It's Down Under Week here at FFO. A couple twisted tales of fucked-up blokes and mates...and wenches? I'd expect no less from the land that brought us iocane powder. OK. I admit it; everything I know about Australia comes from The Princess Bride.
But I think Nick Cave is from there. And so is Paul Kelly. And I once knew a girl from Australia who knocked my socks off every time she said "wallaby." And if everyone writes as kick-ass and creepy as Morgana, color—er, I mean, colour—me a fan!
But I think Nick Cave is from there. And so is Paul Kelly. And I once knew a girl from Australia who knocked my socks off every time she said "wallaby." And if everyone writes as kick-ass and creepy as Morgana, color—er, I mean, colour—me a fan!
Tattoo You by Morgana MacLeod
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A tattoo’s not a
picture, it’s a commitment. Not a fashion accessory, neither. Even bollock
naked, you’re still wearing my artwork. Choose
right, and you’ll take my ink to the grave.
This bloke saunters in, gawking at the flash on the walls.
“Help you, mate?” Straighty
180 sightseeing, any money.
“Yeah, I want a girl.
’Bout here.” Smacks his hand over his heart.
“I can do you a
portrait from a photo. So real you’ll expect her to open her mouth and start
nagging.” I flip open the look-book.
“Dancing. You know,
Hawaiian.”
“Hula girl, grass
skirt, bare tits?”
He nods, swallows.
“Old school. Come
through.” Raising the counter flap, I lead him to my workstation.
Ever been in a tattoo
parlour? Mine’s bright lights and stainless steel, not a pin-up in sight. Big reclining
chair, adjustable to any angle.
He peels off his shirt
and hops aboard.
“Just need to get rid
of a bit of this.” After shaving his chest, I have him swing his arm around,
watching the muscle move under his skin. That’s the kind of attention to detail
you don’t get from these backyard scratchers; buy a machine off the Internet
and think they’re the duck’s nuts. “Flex your pec.”
Looks at me sideways, but
does it anyway.
“Put her hips right
here and you can make her dance.”
“All right,” he says, and we’ve got a plan.
“Bit cold,” I warn, swabbing
antiseptic. “Happy for me to go freehand?”
“Yeah. I can suggest a
few things, maybe, as you go.”
“Hey, it’s your tat.” Once
I get stuck in, most punters are flat out not screaming—forget about helpful
hints—but it’s his buck. I tilt a mirror to let him watch. “Here we go,” I say,
switching on the machine.
I slide the needle
into his skin. Just a test dot, first up—some can’t cop the pain. This bloke don’t
flinch, so I hook in. The tattoo machine buzzes loud, like a mozzie zapper frying
bugs the size of chooks. I ink in her outline, sweet and curvy. Not a squeak or
twitch out of him. “Need a break?”
“All good.”
“Want her light skinned,
or dark?”
“Light body. On her
face…something different.”
“Different, how?” I’m sorting
through flesh-toned inks for the perfect sun-soaked gold.
“Ever seen that Green
Lady picture?”
“Chinese bird? Yeah.”
“Like her.” He settles
back.
“She’s gonna look like
she’s gone ten rounds with Kostya Tszyu.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I load tan ink.
“Do it anyway.”
I shrug. Changing out
for seasick green, I color her face.
“Bluish shading
through there.” He flicks a finger.
I’ve done hundreds, maybe
thousands, of morbid tats—if it wasn’t for Grim Reapers I would have starved some weeks—but this chick’s wrong. Lush hips and beckoning hands topped off
with a corpse’s head. “Problem, mate. Bronze body’s not gonna blend with that
face.”
“Problem solved.” He flashes
a car salesman’s grin. “Put a red band ’round her throat.”
“Hey? Like a choker? I
was gonna put a lei, lower down.”
“Exactly right.” He lets
rip with a shrill chuckle. Eyes flare in the mirror, too bright and too wide.
I’m a big bloke, know
how to handle myself, but I sit up straighter on my stool.
“A choker.” He says it
slow, rolling his tongue to savor the taste.
I fiddle with the
machine. Bloke’s got more than one kangaroo loose in the top paddock, no
question. Finish the job, or get shot of him? His money’s the same color as a
sane person’s. Besides, I hate to leave a job half done.
Inking in the detail,
grass skirt and his bloody choker. From the neck down, she’s a top sort. “Still
going with sunset in the background? Ripple of water over her feet?”
“I want you to write
something, in that wave.”
Of course he does.
“Put: Layla R.I.P
11/10/12.”
I suck down my first
full breath since he mentioned the choker. His missus carked it, just a few
weeks gone. No wonder he’s off. Rolling
my shoulders, I start on the background.
“Could have walked
away, if she’d just kept quiet. I warned her, don’t make me listen, but on and
on it goes…how it’s true love, how his cock changed her life. First fucking orgasm?
We were married nine years. I saw red. Ever had that? Like my eyes filled with
blood, instead of water. Shut her right up. Threw her in the tinnie, motored out
to that sand island, Mudjimba, where no-one much goes. But by then it was almost
sunrise, see? Had to bolt. Slung her in that falling-down shack and took off.
Waited over a week for a cloudy night, before I could go back.”
Turned my guts, fair
dinkum. I’ve been around, used to ride bikes with fellas who solved their
problems digging holes, if you get my drift. So it wasn’t so much the thought
of her corpse bloating in the heat, no company but insects. It was the gloating
gleam in his eyes as poison sprayed like spittle from his lips.
“Know my only regret?”
I stay head down,
inking fast.
“Now Layla’s dead, I
can’t have the pleasure of offing the bitch again.”
I smear Vaseline on the
finished tat, slap on a dressing. “I’m not gonna dog you to the cops. Nothing
to tell, hey, just two old mates, having a yarn.”
He grins like a bull
terrier, mad eyes made of glass.
Leaning forward,
closer than I want to get to his face. “But I’ll give you the drum. You’re gonna pack up and move on. I’ve got a lot of mates around the Coast, mates with
daughters, sisters, nieces…guns.”
He swallows that smile,
screwing up his mouth at the bitter taste.
He’s nearly through
the door when I call him back.
“And no lasers, neither.
Leave her alone.” I slap my chest. “Don’t forget.”
