by Kaye George
Hell’s Leak. The red neon sign flashed the words and as Bob studied them, he realized the shop was home for a tattoo parlor. He tilted his head to the side, trying to see into the windows, past the tinted black glass. Santana’s song Evil Ways reached his ears along with the buzz of a tattoo gun. After a moment of hesitation, he pushed the door open and went inside.
Nathan Ink looked up from the client he worked on. Nathan’s dark eyes took in the newcomer as he listened for the hum he occasionally heard from his special customers. Sure enough, it was there, faint at first but louder as Bob moved closer to the counter.
"Can I help you?" Nathan asked, brushing one surgical gloved hand across a stray hair that dared to wiggle free from the rest of his straight black coif.
"No, no," Bob said. "Just looking."
"Look all you want. Just let me know when you’re ready. They call me Nathan Ink."
The variety of tattoo designs plastered all over the walls of the small shop, which smelled strongly of antiseptic, amazed Bob. Some designs were exotic, mysterious, and darkly seductive. Others were silly—the kind of thing one got on Spring Break down at the coast or in Mexico on a drunken whim. He’d never seriously considered getting a tattoo before. Too painful. But as he looked at them, he realized what a great conversation piece it would be. The little pin up girl with the wide breasts might look nice on his bicep or his massively hairy chest. Or perhaps the Celtic designs with their curling arms, beckoning to him. Yeah, that one might be the way to go. Very masculine. Maybe—
"That one’s not right for you."
Bob turned to find Nathan Ink staring at him from behind the counter. The big man’s hand rested on a small, leather bound book with the word Sinz emblazoned on the front. Bob moved towards it, intrigued.
"I have what you need right here," Nathan said, his voice a deep rumble, drawing Bob closer. "What you need is a tattoo that is unique: Something representing who you really are; something that will feed your lazy soul."
"Feed your lazy soul," Bob echoed the words, liking their sound, their taste in his mouth.
An hour and a half later Bob left Hell’s Leak sporting a brand new tattoo on the back of his right hand. The end result had been a black goat with a woolly beard and two small horns that poked up out of its head. Dark, wise eyes gave the tattoo a human quality and Bob could not think why in the world he had allowed himself to sit through such torture for a damn animal tattoo. But the whole time that man, Nathan, drilled on his hand, his eyes never seeming to leave Bob’s face as he whispered about dark things—things Bob could barely remember now. The only thing that kept popping into his mind was the phrase, "feed your lazy soul."
His hand stinging and covered in white surgical gauze for protection, Bob walked back down Sixth Street, passing a club where blues spewed out with raw, gritty determination, competing with the techno beat of another establishment a little further down. Still early, the college kids were just getting out on the town. University girls with dark mascara and big breasts brushed past him on their way to scavenge for boys and men of all ages. Granola chicks with no bras and braided hair, perfumed with their own body odor, pandered homemade jewelry on the street, calling out to everyone who passed by. None of them made contact with Bob.
***
Discouraged that no one gave him a second glance, he decided to grace Katz’s Deli with his presence, making his way to the small bar in the back. He plopped down on a shiny black vinyl stool, which matched the black and white checkerboard pattern on the bar’s floor.
"What can I get for you?" The bartender wiped at a smudge on the counter, her voice hurried, as if she had a million drink orders to fill though Bob was the only patron at the bar.
"Apple martini," Bob said, studying his hand.
"Did you just get a new tattoo?" The bartender stared at the bandage and Bob brightened. This was why he’d got the damn thing in the first place. To start conversations.
"Yeah. Hurt like hell."
"That’s what I hear. Personally, I don’t think I—" the bartender began but Bob cut her off.
"But I can take a lot of pain, though. I’m very resilient that way. You probably noticed that I have huge calves. You can only get those from cycling. This one time I was riding down River Road in San Marcos on my bike when it flooded and I got my foot caught on a big—"
"Will you shut the fuck up?"
Bob blinked at the bartender, unsure of what he’d just heard.
