Although Jesse has a penchant for violence, he prefers it to be enacted on the outside, rather than on the inside. The way the violence builds the longer he denies himself the privilege of his addictions – it’s excruciating. Not once has he met a single person who understands. Not entirely. Not once has he met anyone who struggles with siring issues like he does. Not one person who used to be happy, but who now finds themselves more often sunk into the depths of despair. It’s not a good look, as Jesse found out. People don’t like people who are desperately depressed. They don’t like it when they don’t know how to help, or if said person’s weaknesses contradict the level of expectation heaped upon their shoulders.
But that’s okay. Those he’d opened up to remain silent entities, even if they had all taken steps to mend the bridges that were broken. Jesse’s not about to break the silence, not now. Not when that four month mark creeps closer. In the depths of his salon he laughs at himself. A low, breathy laugh as he shakes his head. Four months. My name is Jesse Fforde and I am an addict. It’s been four months since I last fed my blood to an unsuspecting lout. Do I get a token now?
In truth, there are no tokens. There are no tokens for abstinence from a disease that no one believes in. He swears they all think it’s in his head; something he’s made up so that he can forever be the victim. As if he craves the attention. He never wanted the attention, though. He’d wanted help, and though in the beginning help had been given, in the end…
Again, he shakes his head. It’s not worth thinking about. Clover’s back. He trusts that she will lock him up, tie him up if necessary. There are people who care, he tells himself. There’s a lot that has to be just in his head. Miscommunication, maybe. A crossing of wires, where he looks at people’s actions and assumed the worst because he doesn’t approach and ask.
The filing cabinet shudders as Jesse slams one of the drawers, filing away some of the paperwork from the night’s previous clients. It had been busy, and he’d had one client after another for a few solid hours. It was a great distraction; he loves nothing more than to lose himself in the art, to the smell of the ink swirled into the bubbles of spilled blood. He loses himself in the colours, and the designs as they leap to life beneath the whirring of the needles.
But now it’s quiet, and Jesse’s thinking too much. Thinking too much about things he doesn’t want to think about. Descending too far into a state of mind that isn’t healthy. If it stays quiet, he needs to lock up and leave. With that in mind, he starts disinfecting the work area, tidying up the inks; focused on being a pedant with the cleaning and thinking ahead to the next night. There are a few more appointments lined up, and he’s working on the designs in his head; trying to imagine how he can tweak them, or make them better.
Diego Santos had been in Harper Rock, in Canada, for a handful of weeks now. Having been born in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and having never travelled further north than the coastal city of Rio de Janeiro, the first thing Diego noticed on arrival was the weather. September and October are typically the hottest, as well as some of the driest, months in Brazil. It's an excellent time to head down to the beach, for bronze bodies to darken under the flare of the strengthening sun, for water sports and swimmers to cut the waves as gracefully as dolphins, and for festivities to play out into the long, warm nights. In Canada, however, this is when autumn takes hold. It’s the time when the air becomes crisp, when the days become darker, and when the trees – instead of the people – become bronze, gold and red. Instead of being in a swimsuit admiring the glistening Brazilian beauties who’d dance across the shores, Diego was wrapped up for winter. He must have had about three layers of clothing on; underneath a thick waterproof dark sage Parka, he wore a red V-neck sweatshirt, a black button-up long-sleeved shirt, and the thickest pair of jeans he could find. It was probably only about 12 degrees, but Diego was cold. Diego was bitterly cold.
The Brazilian had moved to Harper Rock having transferred to the local soccer team – or as he knew it, football. When football was introduced to Sao Paulo Athletic Club in 1892 by Charles Miller, no one would have guessed just how much the sport would become an intrinsic part of everyday life. There are very few places in the world where football is so passionately supported than in Brazil. So much so that when Brazil lost to Uruguay in the final of the 1950 World Cup, the entire nation mourned. The disaster was nicknamed Maracanazo; the darkest day in the history of Brazilian football. Probably because of their passion, Brazil is the most successful country in football history today. They have won the World Cup five times and can boast to having produced some of the finest players in the world. Suffice it to say that when you’re looking for a football ringer, you look to Brazil. The Harper Rock team would take what they could get and when they found the nefarious Second Striker, Diego Santos, the transfer took place overnight. With competition being what it is in Sao Paulo, and with Diego being the apathetic, lazy and obnoxious sort, both sides benefited from the exchange. All he really had to do now was suffer the cold and his team mates until he eventually acclimatized or left.
