Tattoo

by Paul E. Cooley

  "Can I see--"

  "No, man. You can't," Nigel said. "Now get your face back down. We're gonna start."

  Jackson had been calm during the stenciling process. He'd listened to Nigel without so much as a flutter in his stomach. But the moment Nigel said the word "start," the butterflies swarmed in his stomach, fluttering against his insides with nervous energy. Once the needles began penetrating his shoulder blade, the butterflies turned into exploding missiles.

  "Yo, man," Nigel said, "stay still. You got questions, ask 'em the fuck already. Keep calm."

  "Okay," Jackson hissed through gritted teeth. "What stopped him from coming in?"

  "I thought for a while he'd maybe run out of money. The cock piercing was the last thing I'd done for him. Didn't see him for quite a while. A friend of a friend told me Pons had been in some kind of accident. Ripped him up pretty good. Reckon he spent quite a while in the hospital."

  "What kind of accident?" Jackson asked. The pain was making his head swim, his skin erupting in waves of hot, flaming bee stings.

  Nigel paused, but the needles kept whirring, the pain turning in intricate circles through Jackson's nerve endings. "Motorcycle, I think. I never really got the whole story on that one. When Pons finally came back in, he wouldn't even talk about it. Pretended it didn't even happen. But--" Nigel said and then stopped.

  The cessation of the needles didn't do much to stop the pain, but Jackson was feeling light headed now. A steady surge of endorphins and adrenaline vied for his fight or flight response. He felt sleepy. "But what?" Jackson said through a thick, lazy tongue.

  "But," Nigel said, the needles pressing back down on Jackson's back, "I can tell you what he looked like. I barely recognized him." The needles whirred again. The buzzing filled Jackson's mind with the vision of an angry wasp swarm come to exact vengeance for disturbing the nest.

  "What. Do. You. Mean?"

  "Well, Pons was a huge bloke. Guess about six-foot-two, easily two- hundred fifty pounds, or so. But, man. When he finally got back here, he'd lost a lot, and I mean, a lot of weight. It was like he'd stopped eat- ing or something. He was gaunt, his skin just kind of hanging off him." There was a pause. "I mean, fuck, I just... He was just a different person altogether."

  The sleepy feeling crept back over Jackson, the pain subsiding again. The angry stings had become dull twinges and thumps against the flesh of his shoulder blade. "Was his personality different?"

  "Yeah," Nigel said, dabbing something on Jackson's back. "Yeah, it was. He was kind of an energetic, funny guy when I knew him. But the dude that came here last time, he wasn't that way anymore. Kind of maudlin. Depressed. Seemed like he didn't quite know where he was."

  "So what happened?"

  "Well," Nigel said, going back to work with the needles. "He wanted a new tattoo. He wanted a body suit."

  "Body suit?" Jackson asked.

  "Yeah, man. You don't know shit, do you?" Jackson didn't respond. He closed his eyes and focused on Nigel's words, imagination coming to life. "A body suit is one continuous tattoo. Usually begins with some coherent, unified design. Remember the cock and balls dragon you saw? The one I did for Pons?" Jackson nodded to himself. "That could easily have been the end for a full body suit. Imagine if his entire body was covered in a dragon, the tail curling around a landscape or some shit, the head finally ending at his balls, its front legs tattooed down the sides of his own." Nigel stopped for a moment. He sighed. "Man, that's a beautiful fucking idea."

  "What kind of body suit did he want?"

  "Oh," Nigel said, the pressure of the needles back on Jackson's shoulder. "He wanted something pretty fucking cool. He wanted to do a fiery phoenix. Like, all over his body except for his extreme upper body. He wanted to be able to wear a long sleeved, collar shirt without any of it showing." Nigel chuckled. "Pons never went in for the stuff that was outright visible. Think he considered the tats his own personal world. Control over his spirit or something.

  "Bullshit if you ask me. But," Nigel said, his voice trailing off into a hiss, "some of my customers are like that. And then some of them come in and want their whole face inked."

  "You drew a phoenix design?"

  "I did," Nigel agreed. "I drew up a small scale and Pons looked at it for a while. We came to an agreement on the design and he made an appointment for the first ink. He came back a week later and took off his shirt."

