Just a quick note for the readers
I am not a tattoo artist any more than a Greek Mythologist. This is a work of fiction and any miss steps in the way things really work are because of these facts. None of the people in this piece are real, any reference to the real world is purely coincidental. Enjoy.
*
It was over. He was three days from opening his own parlor. No more shit jobs that the other artists refused because they had a reputation. No 20% to the asshole in the office with tattoos so old they looked more like a full body burse then art. No more snide pick-up lines from gay couples wanting a honeymoon three way. He would be the lord of ink, big gun, the man.
Walking thru his place he looked over everything one last time. He had worked two sometimes three jobs to get all his equipment, nothing half-assed either, medical grade all the way. Tomorrow he would walk, get his degree and make his way into the future. 'Dad I am going to make you proud' he thought to himself. Fourteen years and still he wanted his father to be here, having been taken by cancer on the eve of his 12 birthday.
Looking into a glass case, his father's ink-gun sat, in a place of honor. He could still remember the first time he had held it. Still had the scar too. He had been seven, his father asked him if he wanted to try it. It was ever boys dream to work with their father, so he had agreed. He picked it up and pretended to tattoo his own hand, it was still plugged up to the power supply. SO his pretend tattoo turned into a long jagged cut along his left thumb.
His dad hadn't yelled or panicked, just cleaned him up and got him three stitches. On their way back home his father held his left hand up to him and said "Like father, like son, guess we don't need to match each other's tattoo's when we have these." They laughed about it all the way up to mom finding out. She was mad and upset, but after she calmed down. Even she laughed at the situation.
After that he would watch his father work, when he could. Read the trade mags and even got into the habit of drawling with three D-cell batteries tapped to the top of his pencil. His father told him the faster he learned to steady the weight the easier it would be to hold the ink-gun. Thinking back, everything his father ever said about tattooing had been iconic in its simple wisdom. Those became his mantra after his fathers' death.
He had gone out on his seventeenth birthday and had a tattoo of his fathers' ink-gun done on his right forearm. His mother was a little reluctant to the idea but could hardly argue to hard, having six tattoos of her own. And after he showed her what he wanted she not only agreed to let him get it. She helped him find an artist that would do it right.
"Three days, only three days and we start working together, just like we agreed Dad." He said softly "Just give me a nod now and then, so I know I am getting it right, Ok?"
Walking from the back out into the lobby, he was startled to find a woman looking at the Flash-art that hung in frames along the left lobby wall. She was tall, long legs, and dark hair. She turned to him and gave him a smile that about stopped his heart. She was stunningly beautiful. Eyes glittered an unusual golden color.
"Hello, my name is Nikita DeNore, and I would like the honor of being your first customer." She said. "You are Estephan Prizton?"
"Yes I am. Um, the parlor won't open for three days, how did you get in here?" He asked.
"Thru the door." She said, "Your work is inspired. I have checked around. You are the only one I would allow to do it. Plus you were recommended. I am glad you are no longer at that Roady Tatta's Parlor. With the type of work I would like, I would have to keep looking for a true artist rather than sit in a place like that."
"Ms. DeNore, I am overwhelmed. I didn't think many people took notice of my work, and to hear I was recommended, by whom?"
"I am sure anyone who carries ink from your gun would more than notice. However, I was told that you would be most eager to take a commission. It was your father that recommended you after all."
He stood there in silence. If this was a joke it was in the poorest of taste. This woman was a walking wet dream and now she is claiming that his deceased father had told her to look him up. It hurt, nothing about this could be true. Shaking himself from his shock he stepped to walk past her.
"This joke ends now. I would kindly ask you leave." He said, holding himself from screaming at her.
"I will go, but would you look these over and think about it?" She asked and with a turn of her hand pulled a folio from thin air.
Again he was stunned, he accepted the folio as she handed it to him. Then she turned on a heel and walked towards the door, with each step she faded into transparency becoming completely invisible before reaching the door. It opened soundlessly and then slowly closed with its usual rasp and squeak. It clumped into place when he realized he had been holding his breath.
He looked at the papers in the folder. There was a general layout of tattoos, were on the body. There were symbols and runes that had to be worked into each piece. From the look of these notes and diagrams, this would be hours and hours under the gun in the chair.
The more he looked thru the papers the more he got excited about how intricate he was going to be allowed to push himself. As he flipped the last page a check slid from the folder and drifted to the floor. It was for fifteen thousand dollars. He picked it up. It was drafted off of a local bank. If this was a joke why go thru all the hassle. He picked up the phone and dialed the bank. Ten minutes later he had an answer. The check was legit.
What did that mean; she pulled the folio out of thin air, and turned herself in-fucking-visible. What the hell was going on? He laid all the papers out on his drafting desk and the check into the wall safe. He would have to sleep on this one. Maybe waking up in the morning might prove this all a dream anyway.
---+++----+++----
Graduation was what you expect, blah blah blah. He was half way to the parking lot before the caps hit the ground. By 3:45 he had his certification filed, his inspections signed off on, and his business permit ready to be framed and hang on the wall. He was starting to get annoyed at the number of people staring at him. Looking himself over, he was still wearing the gown from graduation.
He had better things to think about. He drove to his shop, opened the place and darted inside. The papers were still laid out on the drafting table and the check was... yes, still in the safe. Now he had to make the decision, take the money and BS that might come with it, or not. Looking over the diagram and runes only brought more questions. The kind he felt he would have to be hammered to understand. He was interrupted from his privet musings.
"Steven, where did you run off to? Your Grandmother was very upset that she didn't get pictures of you in your cap and gown. I know you're excited about this place but others are just as excited for you." His mother said from the front of the parlor.
"Did she go home? Cause I have everything here." He said stepping out of the back. "On top of that I have my first commission. I want to take all of you out to celebrate."
"You have a commission already? For who?" She asked.
"Nikita DeNore. It is going to be at least ten sittings possibly 15." He said. "I got a nice deposit so lets go celebrate. I have everything I need to open the doors on Monday, a client, and my birthday is a week from Saturday. Life just really is going my way."
"You're still wearing the gown? Have you been running all over town in that thing?" she asked.