Like most countries, Canada and its population have a few stereotypes that people expect to be true when they visit. Riding a polar bear to work and dogsledding everywhere because Canada is basically the North Pole and therefore it’s winter all year around, are the tip of the iceberg. As for Canadians, they are expected to be nice, apologetic people who would never be rude or cruel about anything. There are several stereotypes that are absolutely – or at least partially – true about Canadians and Canada, but one should never expect everything they hear to be dripping in fact. Sure, Canada was cold right now, but it wasn’t the Land of Eternal Winter. Just as fleeting was the expectation that people were always friendly and supportive in Canada. That certainly wasn’t the case here in Harper Rock. It was like being in New York City, or so Diego imagined. It was a dog-eat-dog world and he was some foreigner who didn’t really belong here. Apathetic as Diego was, he was also proud and narcissistic, and he wasn’t going to tolerate people treating him like crap instead of worshipping the ground he walked on. Initiations were all well and good, friendly ribbing was practically a given, but Diego wasn’t going to tolerate being the butt of their jokes forever.
It took a few weeks and some heavy training sessions where his golden feet had danced the ball into the net, but eventually, Diego had begun to win the favour of his colleagues. They didn’t trust him – he was a selfish ******** and they really had no need to trust him for anything more than posturing like a peacock – but at least you could be sure that since Diego liked to win, he would win with you. That was all the compromise they needed. That, and not punching each other in the face when the mood turned sour. Diego was the type to always remind people of their short-comings, but never take responsibility for his own. He was convinced he didn’t have any as a matter of fact. To say this caused a fair amount of friction would be as big an understatement as saying that the Amazon river – at nearly 7,000 km in length – was just a bit long. It didn’t come as much of a shock to anyone when, after a few whiskeys and tequilas, sour moods turned vinegar-sharp. Words were thrown about carelessly, and the urge to follow them with fists had built to a pique before Diego had done the unthinkable and walked away. They just needed some air between them, some space, and everything would be better by dawn.
The Brazilian was out the door and down the street by the count of ten. The night air had hit him in the face, brisk as a paper cut, but Diego carried on unperturbed. His vibrant, somewhat stumbling, footsteps echoed loudly on the pavement that descended elegantly down the gentle slope of a road. His pace quickened with his drunken imbalance, not to mention his annoyance at the whole thing. He couldn’t remember what they’d argued about, but he could blame them for the argument without a second thought. Whatever the problem was, it was clearly because they’d disagreed with him in the first place and that was why things had started to turn ugly. After all, it was by his shimmering example of humanity that things had ended as civilly as they had, or so Diego mused to himself as he continued his mindless shambling. Diego grumbled as he went, his weak voice showing signs of irritation now that he was starting to sober up some. Having walked only about 5 metres down the street from the bar, he was now lingering on reaching the very centre of this busy, dangerous and volatile district. Diego stood dangerously close to the ledge that hung in a steep arc over the road, but he felt confident standing there since nobody else was really about and as of yet, no cars had attempted to mow him down like a blade of grass. Still, he wasn’t about to stand here all night, not when the night was young and there was plenty of other hangouts.
Looking out over the shallow edge passed the pavement from which he stood, the darkness swelling like a fresh bruise on the face of the world, he could feel the memories rise up like spectres, screaming in their dead voices the agony and frustration that had created them. A cold wind unified the voices into a terrible chorus, but then another sound snapped him out of it. It brought his sad heart back to business, back to something else to think about, reminding him that he wasn’t alone out here after all. From a little way to the east, behind him, Diego noticed a pair of females – scantily dressed and crowing drunkenly – heading into a bar. The place reminded Diego of American Dive bars from the 1950s (the types he’d seen in movies at any rate). It wasn’t really his scene, but his pickled brain ignored the warning signs as he strolled blissfully toward the entrance of what could potentially be a biker bar. He found just about what he expected to find from a quick glance of the building, but surprise smacked him awake when he read over the mention of a tattoo parlour within. Diego scratched his chin, considering his options; he probably wasn’t welcome inside, but since when had the threat of a walloping ever stopped him from making stupid decisions?
