Owen Minor drove to the tattoo parlor where Malibu Mark worked, but it was a bust. The studio was high end and did not take walk-ins. The receptionist, a tiny woman named Tink who was covered in some of the best ink Owen had ever seen in person, was a little snooty and asked why he hadn’t called to book a session. Owen lied and said that he didn’t know the rules because he’d never gotten a tattoo before. In truth, he didn’t want his phone number in their records.
Tink’s attitude defrosted a few degrees and she patiently explained the process and went over the cost structure. He made an appointment to come back and gave her the number to a disposable cell, a burner. He was already being cautious, following the rules of safety and anonymity he’d learned from reading crime novels and watching true-crime shows.
Waiting the eleven days for his appointment was excruciating. His imagination went into overdrive, swerving into deep desire and gut-twisting paranoia. He kept expecting a knock on the door and some kind of cop or agent to barge in. Some Scully and Mulder thing; taking him into custody for crimes that were on no books, but for which he’d be locked away forever. Or sent to some freaky government lab where they would study him, take samples, dehumanize and enslave him, forcing him to do some kind of spooky spy shit. Or, one of his victims would have tracked him down somehow, and come to cut his heart out for what he’d done. Not that Owen felt a flicker of remorse for what he was doing. No. None at all. He wouldn’t have this gift if it wasn’t meant for him to use. As he saw it, this was no different than someone being born with a beautiful voice breaking hearts by singing sad songs. No different than a soldier pulling a trigger because he was a natural killer.
In the moments when he was not filled with fear, he was turned on far beyond his ability to masturbate his way to a calm space. Even when he jerked himself raw on his third or fourth orgasm in a single night. He thought about how it would feel to devour the dreams of someone like Charles Manson or Ted Bundy. It was a rush reading about them, but to be them in dreams? Holy fuck.
One of his victims had been a biker who’d stomped a gay teenager to death after paying the kid twenty bucks for a blowjob. That had been a real head trip. All those complex emotions—the biker’s desire, his shame and anger, his rage and the heartbreak he felt way down deep because he wanted to be the boy he was killing. Those memories were so powerful, and sunk deep into the biker’s soul via a tattoo that was a straightaway on a long desert highway. The road was straight, but the biker was twisted. The ink was intended as a statement—straight as the endless highway, blah blah blah—but in his alone times that biker clamped a hand over the image and crumpled onto his shower floor, weeping, praying to God, begging forgiveness. Only when he was drunk, only when he was alone.
The days passed and finally it was time to see Malibu Mark.
The artist looked like Uncle Fester from the old Addams Family movies, except for wildly hairy Einstein eyebrows. He gave Owen an up and down inspection that was so penetrating it felt like rape. Owen couldn’t read his face, but there was some kind of magic in the man’s eyes. Like he knew on some level. When he spoke, though, his words and tone were low-key, normal.
“Your first?” asked Malibu Mark.
“Y-yes,” said Owen, stumbling over it.
“How’d you hear about me?”
“There was an article in Tattoo Master.”
“Oh,” said the artist, sounding vaguely disappointed, “yeah. So … you have anything in mind?”
“I want to start small, you know? See if I like it?”
“Sure.” Another layer of disappointment.
“I want a fly.”
“Like a zipper?”
“No, the insect.” Although the memories of his first stolen tattoo were gone, the image of the actual ink was there in his mind. And he had dozens of photos of it taken that first night with his cell camera. Even a video of him holding his hand up and turning it this way and that. Owen had studied the vine and leaves, but they were of little interest. He thought the mantis was too stuck-up looking, and he had no interest in bees. The fly, though … that one caught his eye. He’d done an image search online and found out that it was a blowfly. Properly, a Calliphoridae, and sometimes called a carrion fly, bluebottle, greenbottle, or cluster fly. He preferred blowfly, though. It had a certain charm to it. Shakespeare was the very first writer to use that name, in Love’s Labour’s Lost, and later in The Tempest.
Owen dug his phone out of his pocket and showed several pictures of that insect, saved from nature websites.
“Just that?” asked Malibu Mark.
“For now, yes.”
“Okay … but it’s not going to take very long time. Couple hours, tops. Sure you don’t want something bigger, more of a statement piece?”
“No,” insisted Owen, “just the fly. And I want it here.” He pushed up his sleeve and touched a spot on his forearm near the crease. “A big one. Life-size.”
“Cartoon or real?”
“Photo-real.”
Malibu Mark studied him for a moment, and Owen was never sure what he thought or what he read, but he nodded and explained the procedures, the costs, and everything Owen needed to know as a first-timer.
Owen had read up on what to expect and watched endless YouTube videos. Even so, he was surprised how much it hurt.
He was not at all surprised at how good that felt.