  The pressure from the needles disappeared again and Jackson heard Nigel put the ink gun on the counter. There was a pause, a click, a deep inhale and then the acrid tang of cigarette smoke filled the air. "Jackson? I've seen some weird shit in this world. Hell, I've created some of it. But this, this was fucking nasty.

  "His back looked like someone had just...well, turned it into one big callous. I mean the skin was bumpy, marred, and pink and brown. Some places it had ridges, like you know, those burn victims have? The skin all curled and blackened, melted into waves? That's what he fucking looked like." Nigel took another deep drag from the cigarette. "And it was...shiny in places. Like something had scraped against the skin so hard, it had polished it. It was just fucking nasty."

  Jackson had been to the morgue before. He'd glimpsed people who'd died in explosions at the BP refinery in Texas City. People whose houses had caught fire and consumed them, leaving nothing but candle-wax drippings of flesh over their charred, shrunken skeletons. "Fuck me," Jackson breathed.

  "Yeah," Nigel said in a long exhale. The needles began buzzing again, continuing to excoriate Jackson's shoulder. "Anyway, I told him there was no way I could do it. The tats I mean."

  With a chuckle, Jackson said "I didn't take you for the squeamish type."

  "I'm not, man. You don't understand. I'm not a butcher. I'm a fucking artist. And I can't... well, I can't make art on a flawed canvas like that. There's no way that shit was going to hold ink. The scarring was just... too much."

  "How'd he react?"

  Nigel blew a hot hiss of air between his teeth. "Not well, man. He argued with me for a while. The guy was skin and bones, but he still towered over me. Could have kicked the shit out of me no problem. But I explained to him why I couldn't do it. He asked questions. Told me these keloid scars were going to continue growing and he needed to find a way to cover them up." Nigel sighed. "Shame really. I haven't done a body suit in 10 years. And that design was fucking beautiful."

  The needles stopped whirring and Jackson felt something gently press upon his shoulder blade. "We done?"

  "Yeah," Nigel said. "We are fucking done man." Jackson felt light- headed as the chair slowly righted itself. "I want you to stand still for a moment, man. Just stand there and remember how your feet feel. You ain't used to this."

  Jackson stood without moving, his feet firmly on the floor. The momentary wave of dizziness subsided and a dull ache began in his shoulder. "Man, that's fucking weird."

  Nigel turned Jackson around by the waist and stared up, a grin on his face. "You gotta see this shit, mate. I been wanting to do this for a long fucking time." He led Jackson to a mirrored wall.

  Jackson stared into his reflection. His face was pale and haggard. "Look. At. That." Nigel said pointing into the mirror.

  The dull throb in Jackson's shoulder blade intensified and then disappeared, his mouth dropped open into an "O". He stared into the mirror and saw a magnified reflection behind him. A screaming, intricate red and orange phoenix stared back at him.

  ***

  He let out a shuddering breath and looked in the bathroom mirror. His hand came away goopy with a slight red tinge. He washed his hands, turned off the water and stared back into the mirror. His face was no longer pale, but he looked as though he hadn't slept in a thousand years. The pain in his shoulder was still there, still angry, still reminding him of how fucking stupid he'd been to go through it just for a lead. Christ. For all he knew, this Pons guy was a dead-end.

  He picked up the tumbler of scotch, nosed the aroma, and then slowly drained the rest of the amber liquid.
He rolled it around his mouth, his tongue immersing itself. He finally swallowed the scotch, flattening his puffed out cheeks. Jackson stared into the tumbler for a moment and placed it back on the counter.

  He walked into the bedroom, dropping his pants as he went. He kicked them off his shoeless feet and lay upon the bed. He normally slept on his back. But tonight, he knew, he was going to be sleeping on his right side. As he drifted off, the vision of the penis tattoo rose in his mind. He shuddered again.

  Tony's voice echoed in his head. "Just stay the fuck away from it."

  Jackson fell asleep seeing Tony's angry face.

  Chapter 7

  Bright light. Penetrating. Relentless. The world was lost in a white glow so complete, Jackson could discern no details. He tried to speak, to call out, but no sound escaped his mouth. A dark figure appeared in the distance, walking toward him. The shadow swung its elongated arms with each step. Glowing yellow eyes were the only details on the misshapen entity.