Diego pushed on the door, throwing too much of his weight into the shove, and quickly discovering his error as the door fled from him. The Brazilian man stumbled in ungracefully, his boots dragging his lower body to a halt as inertia kept him on the trajectory of face-planting the floor. Some miracle saved him from making a complete mess of things as Diego somehow managed to have the reflexes available to him in order to grab the wall, halting him completely. There were a few stares and laughs – that was to be expected – but the music hadn’t been cut and nobody was getting up to greet him with broken bottles and pool cues. At that, the Brazilian had to laugh to himself. Glancing towards the back from right to left, eyes as green as malachite scanned the room to check that nothing was too shady for his liking. The décor was actually pretty stylish, with fresh paint and floors so clean you could probably eat off them. Whoever had styled the place, they’d made one serious effort and the hard-nosed Brazilian had to admit that he was impressed. Once he was satisfied, he gave a performer’s bow before brushing himself down.
“I’m not that drunk, I promise,” he said, grinning as those rapturous green eyes enchanted the ladies he’d followed in.
They seemed to find him quite amusing, and why wouldn’t they? Diego had been blessed with good looks and confidence; he’d worked hard to perfect that athletic physique – not merely for his career; his skin had that healthy bronze glow that these pasty white girls just adored; and that exotic accent of his was caramel-smothered heaven. Diego was quite literally tall, dark and handsome – much to the dismay of the three or four other pasty, slightly overweight white males that were sitting at the bar. Obviously there weren’t enough women to go around here and since he’d just bailed on one argument, Diego wasn’t looking to waltz into another. Knowing his place – better late than never – Diego gave the men a respectful nod and decided to make himself scarce. He had a schedule to keep, apparently; needles first, booze and roughhousing later. Still, despite his best intentions of dodging trouble, Diego realised that he had no idea where the tattoo area of this place was and he couldn’t just wander about looking for it himself. Dammit, he’d have to ask.
“Does anyone here know where the inking is done?”
Diego stood unflinchingly in the centre of the room, in the centre of the surly silence. Green eyes examined the faces around him before instinctively settling onto the more appealing, hourglass-shaped figures of the women. He couldn’t help it. There was so much milk-bottle flesh on display that it really was a feat to look anywhere else – he didn’t even mind that one was wearing a denim ensemble of knotted shirt and belt-length skirt, while the other mixed her denim up with a leather jacket and knee-high boots. Diego didn’t pick up on it at first, what with his attention so thoroughly taken hostage, but one of the men had gestured at him, made to beckon the Brazilian. Diego only turned his head when the man grunted like some angry dog before repeating the gesture, albeit more curtly than before. Green eyes clashed with satin-blues before roaming over the man’s visage in one quick movement. The shaved head and tattoos were the first things to catch the Brazilian’s attention and set fire to his lungs. Excitement and anxiety settled on his breast bone, making the ribs stiffen and close tight around the burning organs. With a brazen smile, Diego approached the barstool beside the man and fixed him with a side-ways stare.
“There’s a queue,” the man told him flatly.
Diego was reeling at the unsolicited explanation. The stupid, arrogant smirk on the stranger’s face pinched a nerve in the side of Diego’s neck too.
“You’ve gotta book an appointment, mate,” the stranger added before rolling his shoulders and turning away.
Diego kept his look of caution and irritation as the other man had doused him with lukewarm words. He decided to take a seat, one barstool over from the man, but kept fidgeting in his seat like a crack addict ready for his next fix. It was like he was expecting someone to hit him over the head at any moment and then drag his sorry arse out into the alleyway and leave him to bleed out. Diego was really paranoid lately. Life made him paranoid. People made him paranoid. Even he made himself paranoid just wondering why exactly he was paranoid all the time. Not only that, but all this worrying and questioning and being totally out of character was making him testy too. Diego felt his patience begin to slip through his fingers, but he quickly snatched back the reigns before his temper got out of control. He decided small-talk was a great distraction and addressed the stranger who’d done his bit to dismiss him with the bottle of beer he was sucking on.
“Do you have an appointment?”
The man gave him the once over before deciding Diego was worthy of talking to. “Yep.”
