Here's a story from when I was in the U.S. Military. My place of assignment was Baumholder, West Germany. The year was 1965:
The work day was over and I was in the Day Room in my civilian clothing sitting and speaking with a friend. As you may not be aware, a Day Room is a location designated specifically for watching television, playing cards, socializing, etcetera.
I went on to explain to my friend that earlier in the day I had been to the dentist, seeking relief from a persistent toothache. While in the dental chair the officer, most likely trying to scare me into better dental hygiene, brought attention to how badly my gums were receding behind my lower front teeth. "There's nothing that can reverse the damage," he stated, and that he was giving my teeth, "Last Rites." He then expressed what seemed to be a bubbly willingness to "... Pull every last one of them," if I was ready for the same?
I thanked him with, "No, Sir. Just the one that hurts, I'll try and brush more frequently, but thank you for your concern." I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair; the throbbing pain awaiting the needle's pinch.
Finished with the single extraction, I got up out of that sweaty leather chair, my mind and body mourning its recent loss, and walked slowly back to work still thinking of what that eager dentist had said to me. "Last Rites, my ass. He wanted to use me for practice!" I shouted.
It was about this time I noticed my friend's attentiveness wandering. A stranger standing nearby, seemingly interested in something I had said, approached; leaned in closer, and nodding his agreement, said, "Last Rites, that's right, me too!"
The man suddenly in our personal space was about my age, but shorter, and of stockier build. And with those short arms, and round face with bulging eyes, and an extremely close haircut, standing there in his red shirt he reminded me of a fire hydrant. A creepy one, an uncle Fester, Addams Family kind of creepy one.
Through a tight-lipped smile, this odd little utility of a man, then asked me to follow him, saying he had "something to show me."
Blame it on curiosity, I felt compelled to oblige and we moved to a less occupied corner of the Day Room. 'Mr. Fire Plug' then opened his mouth and pointed to what appeared to be a plastic, skin colored mass adhered to the back of his lower front teeth, telling me this was "a permanent fix." That his dentist applied it, and problem solved forever.
It was about then my friend joined us. Expressing his own unique expletive curiosity, he asked Mr. Fire Plug to kindly show him too; which he did, again opening wide that thin-lipped mouth of his.
Seeing the skin colored mass once again myself, I questioned: "Where'd you say you got that? Who'd you say did that for you?"
"You need to know certain people," he replied.
Strange thing to say, I thought. But seeing was believing. Then Mr. Fire Plug said, "Here, look at this..." Unbuttoning his shirt he revealed a jagged puffy scar in the middle of his chest, a good five to six inches in length. Very Frankenstein-ish in its appearance.
This abrupt change of subject from plastic in the mouth -- to large ugly scar on the chest -- caught me by complete surprise. I recall saying something about open heart surgery; and asked how in the hell could he be in the U.S. Army with something like that? I'd known a soldier in basic who was in his final training week and discharged from further service because they'd detected a slight heart mummer in the poor bastard. But this was certainly nothing like that!
He smiled that tight-lipped grin of his and said he wasn't in the Army. That was reassuring, him not in the Army, but then who was he and what was he doing in our Day Room?
This got me to wondering more about his general appearance, that scar, and that stuff on his teeth. Never managed to form any of that into a solid enough question, however, because Mr. Fire Plug kept right on talking, saying things that really shocked me to my toes: tThat he had been a young man with an undiagnosed heart condition; one that resulted in his untimely death. He nodded again, saying yes he too had been given "Last Rites;" that he had died and gone to his grave.
He used words like "funeral parlor" "coffin" "dead and buried" repeating "rescued from the grave." Said his heart had been "fixed" and his "life restored" as a result of some advanced medical procedure.
"It's who you know, certain people, isn't it..." came squeaking excitedly louder through that smile.
And then looking past us, searching the room, a quieter nervousness in his voice, he offered reason for this bizarre rebirth. He claimed he was now a grateful Worker, indentured to those that had the power and the advanced knowledge to perform such amazing high tech operations. And then looking right at me whispered he wasn't the first, that untold thousands of others just as dead have also been resurrected by those that can. That it is all done routinely, sometimes right from the funeral home, that most deaths are correctable, that all become Workers.
He claimed his teeth had been fixed solely as a minor adjustment, a tune up, so to speak. And that these graveyard kidnappings have been going on for centuries on our planet without human awareness. Once out of sight -- and gone forever - a never ending supply of grateful Workers.
Trying to absorb all this, my friend and I stood there silently with what must have been one dumbass look on our face. Thoughts of, hey is this guy telling me he's a zombie, some kind of living ghost..., or what?
It was about that time Mr. Fire Plug took notice of a tall man standing across the room speaking with some individuals seated on a couch there. I have no idea what they were discussing, it's not important here, what is important is the man was glaring in our direction; and I swear I heard him addressing Mr. Fire Plug (not heard with my ears, but hearing it loud and clear in my mind, nevertheless), as if reprimanding, demanding to know what exactly was he saying to us? Mr. Fire Plug, looking extremely on edge, briskly walked away without saying another word.
There's not much to add except to tell you that I have made it a point to ask dentists over the years about this plastic substance I saw once that might be poured behind my teeth to fix my receding gum line? They've all replied basically the same:
"No, sorry. Don't know of anything like that."
Now, in retrospect, if Mr. Fire Plug, him creepy or not, spilled more of the beans than he should have that day - and was admonished for doing it - I have a feeling if he's right we'll all come to know more about the secrets of this strange encounter soon enough.