Tattoos

Three men, in dark suits, sitting at a bar, nursing short glasses of amber-colored liquid. Two of them look jubilant. One looks unamused. The former speak to each other.

"Congratulations; I hear Edgar's finally letting you go."

"Good thing I was smart, and specified a font size. Otherwise, knowing Edgar, he'd make me get smaller and smaller names tattooed in my o's and u's. Bastard."

"Ha, smart. You hear that? That's the sound of me buying you a fucking dictionary. I still don't know why you decided to be so clever. Creativity is cool, sure, but why the hell would you elect for signatures as your trophy-mark? Did you think you were too cool for faces?"

"I just didn't want to look in the mirror and see some ugly cunt staring at me from under my left nipple. And sometimes you get really ugly shit. Remind me; what's that abstract art on your left tricep, again? Why don't you flex for me, the way you did for Judy? Isn't that why she left you, because she hated waking up next to that ugly piece of shit?"

"Shut up. I finished my terms fourteen months before you did."

"Hey, I just didn't want to have half a fucking face tattooed on my body 'cuz I couldn't shoot straight. Besides, taking a picture after each hit--that's just ridiculous. Silly. Necrophiliac, much?

"At least my creativity doesn't rob me of a year of my life."

"At least I'm not a necro. You are, aren't you. Judy was always deathly pale. Sicko."

"You're certainly funny. Ha, ha. So fucking funny, you know? Anyway, just be happy Edgar let you go; our shredding team was really pissed about finding genuine signatures for your tattooing pleasure for those two illiterate princes. But all in all, you had a pretty clean hit rate. Almost as clean as Dennis over there."

"Dennis? Nowhere close. Dennis, you're a natural."

Dennis looks up, grins nervously, and goes back to sipping water. The man with names tattooed all over his arm, he finishes his thought.

"So anyway, I forgot to tell you my plans: I'm leaving the business and heading to a small hedge fund in New York."

"What, Edgar didn't pay you enough for each mark? What are you, smoking dollar bills nowadays?"

"Something like that. Not dollar bills though, unless that's street for something I haven't tried. I'm gonna get me a trophy wife."

"You do that. I remember the day I finally finished up the terms for Edgar; I was so fucking happy, I went out and bought Judy a diamond ring. And then I got laid. So be happy that you're not stuck like Dennis."

"Dennis? What the fuck did he put on his terms? Dennis, what the fuck did you put on your terms? I thought you were on hiatus; you have no fricking tattoos on you."

Dennis, the sullen one, looks at the two men. He sighs and shakes his head and then the ice cubes in his glass.

"Dennis? What, did you change the fucking medium? Tell Edgar you wanted postmortem paintings of all your marks until you couldn't fit any more? You know he'll just buy you a bigger house once your current one is half full to keep you on contract."

"Not quite. I...filled out the terms while I wasn't of the soundest state of mind."

"What, you contracted with Edgar while you were drunk? What the fuck?"

"Something like that."

"So why don't you have any marks marked yet? We all know you took care of those two triple-six cases in Barcelona last week."

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"How bad could it be? Didn't we tell you to opt for life-size depictions?"

"Yes."

"So did you?"

"Yes."

"So hurry up and get your term tats. You know Edgar won't let you go until you do."

"What exactly did you opt for, then? Why are you so scared of a few freaking tattoos?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Don't be a fucking pussy."

Dennis downs his drink in one swift motion, and turns around in his chair.

"Fine. But you better not fucking tell any of the ex-cadets from our class, or else I'm telling them all about Judy's operation, Simon."

"Fuck you. It's not my fucking fault Judy now goes by 'Jude.' But what if this fucking douche talks?

"James won't talk."

"Why not?"

"He's got three hearts tattooed across his left butt check."

"How the FUCK did you know that? Have you been spying on me in the equipment room?"

"You took out one of my marks, whose signature was her first name, three hearts, and the word 'penis.' She was classy, and now her artwork is on your ass."

"Stop avoiding the subject. Why haven't you gotten all your tats?"

"Because. I don't want any more of these on my abs."

Dennis lifts up his shirt. James and Simon look horribly amused. Grins plaster their faces.

"Haha, Edgar drew penises all over you."

"Penis! Hahaha."

Dennis drops his shirt and sulks over his new drink to the laughter of his two acquaintances. Eventually, the laughter subsides.

"So, how much does that hedge fund pay?"

Such is life.