“So what are you getting work on?”
“Got this skull on my back that needs finishing,” the stranger said, gesturing to the area between the shoulder blades.
Diego nodded, trying to be casual.
“You inked already or is this your first?”
The Brazilian couldn’t put a stop to the laugh that burst its way out of his lips. The stranger frowned at him, reducing Diego further to the image of an unruly teenager. Their age difference probably wasn’t all that substantial, but maybe because Diego often acted like a brat, that was why people seemed to think he was younger than he was.
“So what time’s your appointment?” Diego asked, trying to change the subject and crawl out of the hole he’d dug.
“8 o’clock.”
It was then that the surly silence was breached with chuckles and chortles. Diego wasn’t particularly bright or in any way quick-witted, but even a blind man could see that they were laughing at his expense. The stranger might have had an appointment alright, but it wasn’t for tonight. Diego felt sucker-punched; he’d sat down, played nice, and in return for his good behaviour, God was screwing him over by letting these people screw him over. Maybe he should have stayed in the bar with his team and thrown a few punches, taken a few even – it would have been a brighter situation than this one. Diego rolled his eyes, but kept a serious demeanour. He was cross, but that didn’t matter too much and he let his mind drift as they continued to snicker to themselves. The choices were limited, as Diego saw them. He could lose his patience and start a fight – and likely lose just on numbers – or he could take the ridicule on the chin.
“Oh, I see, so there’s no appointments for tonight, huh,” Diego spoke as if he was asking a question, but he wasn’t looking for an answer. He stepped off his stool and a few feet into the room before continuing. “Why don’t I just find out for myself. You’ve been a real help. Obrigado...”
Diego had wanted to signal them off with V-signs, but settled on an indifferent wave as he walked away from the small, obnoxious crowd. They shrugged their shoulders in return, still amused by their little prank as the Brazilian retreated. Ever the ladies’ man, however, Diego couldn’t resist flashing the women a smile before he’d left completely. Through the “garage” was an entrance to the tattoo parlour, where Diego was greeted with an abundance of red and black. The chequered flooring, the red walls and the stylish black glass and mirrored furniture gave him the impression that he’d just stepped into Hell. He didn’t mind it. Diego was also quite content with the fact that there was only one guy there besides him and that the other guy appeared to be staff. Diego decided to be polite again – despite earlier repercussions – and rapped his knuckles on the wall closest to the entrance where he stood.
“Hello,” he crooned, “is this a good time to talk tatts?”
There was one consequence of working next door to a bar. Jesse got a lot of drunks coming in, wanting work done. In the past he’d had a policy; he hadn’t tattooed anyone who had alcohol in their system. It thinned the blood, which could sometimes lead to less than savoury outcomes.
Jesse Fforde, however, wasn’t a stickler for the rules. Over the years, in his own businesses, he’d let that one go. Business was business and he was more than half amused by some of the requests he got from people who were far too inhibited to make good decisions. It was healthy to be amused sometimes. Though he always made them sign a contract first so as to save himself any trouble down the road. Get everything down on paper, and it would work out in his favour.
He could hear laughter from next door; there were a few regulars who sometimes liked to harass newcomers. Jesse wanted to be proud of the small regular crowd that he had attained, but it wasn’t enough. Given the reasons why he’d built Gresse’s to begin with, it always made him angry to see those fleshly men and scantily clad women. Human blood bags who weren’t worth his time. And not his family, like he wanted it to be. They all felt so far away; he wants to go out and find them. Track them down. Force his company on them.
Before he could even formulate a plan, however, there was a knock inside the door. Jesse glanced up to see a man, tanned and seemingly completely out of place in this Wintry city. There was a gleam to his skin; the kind of gleam always obvious on humans. The ordinary excretions of the body. Sweat, oil, body odour. The air swirled with the entrance, heat and cold mixed together until Jesse’s nostrils flares. Yes, definitely human. Hot-blooded and, most obviously drunk.
Jesse flashed a toothy grin and straightened from where he had been slipping some designs back into the appropriate folder. He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. This was better than going home. Better than tracking down people who probably want nothing to do with him. Better than cluing them in – this time, he had vowed, he would wear a perfect mask. He wouldn’t let it slip. No one would be any wiser about his internal struggles. He would not burden them.
