Marked Man

Marked Man

Shawn Daniel Hendricks

© 2013 - 2022

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 - Introductions and Goodbyes

Chapter 2 - The New Place

Chapter 3 - Lost and Found Lovers

Chapter 4 - Glowing

Chapter 5 - Bed and Breakfast

Chapter 6 - Tozont

Chapter 7 - Paisley

Chapter 8 - Steph and Agnos

Chapter 9 - Glowing Bones

Chapter 10 - Cherishdew

Chapter 11 - Clown Car

Chapter 12 - Kif

Chapter 13 - Crookh Shkro bliii Scradish

Chapter 14 - Neon Cow

Chapter 15 - Camouflage Should Work

Chapter 16 - Water and Sewage

Chapter 17 - Mrs. Martinez

Chapter 18 - Dothan and Fingers

Chapter 19 - Cheapest Bottle

Chapter 20 - Pinbutter

Chapter 21 - Colin and the Cosplayer

Chapter 22 - I Ran

Chapter 23 - Can't See Kif

Chapter 24 - Confused

Chapter 25 - All Your Privacy

Chapter 26 - Mr. Biceps

Chapter 27 - Experts and a Few Exceptionals

Chapter 28 - I'm Mike

Chapter 29 - Punk Brandishing a Knife

Chapter 30 - Derailed In El Paso

Chapter 31 - Rich Flamed Her

Chapter 32 - She Has Needs

Chapter 33 - Police Arrested a Lot of People

Chapter 34 - The Nose Bone Shifted All Around

Chapter 35 - Gold

Chapter 36 - They Hid

Chapter 37 - I Need Help

Chapter 38 - It Wasn't the Drool

Chapter 39 - Calligraphy

Chapter 40 - Chased Out of My City

Chapter 41 - Really Nice Old Lady

AFTERWARD

Chapter 1 - Introductions and Goodbyes

I did not set out to upset Western Civilization. Or Eastern. It wasn’t my fault. It isn’t my fault.

But you should know the truth about Resurge. Magic was always there. It never left. We just didn’t have the hooks to grasp until long after I took a tricky job; emphasis on trick.

A zookeeper dude came looking for some very special ink. And I fell for it because I was cocky. I was also broke.

You Steeple?

The guy came to me just across the table. He sat down and left a drink circle. Beer touched down just long enough to mark his spot. If I knew then what I know now, it might have meant something.

It might have meant is he would have gone to someone not quite as good.

Steeple, the dude began. I sipped a cranberry with soda because my girlfriend worked behind the bar and was allowed to give it away. Designated driver sans car. It had been a rough eleven months.

He didn’t offer to shake. I reciprocated.

I have this friend. He owns a bat. The bat is big. Really big! Anyway, my friendend wants his bat’s wing tattooed.

I thought, friendend?

Don’t tattoo critters. The lanky character didn’t look right. His was one of those very narrow faces. There were those two verticals of a marathon runner lining his mouth but he had a fat forehead that looked soft and bloated. His eyebrows stretched an inch high without ever losing thickness.

Good thing for me I was engrossed in a sweaty pink drink.

I’m seriousous. I am serious. I will pay you, said Bloat.

Look. I don’t want to think of you as-- I began. What is your name?

He somehow bowed formally without getting up. People call me Dothan. He didn’t have the accent you might expect from someone with that name.

Great to make your acquaintance, Dothan, I agreed preemptively. People call me when they want a tattoo. Tell your friend to call me so I can explain the situation directly. And cut out any middlemen.

Wait. I checked. Still some minutes left on the phone. Yeah. Have them call.

As you wish. I watched him depart, pausing to speak with the barkeeper who wasn’t my girlfriend; medium tall guy. I returned to contemplating cool condensation.

Your drink, Sir, a waitress said. I took it without worrying whether it was for the wrong table. I hadn’t ordered it and she hadn’t asked whether I could pay.

Wait. Other barkeeper? I looked over at Cindi, who had been pissed with me earlier. I emptied the drink with gusto. A woman I didn’t know suddenly looked at me and hurriedly looked away.

The other barkeeper slipped from my mind while I savored the aftertaste lingering on my tongue.

~~~

A week passed. Two. Cindi was still with me. Me, a degenerate who had tattooed a minor, unknowingly.

His ID, parental consent, and fake dad were impeccable. I did the tattoo. The twit cried so I stopped. He stopped so I began again. He screamed and fled. Good riddance. Pain free, stain free!

The lawsuit put me in lawyer debt. If a hanger-on named Aristotle hadn’t been half dozing in a waiting area chair, I would be bankrupt for life. I was fired despite being cleared by the court. The criminal complaint went nowhere after the lawsuit cleared my name. But my reputation made it impossible to find an employer in Temple so I moved to Tucson instead.

Google me. Go ahead. Pilar Wingate. No middle name. Better yet, don’t. Pilar becomes pillar becomes steeple. At least Steeple sounds more like a boy's name.

Anyway, Tucson shops can Google with the rest of them. Work happened when, Joey can’t make it because his car got messed up. I’m giving you a shot, kid. Rave customer reviews. No follow-on work.

I freelanced too. Hung out my own shingle on social media. I don’t have a car so can you meet me in front of the police station? I’m a legit operator; portfolio and everything. Bound on credit--Cindi’s--but still legit.

When they were finished, they were almost always happy. The ones who weren’t happy got exactly what they asked me to make. Better than they asked me to make. I guess it looked cooler in their head than in reality. Or maybe they set the appointment before sobering up because I never tattoo drunk or stoned people.

Oh, and I only tattoo people.

