A horrified squeal arose from the assemblage of dentists. For there, on the hill, silhouetted by the setting sun, were the Four Horsemen of the Pocked Lips. Straining at reins of floss and digging in spurs of shattered mirrors, they rode into the midst of their enemies with unleashed fury.

Plaque, weilding his calcified club that sticks fast to all things.

Decay, whose touch rots enamel into viscous and foul-smelling goo.

Halitosis, who leaves stench and the portent of death in its wake.

Stain, whose dark marks will never be removed, even with bleach.

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