  Jackson opened his mouth again to yell out. The... the thing was only fifty feet from him. As it walked toward him, the creature rubbed its hands together producing a rustling sound that set Jackson's teeth on edge. As the thing drew closer, the eyes turned into flames flickering in the shadowy face. It opened a molten maw and a sound like nails across a chalkboard filled the world.

  Jackson tried to scream, but his voice was nowhere to be found. The thing continued toward him, its arms growing longer. He tried to close his eyes against the vision, but he'd lost control of his body.

  Fiery eyes cast a dim glow across its features. Brown and blackened flesh dripped from its hands, leaving a sizzling trail.

  As Jackson watched, frozen in terror, the light moved skyward, revealing the thing before him.

  A trail of dark blood and pus had followed it. It stopped, arms nearly past its knees now. Curls of flesh flaked off, covering the white floor like volcanic ash. Through broken and blackened skin, portions of its jaw-bone glinted beneath the harsh light. The thing's flickering eyes had no pupils, just orange and red hues. Its chest puffed out in irregular scars that moved across its body. The sound of dried leaves skittering across concrete rose and fell as strips of flesh peeled from its body.

  It loomed over him, naked and exposed. Its penis was the skull of a reptile, jaws open and clicking. It leaned toward him, a lipless smile curving out. Jagged teeth shown through its melting cheeks.

  "Do you see?" it growled.

  Chapter 8

  Jackson woke, a scream lodged in his throat. His body vibrated with adrenaline. He coughed and then stared into the bedroom's darkness. The crawl of sticky liquid against his thighs sent shivers down his spine--he'd wet the bed. But at least he was still sleeping on his side.

  The throb in his shoulder returned, as if the mere thought of the tattoo had awakened it. Jackson loosed a sigh. It was still dark. "Wet my fucking bed." His voice was a dry rasp. The image of the thing rubbing its hands together, the dead, molten skin peeling with every touch, floated through his mind. Jackson closed his eyes and willed it away.

  "Goddamn you, Nigel."

  The smell of urine stung his nostrils. Jackson fought the urge to tear the sheets off himself, knowing his left arm would start howling if he moved that fast. Instead, he flexed his elbow, drew his hand to the top of the sheets. With great care, he straightened the arm. The cotton slithered down until it reached just above his waist. He swung his legs off the bed and stood on weak knees.

  Stumbling into the bathroom, Jackson got into the shower before any drops of urine could slide off his legs and onto the bathroom carpet. He stood beneath the shower-head, his wet boxers still clinging to his thighs, and turned the knob. Warm water flowed from the spigot and rained down upon him. He rotated slowly, letting the spray dowse the soaked underwear and wash away the urine from his legs. Jackson was careful to keep the streams from his upper back.

  He closed his eyes, sighing as the water inundated and warmed his flesh. He slowly peeled off the boxers and let them drop to the shower floor. The last time he'd wet the bed was while he was in his teens, and that was only after drinking way too damned much.

  With lazy hands, he soaped himself up, starting with his chest and waist and working his way down. He thought of using the loofah, but the vision of twisted, blackened flesh falling away in strips dissuaded him. Pons Matal. Pons. Fuck.

  Too much. Yesterday was just too much. The research, the crime scene photos, and then the meeting with Nigel. He shivered in the warm water. Fucking Nigel. Probably just a goddamned ghost story. Guy was probably full of shit. Yet, Jackson wondered.

  Last night, he'd done no research on Pons himself. Instead, he'd sifted through the psychology of tattoo addiction. Jackson stopped moving. Maybe Pons had been to one of these conventions before his accident. Hell, maybe Pons had even modeled at one of them. It was possible wasn't it? A grim smile crawled across his face. He renewed his washing with vigor.

  Strip the sheets from the bed. Throw them in the wash. Have some coffee. And then back to research. Jackson hummed to himself as he scrubbed away the morning's filth. He'd find Pons, dammit. He hadn't gone through the hell of getting that tattoo for nothing. The dreams could go fuck themselves. He was going to catch this guy.

  ***

  Despite Nigel's belief that Pons never showed off his tats, Jackson found out the truth. Pons had, in fact, modeled at least twice. The two references Jackson found were for stills in "Inked," a tattoo magazine. Nigel was right about one thing--Pons was a big guy.