~~~

But the call came. Are zhou Steeple?

I’m Steeple. Who is this?

I want tattoo. Zhou give tattoo. How much? It was as if the raspy voice wasn’t used often.

My rate is one fifty per hour. Two hundred per hour over four, retroactive to hour one.

Is much. Is much. What is size fast? Is big tattoo. Must big.

Can you tell me how big? This was progressing toward big money but a long commitment.

We bargain. We talk. Bottom leg size.

Okay. If it’s about the bottom of a leg, how much do you want tattooed?

No. Bottom leg size up. Bottom leg size side. Not square. Mostly around bottom leg size.

I wasn’t positive I was speaking to a gentleman or a lady but this was beginning to annoy me. Well, Sir, that is around the size of someone’s back. Are you asking me to tattoo a back? A stomach? I can make a better estimate if I know the target area.

We bargain. I want same size back. Important work. Pay two hundred hour.

Let’s be clear. You want me to work for something over four hours at two hundred American dollars per hour.

Is bargain. Zhou come to house. He gave me an address and a time two days later.

~~~

Cindi loved me. I hadn’t been sure of any such thing before. Something was different. She talked to me differently. She didn’t have any disaffected spells when she acted as if I were a waste of time.

It was a bit unnerving. It began when we came home after the gentleman asked about a tattoo for his friend. Zookeeper. Alabama guy… Dothan.

I had told Cindi about the commission and she had been supportive where before she was indifferent. She looked good, standing there behind the bar, when I looked down at my pink drink. Cran and club--heavy on the ice. Hey, it’s Tucson.

But I also noticed the ring left by the skinny bulge character. Dothan, except it couldn’t be. The rest of the table had been wiped clean numerous times since that evening. Nightly. Can I get a towel over here?

The barkeeper tossed me a towel. It smelled good; lightly scented with something smoky and pleasant. Just moist enough to give a good cleanup. I swiped away at the table and the ring disappeared.

Thanks!

Cindi looked at me oddly. I tossed her the towel and she put it away. Where was the bartender who had thrown it my way?

Cindi went on break and one of the waitresses stood in behind the bar.

We need to talk, Cindi began.

~~~

We shared her apartment but now I was on the couch. I don't know what changed. Didn’t matter; I was about to score enough cash to move out. I’d at least leave her with a pot of hot coffee, minus a cupful or two.

I didn’t have much gear, and it fit in my case. Inks, rags, chemicals, printer, and transfer paper. I could do what the shops did but I had to borrow the table.

As I reached Tyndall Avenue and followed a sidewalk onto Silver, there was a blinding reflection before the sunlight lessened. Shade trees dominated the yards. I passed three working fountains before reaching the customer’s elegant walk. Big square arch, stucco façade, decorative succulents.

Come in, came the same voice from the phone, but with deeper resonance. I thought he must be calling from a small room. For some reason, I was now completely convinced it was a male addressing me.

Zhou set up in room two doors from front. Clear enough, given the house’s simple but sumptuous layout, fourteen foot wide hallway and more than ample doorways.

Lights were on. The room I had been directed to was spartan, save for something like a tea cart and a tall-back padded leather chair.

Alright, I replied, But where is the other chair.

I will be in window. By window, I assumed he meant the part of the room hidden by a pair of shutters on the wall beside the chair, which I had turned around earlier.

Ah. Got it. Screwball! I reoriented the seat.

A noise like packing blankets sliding over seashells emanating from the wall made me jump. The shutters opened.

The window was four feet high by three feet wide, give or take. Within was an area of flesh about two feet on a side. Surrounding the skin was black velvet. I could not tell what kept it in place… or what body part the flesh covered.

Back? Stomach? This was one BIG BOY, if I had the gender right.

Here picture. You make fill. The voice behind the flesh held undertones of hope mingled with fear. I cannot see. You tell start.

Wait. I need to know what I’m tattooing. The needle must be set to the right depth. Otherwise it might hit bone or the ink might be too shallow. Or not enough ink will be left behind. Am I getting through to this person, with the mystery accent?

I can also gage how long the ink is likely to last before fading. I wasn’t pleading but explaining.

Ink not fade. Zhou treat like zhou see best. Here picture.

A photo was slipped onto the window sill. I could do it. How detailed? The photo is five by seven inches. If I expand it, you will lose some detail.

Expand. Add detail. Add artist tooch.

I began by drawing the design on the flesh, which felt like thigh but not quite. The skin layer felt somehow thicker. Much thicker - but supple like the skin between the thumb and forefinger instead of like a heel callus.