”I can probably fit you in,” he said. He was looking for a woman, hanging off this guy’s elbow. Looking for some feminine name that he’d be engraving into this guy’s flesh. What idiocy was this drunkard going to request? Jesse could hardly wait.
Proud as punch to find somebody home, the Brazilian grinned his face into an ache – especially when the man ushered him in and offered him a seat. It was nice to feel welcome, even if Diego wouldn’t consciously admit such a childish emotion. He didn’t want to concede to the fact that he felt lonely or homesick or pissed off about how he’d moved hundreds of miles, crossed over to a different country, all to work with a bunch of jealous assholes. Diego didn’t want to face the fact that he’d moved here because he had no choice if he’d wanted to get somewhere with his career, and he certainly didn’t want to acknowledge the possibility that this was all his fault. He took the seat as directed – albeit catching his foot on the floor and almost slipping, but he managed to make it look like an ungraceful skip – which was better, apparently. He wasn’t that drunk, Diego convinced himself, he was just very, very clumsy or something. Maybe it was the shiny floors – they didn’t seem to agree with his footwear. So perhaps it was best that he was off his feet, sat in a clean and sterile chair and chatting to someone who seemed... not like a complete jackass. Diego even liked the way the man looked, reminding him of the people back home who were bathed in unnaturally good looks. And it was probably this reason that the Brazilian was over-sharing immediately.
“I’m not even sure what I want yet. This is a nice place though,” Diego began, not sitting still in the slightest as he made sure to inspect every corner and crevice. “Great art. Is that all you?”
Diego was an art critique – of sorts. He had an impressive collection inked into his skin, and while not all were drawn by the same hand, there was a certain symmetry to them. His back, shoulders and right arm were a colourful retelling of his history and culture. Maybe it was all a bit cliché, but since when were clichés so bad? There was a reason these things had become popular to the point of being stereotypical, and that was because a lot of people shared these things. Nothing was original anymore and with the birth of the internet and world-wide communication, finding a cliché was inevitable. What was the alternative anyway? Strive to become too original and it just becomes a farce, nonsensical. When all the meaning is lost, your attempt at communication withers. You fail. Surely it’s better to use a commonplace, well understood expression than to become completely misunderstood that it just fucks up everything. Pretentious little bookworms are the only ones who put their noses up to clichés at any rate, living so far in the past that you can practically smell the horse crap from whence they rode in on…
Jesse could be a patient man. And hadn’t he wanted a distraction? As much as the patron tried to hide it, it was obvious that he was drunk. Or at least slightly tipsy. Jesse almost felt the need to lean back and put his feet up on the desk, one foot crossed over the other. Relaxed, as if they were both there just to have an ordinary conversation. Two men shooting the ****. What did that statement mean, anyway? Where did it come from? Shoot the ****. Did someone, somewhere in the past actually shoot **** for fun?
Glancing around at the walls, Jesse tried to admire the art as if he were a third party; as if he had no investment in it at all. As if he hadn’t created the images and designs with his own hands. Some were old and stale. Some he didn’t like so much as others. Some he wanted to replace – and would replace, eventually. He shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest.
”Yeah, that’s all me,” he said, his accent ordinary. Ordinary, anyway, in the vicinity of Harper Rock – even in Canada. Obviously raised here. His company, however, clearly was not. His company was from somewhere else, though Jesse couldn’t pick it, immediately. He’d have to listen to the guy talk some more.
”You have no idea at all what you want?” he asked, scratching at the stubble of his jaw before he leaned forward against the desk, nudging at a few of the folders, pushing them toward the client. This could be amusing, if he were so inebriated as to make poor choices. There was an almost expectant gleam in his eyes, a humorous tilt to his lips. He wanted a distraction, and this was the perfect one. Perhaps a professionally unstable distraction. But he owned a tattoo parlour next to a bar. There were bound to be inebriated customers, and Jesse had to make a living, right?
Or maybe he wasn’t as inebriated as he looked and his decision would be reasonable. Maybe it would even be a good one. Maybe it would be a piece of art, and Jesse’s distraction could be a serious one. But that would all depend on how the foreigner answered.