  His tanned skin stretched over a large frame. The man in the photos had a large belly, but it didn't make him look fat. Instead, he looked like a football lineman, all muscle and sinew. His stomach looked as though it could take a punch without moving. "Just drank too much beer," Jackson said to himself. The first still from "Inked" showed Pons standing in profile, his face peering at something to the side of the camera, a slight grin on his face.

  The tatt on his shoulder snaked downward, stopping just before his forearm. The design looked like barbed wire that slowly rose, its tendrils culminating in a Celtic cross at the shoulder. Brilliant steel shades at the bottom that gradually changed into vibrant reds and blues.

  Jackson shook his head with wonder. That design alone must have cost a pretty penny. Just looking at it, he could tell it was Nigel's work. The man was definitely an artist. Jackson hadn't ever realized how beautiful body art could be.

  Where did Pons get the idea for this one? Jackson wondered.

  The second still was a close-up focused on Pon's shoulder blades. They were adorned with their own tats, although both were related in design and coloring. More Celtic symbols. Runes. They were intricately detailed. The photo showed off what looked like hundreds of lines, crisscrossing and chasing one another to form the shapes. The pigment was spectacular. Jackson guessed that in the hands of someone less skilled than Nigel, the shapes would appear as just blobs of color.

  Art. The body. Pons wanted to be a work of art. Jackson was sure of it. The man had felt compelled to cover some psychic blemish by clothing himself in beauty. Either that, or he just loved getting tats.

  He wondered what Tony would say about it.

  Tony. Fuck.

  Jackson glanced at the clock on the computer's desktop. 0630. It was way too early to call Tony, and Jackson wasn't even sure he wanted to. Tony would scold him, give him another whiplash warning about chasing something dangerous. Tomorrow was the beginning of the convention. Tomorrow, and then the real hunt would begin.

  Jackson felt sure Pons would be there. He felt even more certain Pons was his killer. Tattoo-- the FiendMaster had pegged him. Pons had to be Tattoo.

  Jackson shut down the computer and headed into the bedroom to get dressed. His editor would be on his ass to finish the piece about Whitmire's suicide. Nearly two decades since that business with her son and her eventual resignation, and she'd swallowed enough sleeping pills to kill a horse.

  Tony had sent him an e
mail about that one, asking for details. Jackson didn't exactly understand why, but he'd sent them along. Tony was strange that way. Whenever some death occurred that looked hinky, Tony asked for information, police reports, whatever info Jackson had gleaned.

  Fine. He'd go into the office. He'd call Tony. He'd let him know what he'd found and take another tongue-lashing. Then he'd finish the fucking article on Whitmire, detailing her fall from grace.

  Jackson sighed as he put on a black and white striped collared shirt. He chose a pair of dark khakis and slipped them on.

  "Tattoo," Jackson whispered aloud.

  Chapter 9

  "Yo, Jackson." Jackson looked up from the computer screen. Scott stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  Jackson smiled. "Hey, Scott. What's up?"

  "Called my man Nigel. Understand you got inked," Scott purred.

  Jackson blushed. "Yeah, the little fucker wouldn't give me info unless I did it."

  Scott nodded. "Yeah. He said he gave you some good stuff."

  "Uh-huh," Jackson agreed with a sour expression. "Hurt like fucking hell."

  "Pussy. Shoulder blade is tender man, but it ain't that bad. You should have had a shot of something or..." Scott held up an imaginary joint to his lips and inhaled deeply.

  Jackson laughed. "Probably would have helped, yeah."

  "Can I see it?" Scott asked. Jackson blinked at him.

  "You want to--"

  "See it, yeah." Scott walked into the small office.

  "I, um, guess so. Close the door." Scott did so and then made his way to the desk. Jackson sighed and stood. Scott towered over him, smiling. "This isn't going to be a gay thing, is it?" Jackson asked.

  Scott wrinkled his nose. "You know I ain't no fag, Jackson. Now make with lifting the shirt. I want to see this shit."

  Jackson nodded. He untucked the shirt from his pants and slowly lifted it above his head. The throb in his shoulder started all over again. It had been mostly quiet all morning, but it was awake and angry from the movement. Jackson took off the shirt, holding it in his hands. He felt Scott peel away the tape holding the gauze against the wound and winced. "Pussy," Scott muttered under his breath. "Holy shit," Scott said. "Damn, boy. He did a good job on this. This is a fucking work of art, man."