I’m a tattoo geek who reads everything and experiments as much as I am permitted. My technique would fall around 30% thumb pad and 70% heel. Seemed to work… eventually.

Star-ting, I intoned dramatically. I expected polite laughter. I got a broken needle. What the hell?

Zhou starting? Forgive. Please, belly-boy said as I sterilized and replaced the broken needle, the fragment left sitting on the window sill. I chatted through the replacement.

The design showed golden treasure. I embellished but kept the form and spirit of the original. The inks I chose were not special but not really common either. Top of the line means something special to a tattooist.

I seen examples of zhour work.

Yeah? Like what?

Two. One starman musicman. Other horse with spear head.

Bowie and a unicorn. I had done both, as have probably most tattooists who outlived the rocker. And the Deluge. I can’t tell you how many times.

Zhes, said the voice. You say start.

I'll tell you when I'm about to begin with the needle. I was pretty sure when I started, he would know. Thing is, customers don’t like nasty surprises.

Neither do I.

Do you have a credit card or will this be cash? Best to get this out of the way now.

I have money. A hundred dollars in one dollar bills fell onto the window sill. Two stacks of fifty.

Fine. That would be fine, I said and it was time. I will now begin.

The buzz of the needle sounded off but I waited a couple of beats. The skin wasn’t what I expected. Though the ink was effective, the skin seemed to flex tighter and looser by turns. Hold still, please.

The skin stopped changing. I started back on the line work.

I worked for hours. The time passed. I worked hard. From somewhere, a mug of coffee appeared and somehow it emptied and I stayed alert and engaged. Through two more mugs and a scone. A burger. Fries. Dark.

When did it get dark? No answer.

I rubbed my eyes, which were not gritty or sore. Huh!

Only a little color fill remained. I added, shaded, detailed, feathered, and looked at my work.

Know how you can look at a one spot in a photo for too long and everything begins to fade into the background? Happened. Blind. Except I could see the velvet and the wall and chair and cart and door.

I almost puked.

Where is the--

Out door. Straight, the voice instructed. Is good.

I dashed for the bathroom and made it. Barely. Few things in life had felt so good.

Someone had left a book of tattoos next to the roll so I picked it up and read a little. Nice work. Excellent explanations. Someone had extracted an article I had written before the incident and included it, then professionally bound the thing. I had signed away full rights to the piece at the time and it was a pleasant surprise to see it in reprint.

No masthead. No publisher information. Normal Tattoos, was the title. Normal, my ass.

When I returned to the tattoo room, my bag was packed and I noticed the time was after five. Morning? I knew I had been at it for a lot of hours but the ink flowed like life’s blood and the needle had become an appendage painting against my minds inner easel. It’s like that most times when I tattoo.

Twelve hours are too few. Fourteen are too many. Zhou bonus. I hadn’t looked closely at the stack of cash. Fourteen times two hundred. My mind was crashing the same way it does after great sex. I needed a cot.

Here is my receipt. I used a calculator. I counted the bills. Hey! There is like two grand extra in here.

Fourteen are too many. Zhou were best.

I hardly remember leaving. Or walking. There was a hotel with continental breakfast at the corner of Park and Grant. I ate. There was just enough time to smell the fresh, clean pillow case when the rest of the world vanished in sleep.

~~~

I woke up seventeen hours later famished, but the continental breakfast was finished for the day. I started counting the money instead.

Housekeeping. Tap, tap, tap. Housekeeping.

I’m not ready yet, I said. Truth is, except for a much-needed shower, I was ready. But the shower came first.

The water felt exceptionally clean. I don’t know how else to describe it. When I pulled back the curtain, the mirror was fogged but the housekeeper hadn’t carded through the door. I didn’t have a razor but my beard looked shiny so I decided to leave it for the time being. I had shorts and a tee so I slipped into them. Laundry could come later.

Getting out couldn’t. I may have scored a cool. Wait. How much? I counted the bills again. Fourteen times two is twenty eight. Twenty eight hundred? There was an extra two thousand. Damn. Wait. Had I paid in advance for the room? Where had that come from?

There was a leaf. It was maybe from a linden tree.

~~~

I visited the front desk. 11. Checking out.

The guy behind the desk had looked up from his cell phone as I began speaking.

Sir! The clerk looked like a puppy; eager to please but fearful of reprimand. A young woman I took for his wife emerged from in back.

What do I owe?

Nothing, Sir. Here is your zero balance receipt. He held it out with two hands as his wife moved close behind him, staring at me.

Thanks! I was pretty sure I hadn’t paid, despite the paperwork in my hand. If anybody questioned me, I could just hand over the slip. Fully documented! Why don't I feel even a little guilty?

I left and hit the sidewalk. There were a few people who still called me friend. But I was well rested and the sun was shining. Love Tucson.

On Fourth Avenue, I paused. Even hungrier after my walk, I stopped in to one of those hole-in-the-wall places that you usually have to know about to know about. There was pastrami.