It was true what they said about the creative types, they really were their own worst critics. It was because they often had high expectations of themselves or had all these amazing ideas in their heads that they just couldn’t get down on paper. Maybe someone had once kicked them in the balls of their talent, causing them to suffer a life-long ache right in the pit of their self-confidence too, which made it harder for them to appreciate their own masterpiece. Or maybe it was something more basic than that – they lived and breathed this magic on such a daily basis that it wasn’t magic to them, it was ordinary. That was the impression Diego held when the gentleman pushed some of the art folders toward him so casually. Diego wasn’t much of a deep-thinker and neither was he one of those people who spent a lot of time analysing the meaning behind why people did the things they did. Diego was the simple kind of man, the man who responded to actions with actions and also occasionally responded to thoughts and opinions with actions too. If he didn’t like something, he would probably just pick up and leave. Still, he was perceptive enough to figure that this man before him was being pretty modest.
Modesty didn’t really make a lot of sense to the Brazilian. He couldn’t comprehend it beyond the very basic perception that those who were modest were probably quite insecure about things, or they were a bit fake on account of not wanting to seem arrogant. Nobody liked those insecure people anyway. All they did was whinge about the injustices of the world to their small clique of friends because they didn’t fit in, but didn’t do anything about it. They also complained about themselves too much, which was such a drag. Why ruin a good time moaning about how you’re not very good at talking to people, or your mom and dad were mean to you and locked you in a cupboard when you were five so it makes you nervous around crowds? What difference does any of that make now? You’re living in the past, get over it. It’s just selfish, really. Nobody likes the insecure, sensitive introverts, which is why the press and the whole wide world make spectacles of the confident and the brave. That’s why celebrities are amazing because they are the epitomes of standing out, doing what you love and telling the rest of society to get over it because you’re coming out on top with or without their permission.
Diego liked to live in the present, with no thoughts about what happened yesterday and no care about what was going to happen tomorrow. Provided he was getting what he wanted and nobody was making a big deal about it, he didn’t see why the party had to end. Whatever the reason for why this guy before him was just being a bit blasé about his work, Diego decided that he wouldn’t hold it against him. Still, he couldn’t for the life of him decide what he wanted right now. He accepted the offered portfolio and began browsing through. He liked what he saw, but obviously he was more attracted to some designs than others. Diego had particular tastes and while he might not have been creative or artistic in the slightest, he knew what worked together. There was a lot to search through and when the art on the page began to blur and mix together, Diego decided that perhaps he wasn’t, wasn’t that drunk.
“I really don’t know,” Diego said, pinching his eyes closed and opening them again to see if the blurred vision would reset. “Any ideas… uh, what’s your name?”
Eyes like malachite turned on the artist, waiting on an answer and relieved to find that the man’s image wasn’t as fuzzy as the pictures on the page.
It wasn’t common for customers to come in not knowing what they wanted. Generally, given that tattoos are forever, they have very specific wants and needs. Even if they didn’t have a design already (which was most commonly the case) they had an idea of what they wanted. He and they would have to volley back and forth as he sketched, and they edited. Most of the time he had to scrub out bits and pieces and re-do them. And, if they didn’t have any ideas, a look through the folders generally had them picking one of the smaller, flash pieces and that would be that. Done.
To have a customer ask Jesse if he had any ideas? That was rare. A tattoo was a personal thing. To people who didn’t have many, there was usually a story that only they knew about. A symbol that meant something to them, which didn’t necessarily have to mean anything to anyone else. To those covered in tattoos, sometimes they didn’t require meaning, or symbology. They required only that it look good, or that it fit with the general theme of the ink they already had.
He had a feeling he was going to be here for a while. Clearing his throat, Jesse leaned forward.
”Jesse,” he said. The guy had asked for a name, and Jesse had given one. A full name wasn’t a requirement, he thought. That wasn’t generally how people introduced themselves.
”I could tell you my ideas, but my tastes could be vastly different to yours,” he said. They had to have somewhere to start. A basic idea. Something. Even if it was just style. If Jesse’s sharp gaze bounced over his customer’s clothed body, it was only in search for the existence of other tattoos.