"You got your foot caught on a what?" the bartender probed, handing him his drink, unperturbed.
"On a tree limb," Bob said, sipping the drink. Where had that voice come from? Perhaps it was someone at a nearby table talking to another diner. He continued with the story. "It was a big limb and I thought I’d never be able to get my foot out. But I kept working on it and—" "Did you not hear what I said? Shut the fuck up! Jesus, just because you own a bike doesn’t mean you’re fuckin’ Lance Armstrong!"
Bob blinked. The bartender stared at him, waiting for Bob to finish his sentence. Bob knew the voice had not come from her. Instead, he had the odd feeling it had come from somewhere below him, almost from the bar counter itself. He looked down, the pain of his tattoo sharp and throbbing.
"Are you okay? You know, I can’t serve you anymore alcohol if you are already drunk," the bartender said.
"I’m not drunk. I just thought I heard something," Bob said.
"Okay, buddy." The bartender moved away but Bob got the distinct impression she thought he was crazy.
"I’m not crazy," Bob muttered.
"No, you’re not. You’re just lazy, irresponsible, egotistical and even downright annoying."
With a trembling hand, Bob gently removed the bandage from over his tattoo. The goat, wizened and wooly, stared up at him, a perfect ink picture. Then it did the impossible, blinking its eyes, a sly grin crossing its bestial face. "Hi, Bob."
There was a rushing sound in Bob’s ears and his heart began to pound, the urge to vomit strong. He covered the tattoo quickly, blocking out the goat’s grin. Conscious of the bartender’s curious stare, he threw some money down on the counter, downed the martini, and headed out of Katz’s. In his haste, he bumped into a group of Goth kids, who leered at him with black-rimmed eyes before one of them shoved him out of the way. As he passed, someone called out, "Dumbass!"
There was laughter at that but it didn’t come from the Goth kids. It came from the goat etched into his left hand. He moved up Sixth Street, trying to ignore the pain and the maniacal giggling of his tattoo.
"Bob! Oh, Bob!"
The goat’s earthy voice was in his ears and Bob couldn’t decide if it was really talking out loud or if it was just in his head. The people he passed gave him odd looks but he didn’t know if they could actually hear the goat’s voice calling his name. He lowered his head, trying to make his way back to his car. But the voice, insistent and loud, would not give up.
One of his favorite hangouts, Casino El Camino, appeared and Bob ducked inside the dark bar. Its loud metal music momentarily covered the voice in his ears. He ordered a Lone Star and moved to the second floor where the pool table resided. The area was deserted for a change and that suited Bob fine. He didn’t want anyone witnessing him talking to his hand.
"It’s about fucking time," the goat snarled when Bob removed the bandage. "I’ve been shouting at you for half a mile. Do you have wax in those big ears?"
"What do you want?" Bob asked, unable to stop the fear he felt from creeping into his voice.
"What do I want? Well, I’m glad you asked. That shows there is hope for you yet. Most of the time, my special friends don’t bother to ask that question. They just want to know when I’ll stop talking," the goat said, and as Bob watched it sat back on its hind legs, rather human like, and produced a small cigar from somewhere in its woolly mass. "Mind if I smoke?"
"No," Bob said, fascinated. The goat lit the cigar a little awkwardly with its hooves and then blew a smoke ring. It floated to th
e edge of Bob’s hand as if inked into his skin, but with a slight sucking sound, it slipped free and drifted, big and fat, right into Bob’s curious face. The words slipped from his mouth, full of wonder, as he said, "Holy shit."
"Well, I don’t know that it’s all that holy but you are in deep shit, my man," the goat said. "A special tattoo like me is only given to those in need."
"In need? I’m not in trouble."
"Yeah, you are. But it’s not the kind of trouble you’re thinking. This is no It’s a Wonderful Life moment. I’m not here to play Clarence and take you back in time to show you how the bad the world would be without you. I already know the truth on that one—the world would never miss an ass like you. Believe me, the planet is populated with a zillion pricks who don’t know when to shut up." The goat puffed away on its cigar, it’s voice not unkind but almost familiar, as if Bob had heard it before. "But like I said, there may be hope for you."
