made of plaque and bad life choices. His date? Canceled. She texted: “Your vibe is… minty trauma?” Therapists don’t believe him. Dentists whisper when he walks in. And the bathroom mirror still fogs up with strange messages during hot showers—like “SPIT AND REPENT” or “GINGIVA SEES ALL.” But Gary sleeps better now. His breath could stun a mule. His teeth? So clean they squeak when he frowns. Still, every so often… he hears a squish from the cabinet below the sink. A muffled laugh. The faint echo of a war cry: “SQUEEEEEEEEZE ME!” And he knows… somewhere in the shadowy plumbing realms between dimension and drain—Tuborax waits. Watching. Ready to lather again. Survived the tale of Tuborax? Immortalize the madness in your own bathroom—if you dare. ⚔️ Lather in fear with the "Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk" Shower Curtain — guaranteed to make guests question their life choices. 🧼 Dry your tears (and your everything else) with the Matching Bath Towel, softer than Tuborax’s warped soul. 🖼️ Want Tuborax judging your hygiene habits from the wall? Get him in style with a Framed Print or the eye-popping Acrylic Print. Warning: side effects may include extreme freshness, spontaneous flossing, and mild existential dread.
