Tattoos can be regretful decisions.
Luckily, in The Gutter, there's always someone willing to remove them.
Luckily, in The Gutter, there's always someone willing to remove them.
Lucky Dragon by Ray Zacek
Bastards could not touch him. Bobby Haskell had a lucky tattoo. A fiery dragon rippled
over his upper arm, vivid in pink, crimson, orange, and turquoise. It had been
painfully, but the tattooist assured luck would always follow him. And it did.
Bobby suppressed a grin leaving federal bankruptcy
court in Tampa. That was over,
finally, and Bobby had won. The elevator descended to the lobby. He strolled past
security guards and metal detectors, pausing on the steps outside to bask in
the Florida sun.
Twenty months earlier, he’d filed Chapter 7,
representing himself, lacking funds to retain counsel. Divested of assets and
unemployed, Bobby owned absolutely nothing
for the court-appointed trustee to liquidate. Creditors objected: “Mr. Haskell
has concealed assets.” Blah, blah,
blah. They deposed him, hammered him,
investigated, and found zilch.
Bobby secretly gloated: Go pound sand, bitches.
The trustee called it quits. The judge concurred, overruling creditors, granting discharge and erasing a dog pile of debt including old income taxes. Stiffing the IRS was the icing on the cake.
Bobby secretly gloated: Go pound sand, bitches.
The trustee called it quits. The judge concurred, overruling creditors, granting discharge and erasing a dog pile of debt including old income taxes. Stiffing the IRS was the icing on the cake.
His Ford Fiesta sat parked on Cass Street
by the Hub Bar. Celebratory drinks beckoned. Bobby demurred: you just got off scot-free, don’t risk DUI.
Bobby slid into the driver’s seat as a white panel van pulled alongside.
The van’s panel door slid open. The blonde amazon who tasered him dragged Bobby inside and the van accelerated.
The van’s panel door slid open. The blonde amazon who tasered him dragged Bobby inside and the van accelerated.
***
He awakened to the blonde slapping him. “Wake
the fuck up!”
Groggy, head throbbing, grimy, and sweaty, Haskell
found himself stripped to his jockey briefs and tied to a chair on a bare
concrete floor. A rack of high intensity lights blinded him. He smelled motor
oil.
His assailant walked away. She wore a black leather corset and yoga pants.
A skinny, scraggly-bearded rodent in gray coveralls pulled up a folding chair. “Howdy.”
His assailant walked away. She wore a black leather corset and yoga pants.
A skinny, scraggly-bearded rodent in gray coveralls pulled up a folding chair. “Howdy.”
“The fuck?!” Bobby said. He didn’t
recognize this man. “Who hired you and how can we can work this out?”
“Nobody hired me. I’m self-employed. You owe
me.”
“For what?”
“I sold you cocaine.”
“Lot of people did.”
“My squeeze, Mara. She was delivery,” the man said, motioning toward the woman glaring at both of
them. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember her.”
Yes. Bobby did remember her then. The buzz-cut white blonde hair, hooked nose, dark eyes, and olive skin.
Months ago, she hadn’t been as sullen and, after snorting coke, Bobby fucked her. From behind. He didn’t want to gaze on that face. She had said the sex was part of the service. But now, apparently, she held a grudge over it.
Months ago, she hadn’t been as sullen and, after snorting coke, Bobby fucked her. From behind. He didn’t want to gaze on that face. She had said the sex was part of the service. But now, apparently, she held a grudge over it.
“You must be … Don?” Bobby said.
“Fucking A I’m Don. The one, the only. I’m
owed, I calculate, with penalty, two
grand and a half.”
“That’s
not that much.”
“Like they say: principle of the thing.”
“I’ll level with you, Don. I’m broke. Tapped
out to the max. I just got out of bankruptcy. When you and Mara grabbed me.
Your timing is not good.”
Mara snorted and pulled out a small tan semi-automatic, brandished it, and pulled back the action to chamber a round.
“He’s fuck’n lying!”
“No! I swear! Believe me, Don! You saw the
piece of shit I’m driving. I lost the Tesla I used to have, lost the house in
south Tampa. Lost everything!”
Mara strode forward and leveled the business
end of the pistol at Bobby’s face. “Open your mouth.”
“No, don’t do this, Don! I get back on my
feet, give you my word, I’ll pay you.”
Don held up a hand. “Wait,” he said. Mara scowled
but lowered the weapon and replaced it under the waistband of the yoga pants at
the small of her back.
Now I can manage the situation, Bobby thought, sweating copiously. My luck is going to hold. Yeah, always does.
Always. He would talk to Don and, both of them being reasonable
businessmen, they’d work this out.
“Give me two weeks. Just two weeks,” Bobby
said. “I’ll pay you. Starting a new job.
Sales. And that, you know, is my forte.
I can wrangle an advance.”
“Nope,”
said Don. “And I’ll tell you why not. Because I’m a Scythian.”
Bobby looked at him, stupefied. “What the hell’s
a Scythian?”
“Ancient warriors of Asia. Like Klingons. In
a past life, I was a Scythian shaman. This was given to me to know.”
“In your dreams,” Mara sneered.
“Silence, bitch,” Don roared. “Think about
which tit you want in the wringer.” He turned back to Bobby with a serene look.
“I was granted a revelation. So I live this life Scythian-style. According to an
unsparing code.”
“That’s cool, Don. That is absolutely cool
beyond cool, Don,” Bobby said. “But listen to me. I. Can. Pay. You. Given time. A smidge of time is all.”
Don’s attention was suddenly diverted, like
a child’s. He pointed at the dragon tattoo. “I like the tat. Where’d you get it?”
“Uh, Thailand. Pattaya Beach. I was in the
Navy.”
“I’ll take it,” Don said.
“What?”
“I’ll take the tat instead of the money and
call it even. Not a pound, just a few ounces of flesh.” Don nodded sagely. “I
think that’s fair. Mara, bring me the blade.”
“You’re not serious?” Bobby blurted out.
Don nodded. “Fuck yeah, I’m serious.”
“No! I’ll pay you!”
“I covet skin, Bob. Mara! Like, today with
the blade!”
“I mean pay you immediately. Wire transfer.
Money’s offshore. In the Caymans.”
Don stuffed a rag inside Bobby’s mouth. Mara
sauntered over and handed Don a gleaming surgical-steel scalpel. She wrapped
electrical tape around Bobby’s mouth and pressed him in a headlock.
“Take the money instead,” Mara said to Don.
“Scythians take trophies.” Don balanced the
scalpel in his hand.
“We
need money, numb nuts,” Mara said.
“Money’s nothing. Justice meted out. That’s
important,” Don said.
