Brad and I are still living together. A move had been set which would have taken me back to the floor where Hawks and Sleepy still reside. Long story short, turned out my would-be cellmate was some sort of Luciferian with a fondness for self-mutilation; not exactly qualities which are very high up there on my list of "acceptable celly" specifications. I had a kibosh put on the move.
So here the two of us are, together riding out the tempered shit-storm of hole time. I've taken the potential transitional catastrophe as an indication that the brownish grass on the other side of the fence really isn't all it's cracked up to be and have decided to stick around in cell B-212 even if it means having to wrangle with a demonic shower occasionally. Brad's happy about the news. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a pretty cool roommate.
We've spent this averagely mundane Sunday afternoon talking poetry (seriously) and tattoos. While I've got quite a few on my back, left arm and right leg, Brad is what some refer to as a tattoo virgin. And while I must admit that if there's a "type" of person for body art, and Brad isn't it, this fact hasn't stopped me from attempting to sell the idea of having a large butterfly tatted on his chest. He is not quite convinced of the wisdom behind my suggestion yet and has even decided to begin hitting below the belt by suggesting that I have a butterfly drawn over my Samurai's crotch. Cute, Brad, real cute.
My Samurai's crotch is a topic which has come up with alarming frequency lately in my conversations and correspondence. And is quite a testament to why it is important for a person to use caution when having any permanent alteration done to one's body. In the spirit of confession and raising awareness, I will impart the story of my Samurai's crotch. There are only two characters in this narrative, myself and my friend Diggity, who has since been released. Diggity is a tall Nordic type with a philosopher's mind and true artist's hand; arguably the best tattoo artist Terre Haute has ever seen. Oh, and he was a big-time junkie.
Not a Superfriend but a friend nonetheless, I accepted Diggity's offer to work on me at a ridiculously low price. Keeping in line with the strengths of his artistic abilities, we eventually decided on having a dragon done on one side of my right calf and a Samurai figure performing a seppuku, or hari-kari, ceremony on the side opposite. My buddy drew the sketches and a session was penciled into his schedule.
The dragon came first. Following my direction, Diggity patterned a sort of hybrid creature with an Asian dragon's long, serpent-like body but a European dragon's horned crown and long snout. When all was said and done, my dragon was perfect. Lines as black as night and curves to make a Maserati jealous. His secret? Throughout the session Diggity was in his "creative state." In other words, the dope man had paid him a visit.
Several weeks went by before we were able to sit down for the Samurai session. When we finally both found the time and I strolled into his cell with my leg shaved and pant-leg rolled up, Diggity's already pale Icelandic skin was a ghostly white with perhaps just a hint of nausea green.
"What's up, homie? You feeling alright?" I ask, concerned not only for my friend but also for my bald calf which was about to be punctured a few thousand times.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Just a little dope sick," he 'reassured' me, meaning he was experiencing mild withdrawal symptoms after binging for a couple of days. "Won't affect my work at all. The pattern's already drawn so there's nothing that can go wrong." Famous last words.
And 5 hours later when all was once again said and done, it initially appeared as if things actually did go according to plan. Besides the ink turning out to be a very dark gray instead of a jet black because of a few too many drops of alcohol being added to the base ink powder, the piece looked fantastic. Admiring his skill as Diggity disposed of the needle and sanitized the gun, I noticed how perfectly the hands, which I've been told are the most difficult body part to master in any art form, gripped the hilt of the sword. And how realistically the legs tucked under the kneeling body.
Then I noticed something which concerned me.
"Hey, um, what's this?"
"What's what?" he asked, looking up from the fragmented CD player which powers his gun.
"Right here, in the crotch" I said, pointing to my disturbing discovery.
"I don't see anything."
"Oh shit. I mean, um, oops."
Permanently etched into the folds of my Samurai's robes was the vague but very discernible outline of a penis. One has to really look to be able to notice my little ninja's package, but it's certainly there. And according to my tattoo, the stereotype of Asian men is definitely not true.
The convenient placement and strange configuration of lines in the offending region should almost guarantee that the member was some kind of vulgar prank on the artist's part. Although anyone who knows Diggity would immediately dismiss that as a possibility. He just does not joke around. Diggity hates having fun so much he dropped out of school because of recess. I'm afraid the moral of the story is nothing more than to make sure your tattooist has had his daily ration of illicit narcotics.
Joke or honest mistake, what's done is done and my tattoo is packing some serious heat. Correcting the error is only a matter of adding a few lines and a bit of shading. At the time we had no fresh needles, so the rectification session had to be put on hold until some new ones were made. Unfortunately Diggity ended up failing a drug test and, before he could return to my cellblock, was released. So probably until my release Samurai will have three eyes: his right eye, his left eye and his one-eye.
And whenever we start firing taunts at each other, Brad will unfortunately have this as ammunition.