"There’s nothing wrong with me," Bob said.
"Bullshit. There’s plenty wrong with you. The problem is no one gives a shit about what’s wrong with you because you yourself don’t care about them."
"That’s not true. I care about others."
"Really? When was the last time you asked one of your friends about themselves? When was the last time you helped someone else out of a bind? When was the last time you let someone else tell a story in your presence? I bet you can’t remember the answer to any of those questions," the goat said, his voice full of throaty laughter. "For that matter, when was the last time you took a shower? Boy, you are ripe!"
"I took a shower this week! It was…let’s see…today is Saturday, so it had to be…"
"Dude, are you talking to your hand?"
Bob looked up and saw a tall guy with shaggy brown hair, a long Jesus beard and clothes made from hemp. The scent of patchouli was strong, making Bob wrinkle his nose. There was something vaguely familiar about the guy, as if Bob had met him before, but he couldn’t quite place him.
"Dude, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Justin, you know from San Marcos. We worked together at the Paper Bear," Justin said.
"Oh yeah, Justin," Bob said, shaking Justin’s offered hand, wincing slightly when the handshake crinkled the shape of the goat burnt into his flesh. "How are you?"
"I’m good, man. Still working in San Marcos and going to school," Justin answered, slipping a small joint out of the pocket of his hemp shirt.
"That’s cool," Bob said, thinking they had worked together a million years ago. How was it that Justin was still in school? But as the smell of marijuana tickled his nose, he knew exactly what kept Justin there.
"Dude, you were talking to your hand. What’s up with that?"
"You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"Okay. I just got a tattoo and it’s been talking to me."
"Really? Let me see."
Bob stuck his hand out. Justin stared at it intently but then with great disappointment said, "I don’t hear anything."
"He’s a tricky little fucker. Wait, I’ll show you how it works." Bob shook his hand hard, trying to wake the goat up but succeeded in only causing his wrist to pop.
"That’s okay, dude," Justin said, unimpressed as he sucked on the joint. "We all here voices in our heads sometime. Just the other night I was trippin’ on shrooms and—"
"No, this is not from drugs, Justin. This is…something else."
"You’re damn right it is," the goat said, though it had not batted an eye. Its voice came from inside Bob’s head, reverberating like a bad sound system with feedback.
"There," Bob said and Justin leaned in, his listening face screwed on. "Did you hear that?"
"No," Justin said.
"Of course, he didn’t, you idiot. I’m in your head now. That’s the beauty of a tattoo like me. I’ve got control of your body, Bob," the goat said.
"Will you shut up and leave me alone!" The frustration in Bob’s voice was loud enough to carry down stairs.
"Dude, it’s cool. I was just making conversation," Justin said, gently grinding out his joint on the pool table. "I didn’t realize you were so in love with your hand."
"I wasn’t talking to you," Bob said.
"I can take a hint, man. You don’t have time to chat with an old friend right now. That’s cool." Justin left, heading down the stairs, a little slump in his shoulders.
"Aw…see what you did? You hurt the pothead’s feelings," the goat sneered, active on his hand again.
"What the hell do you want?"
"Nothing much. In fact, I want nothing more than this. You give me all the power I need with your laziness, your inability to care about others. That’s what I thrive on. It’s what I eat. The trash your soul pitches out feeds me and I will grow fat on the richness of such tasty remnants inside you.
So," the goat paused to puff on its cigar then leered at Bob, saying, "keep up the good work."
"No!" Bob stood up, ran down the stairs and burst out onto the street. He crossed Sixth Street, not caring about the cars that whizzed by or swerved to avoid hitting him. His only thought was to go back to Hell’s Leak with its neon sign and surgical smell. Nathan Ink had done this to him. Perhaps he could undo it too. If he could find the place again…but as he ran up and down the street, his desperate eyes did not spy the little tattoo shop. Panic wrapped around him, chilling him to the bone. All the while the goat talked to him, calling out lurid things, insulting him.
