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Summary
What matters is this, here: Pantalone jams his pointer and middle fingers into his mouth. A rosy fixture atop porcelain skin marred into creases–both from age and fire–ajar to send a protest Pantalone’s way. Before he can try, Pantalone parts his fingers and slides them to either side of his gums, exposing two rows of exquisite teeth.
And four unmistakably pointed canines.
Or, wherein Dottore summons Pantalone after work hours for an impromptu "emergency" meeting.
