‘Is it a virtual-tag or a tattoo?’

I shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

I never expected to end up in the International

Rights Court in front of a judge and jury.

We don’t even speak the same language. They were arguing about my chest art and who owned which words.

The interpreter shuffied some papers, then began to read:

‘You are charged with being a Virtual Vandal. The band Hip-hop claims this song belongs to them. They own the rights. You had the lyrics tattooed on your chest. Every time someone looks at your chest and reads those words, you must pay a royalty fee to Hip-hop. You have outstanding debts of 2,371,977 dollars in your currency owing now. How do you plead?’

‘Guilty.’

‘Anything to add?’ asked the judge.

‘It was on my body. I’m the legal canvas.’

The courtroom was warm with afternoon light. Sunlight glinted on the designer watch worn by one of the jury members. Was that real or a copy watch?

‘You copied lyrics illegally.’ The judge looked at my face, not my chest. ‘And then others copied you.’

‘I was a fan, then.’

How could this dare get so out of control? It happened ages ago. Worst decision I ever made. It’s ruined my social life. I can’t get rid of the tatts. Can’t afford the skin grafts. And girls won’t come near me! I have massive debts. Please don’t look at me!

I need to go back to the beginning. To my suburban high school, Greysville. I’ll never forget Leb the ‘Boss Kid’ who tagged his territory. And the arrival of Picasso, the awesome art teacher.

Our school was one of those grey places. A bit run-down. Weeds. Peeling window frames. As if no one wanted to stay long enough to fix anything. Principals changed each term. In the streets nearby, any abandoned house was graffiti-covered within days of the tenants leaving.

Leb’s gang would tag any walls or even bumpy fences to mark their territory. Sometimes the estate agents would repaint fast if they had tenants coming. They tried dark blue and Leb used white spray. They tried light paint and he used dark spray to tag. But after a while, they gave up.

Greysville became Graffiti-ville. But tags weren’t the only kinds of branding.

Tatts were skin graffiti, a different kind of tag. Leb had a few.

In between school races at the pool, I was trying to work out a row of Roman numerals just above the back of Leb’s bathers. His swimsuit featured school colours because the squad had to wear them.

Leb noticed me staring.

‘Like my tatts?’

‘Er ... what are they for?’

‘My year of birth. In Roman numerals MCM.’

‘Can’t you remember how old you are?’ His eyes narrowed and I quickly added, ‘Hey, we’re on. Let’s go.’

Leb couldn’t see those numbers, even doing a back flip. Unless he looked at himself in a double mirror, and then they’d be back to front. Or would they?

We won the relay, due to Leb. He was a splashy swimmer, but fast.

Then Picasso arrived as a relief teacher. That wasn’t his real name. Picasso was what we called him. He was small, round, and loved fine art. In our school, that was a first.

‘Graffiti is like a tattoo for a building, but the owner and the wall have no say in it,’ said Picasso.

‘Graffiti was in Ancient Rome and Greece, too.’

‘Awesome,’ said Leb. ‘I’m part of history.’

‘They were Vandals,’ said Picasso. ‘They destroyed cities like Rome. That’s where the name vandal comes from.’

‘I knew that,’ said Leb, who didn’t.

Picasso suggested we Google graffiti. He wrote the spelling for us.

‘If you’re going to be a street artist, let’s go for quality. Write something others will notice, some thing that matters. A tag is a keyword for informa tion. Like a meta-tag.’

‘A tag?’ Leb thought he was the expert.

‘You should specialise.’

‘Duh?’

‘Saw your tag on the railway fences.’ Leb smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit of a celeb.’

‘Celeb scribbler.’

‘Scribbler?’ just like pre-schooler scribble. No message for change.’

‘Don’t do politics,’ said Leb. ‘Nothing to say.’

Picasso smiled. ‘You’re wrong there. Paint some thing others will think about. Try a mural.’

‘A what?’

‘A story in pictures on buildings. And on roofs. Tourists still pay a fortune to visit some famous murals.’

Leb Googled murals +tourists +visit.

Later, supervising our swimming squad, Picasso noticed Leb’s tatt.

‘MCM means nineteen hundred. When were you born, Leb?’

‘Two thousand.’

‘That’s MM. You’re a century out.’

‘Short-term memory, Leb?’ someone called.

But street-smart Leb said quickly, ‘That ‘C’ stands for my dog’s name.’

‘Lucky the tatts aren’t on your elbow. No one can lick their own elbow,’ joked Picasso.

We tried. He was right. It was the quirky stuff that Picasso knew that got us interested. Took us on a virtual tour of these old galleries online. Leb was keen on the ‘Loo’, as he called the Louvre, the famous place in France.

‘Tatts are your choice at the time. They’re perma nent. Later you may regret them. Temporary graffiti is on walls owned by others. They have no choice. The third option is quality work on a legal canvas.’

Picasso got us painting murals on the sports store walls. We did space footy figures, and cyber-scooters and stuff

‘Mural is history in paint,’ he said.

The store became our legal canvas. We put up cool designs with bright reds and yellows and lots of black.

I was a fan of Hip-hop’s lyrics. So I drew them, too, to music.

‘We’re going into the adoption business,’ Picasso said as he unpacked boxes of art supplies.

‘What’s that?’

Picasso suggested each of us ‘adopt’ a local wall or even a street to repaint immediately after tags were sprayed on them.

He looked direcdy at Leb when he said that.

‘Choose.’

Picasso held up spray cans and brushes. ‘Practise.’

‘What do you mean?’

Then Picasso told us about Intergalactic Central.

‘This Exhibition requires artists to submit under their real names. Not just a tag. Or you can Photoshop graffiti online, instead of just photographing street art for an entry.’

‘Why do that?’ asked Leb.

‘So your parents can see your work exhibited internationally.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Leb. ‘My mum might come.’

I never remember whether there are two f’s or two t’s in graffiti. Leb used spell check for his entry. And he always wore a belt now, to cover his Roman numerals.

I started thinking about another legal canvas, once I was old enough. As a fan, I could advertise for them, like a T-shirt.

‘Lyrics belong to the creator who wrote the song, not to you,’ warned Picasso.

After the exhibition, Leb’s graffiti wallpaper designs sold online, and ‘Sew Trendy’ was a sell-out in temporary tattoo lip stickers.

Leb dared me. ‘You say words matter, Wimp. I dare you to get Hip-hop’s lyrics on your chest. Skin words are better than wearing a fan T-shirt.’

Leb was wrong about that. Tatts are forever.

Images of my chest art went on viral-cam. Someone uploaded pies of my tatts online and the pictures went viral. And then along came the copyright issue. Hip-hop owns those words in that sequence.

Now I have to pay every time someone looks at my chest, anywhere in the world.

I’ve been sentenced to wear skivvies for life.