"Too lazy to find the tattoo shop you were in just hours ago. What a jerk off you are!" The goat’s voice lowered, sly and suggestive. "Did you ever think it wasn’t really there in the first place? Maybe you’re crazy, Bobby boy, maybe you conjured the whole thing with that big, fat, over inflated head of yours."
Bob covered his ears and wondered if the goat was right. Maybe he had gone crazy. The thought had him relieving himself of the contents of his stomach over the concrete wall of the Waller Creek Bridge. When he was done, he bumped directly into one of the homeless guys that set up camp by the bridge. The man stared at Bob, his eyes swirling black pools framed by bloodshot veins, as he held out his hand.
"Buddy, could you help me out? Could you give me a light?"
"Are you kidding? This selfish bastard? Can he help you out? The kid can’t even—" The goat’s voice abruptly stopped as Bob, handed the man a five dollar bill and a lighter.
"Thanks." The man shuffled away, his blanket from the Salvation Army wrapped tight around him.
Bob moved on, too. His car was just around the corner and as he slid into it, he realized the goat had fallen silent. The radio blared out an AC/DC song as he turned the ignition key. For a few minutes, as he smoothly guided his car away from downtown, the song lyrics were the only thing he heard but gradually, he became aware of another voice, throaty and deep, singing about dirty deeds done dirt cheap.
Bob switched the radio off but the goat kept chanting the words like a little prayer. Trying to ignore the annoying singer on his hand, he took the Fifty First street exit, winding his way back through the east side of town, hoping no coked up gang member would take a shot at his car. The goat lost some steam in the short drive. By the time Bob pulled into the driveway of the dilapidated house he rented it had gone silent again.
Bob hopped out and headed to the cluttered garage, searching in there until he found what he was looking for. The machete. He clutched it and headed inside.
The smell of rotten meat that he’d never gotten around to throwing out was thick in the air as Bob removed his jacket and stood in the darkness of the home, listening. Outside, his dog howled and the sound startled him but did not deter him from what he planned to do. He grabbed the cutting board from the messy pile of dishes in the sink. Little pieces of corn flake had dried on it, no doubt from the bowl he’d consumed earlier that week. He placed his hand on the board, looking at the tattoo.
"Don’t even think about it," the goat said. "It won’t work."
"I bet it
’ll work. If I sever the connection, you’ll shut the fuck up."
"I’m in your blood now, Bob. I’m in your soul, remember? You can’t break ties like that."
"Bullshit." He raised the machete he found in the garage.
"Pussy. You ain’t got the balls, son."
"Fuck you. Fuck you!" The words were desperate and he brought the machete down.
***
Now, as he sat there, holding his severed wrist close to him, blood spurting out and coloring his pale face, Bob felt a measure of relief. The pain of what he’d done was unbearable but the thought of the tattoo being off his person was a comfort. He knew he was going to be okay now, that whatever tricks his mind had been playing on him were gone. He’d call 911 and they would save him, keep him from losing too much blood. Everything would be normal again. What a story this would make! His friends would be so—
" Pssst…I’m still here, Bob," the goat whispered. "I’ll always be here, Bob. Fools like you don’t change. You don’t clean, you don’t shower, you don’t listen, and you don’t change. Nathan Ink, the guy who had tattooed me onto you knew what he was doing. He usually does."
Bob began to cry. His sobs filled the room as the little goat on his severed hand puffed at a cigar, singing AC/DC songs until his world faded to black.
YOU CAN DO THE MATH
Kaye George
You can do the math. After all, you’re an accountant. Forty-five minutes ago, your husband said he'd be home in an hour. He should be home soon. Dinner's almost ready, just pop the enchiladas into the oven when he gets here.
He’s been giving someone outrageously expensive jewelry and renting opulent hotel rooms. You’ve seen the credit card line items. The idiot hasn’t taken into account that you pay all the bills. He’s such a tech-ignoramus he probably doesn’t realize you can look at everything he does with that damn card through the online account.