”Do you have ink already? I might be able to help if I know what your style is…” he said. Even though Jesse could be temperamental, even though his emotions, sometimes, were prone to snapping, he at least had patience on his side. This was his job. This was what he enjoyed doing. This was what was keeping him afloat. There were plenty of hours left in the night and if he spent those hours helping this man decide what he wanted for his next masterpiece, then so be it. Jesse would do it, and he would do it happily.
Shallow. That was a good word to describe Diego. The man wasn’t one of those people who had copious amounts of emotional or intellectual depth. He was a small, thin puddle sitting on the face of the world and only grew because it happened to rain some days. The only thing that differed between the Brazilian and a puddle was the fact that he wouldn’t allow people to walk over him. Sure, he had left his team mates tonight because he didn’t want to start a fistfight, but that didn’t mean he was being cowardly by any stretch of the imagination. In Brazil, there is a saying: Amigos amigos, negócios à parte, which basically translates to: Friends are friends, business are business. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean that the two are separate all the time. Diego might not have been all that intelligent, but he was wise enough to recognise that walking away from one fight tonight, might mean not having to live through further fights tomorrow. If he could be a little bit mature, maybe his team mates would learn to respect him and give the Brazilian the authority that was due. É melhor prevenir do que remediar: prevention is better than the cure.
The Brazilian’s shallowness also played a part in his tattoo choices. Most people decided that permanently marking their skin was a testament to their history, symbols to mark important life stages. Diego didn’t think that way at all. He chose designs to reflect his personality, his culture, and his tastes. As a result, a collage of ethnic designs was inscribed on his flesh. The artist might have been looking at him like a cow had been dropped from the sky and had landed on Diego’s crotch, but Diego didn’t think it was all that strange. It was normal to him, same as how the artist’s magic was so plain and ordinary to him that he’d acted all blasé about it.
“Call me Diego,” the Brazilian offered, only once he’d been given the artist’s name and a thorough explanation of why it wasn’t a good idea for Jesse to make a suggestion. At least the question the man delivered came as a bit of a relief. “Would it help if I show you what I already have?”
Although Diego might have asked the question, his slightly drunken mind had skipped forward a few instances and convinced him that Jesse had already agreed. The Brazilian stood, unzipped his jacket, throwing it over the back of the chair and proceeded to remove the many other layers of clothing he had on the upper half of his body. Shy wasn’t a word to describe Diego, as it happened, with or without the alcohol burning through his system. Lean muscle under an inked covering of skin now dressed the 6’2” Brazilian who was stood in front of the artist, bending and shifting as if to show bits of his skin here and a bit there. He didn’t exactly know where to start, so he paused and then looked at his own forearm where there was a gap in the ink.
Jesse leaned back in his chair, playing with the pen between his fingertips. Customers taking their clothes off wasn’t something that Jesse could bat an eyelash at. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before; if the guy wanted a tattoo on his torso, the clothes would have had to have come off anyway. Only after he was done did Jesse lean forward to get a better look; he was a man admiring a piece of art, rather than another man’s body. It was a professional scrutiny. The sleeve seemed to be a few different pieces thrown on at different times, rather than a cohesive plan. Jesse’s own sleeves had been planned, to an extent - the left more so than the right. One was bright and the other was dark. Artistic preference. His own torso and chest, however, looked a lot like Diego’s arms - bits and pieces he’s acquired because he liked them.
After he’d been shown the area where Diego wanted the tattoo, Jesse nodded. He went around to the counter where he kept his folders, and flicked through a couple until he found the one that he wanted. The flash pieces - there was a nautical themed section, and one for florals, too. Some roses and aquatic animals that appeared to match the tattoos that Diego already had. He tossed them down in front of Diego, flipping the pages to show him where the designs were before stepping back.
”I think one of these might suit - this kind of style. Have a look through - see if there’s anything you like. If there’s something you kind of like but you want it changed, I can do that too,” he said. He remained standing, in case he had to go finding other folders.
”Personally, I like the Octopus. I can change the tentacles so that they fit with the other tattoos. Between them, around them,” he said, again scrutinising the tattoos already there. He liked to admire the work of others; he liked to see what techniques they might use that he himself could try to master. Things that he might not yet be able to do. He was constantly trying to improve himself, to become the best of the best. Even if Diego had come in half drunk, and it was his own damned fault if he ended up with something he didn’t like, after seemingly having no idea what he wanted, Jesse would do his best work.
