Look at "Tat" Little Scared Boy Run...

Had occasion to visit with a couple tattoo artists in a trendy little spot in downtown KC. Both boys had full sleeves on both arms, finger and neck tattoos, piercings, gauges, and rings of all manner protruding at all sorts of angles. Decked out in all black, driving hybrids, grinding their coffee beans, rolling their own, all-in types, they were living the life.

There we were, just the three of us, standing around co-existing, me whistling the "Which One of These Things Does Not Belong" song, when one of the "dudes" asked if I wanted to see a portfolio. Being polite, I thought why not. Gentle readers, I declare unto you I saw some things that will forever haunt me, come to me in dreams of ink, needles, and surgical grade stainless steel. If we're ever alone, remind me to tell you about a photo marked only "Rose, Seattle". Dear Mother of Mildred...

Near the back of the book, there's a picture of some guy, I think, lying on his back in a wide-eyed daze. A gaggle of black clad pin cushions were standing around the figure pouring what looked like wine all over him. Picture some sort of nasty hazing ritual at the only goth frat at the Fine Arts School of San Francisco. I start to laugh, commenting that "Wow, that fella had a bad night." Dude 1 looks over my shoulder and gets a very serious look, brow furrowed, the whole nine.

"No. That's The Hype. He was performing that night. It was a satirical look at corporate gluttony. He'd just finished a heavy set, cutting himself. Everyone was just showing appreciation. Remember that Dieter? That was an amazing show."

First off, Dude 2 is named Dieter. Yeah, it's like that people. Secondly, did he just say cutting himself? And in what society does pouring drinks on the perfumer mean appreciation? I thought wine. Maybe blood. That would be about right wouldn't it? It took all I had not to ask if they were the undead. The Hype? Seriously? No, seriously?

Pretty sure my brow furrowed because Dude 1 quickly retrieved his portfolio and tucked it away smartly before casting a knowing glance at Dieter. I fancy myself a creative kind of guy, got a little artist in me I think, but I was beginning to get uncomfortable. My carbon footprint was way too oppressive and I was wearing khaki slacks and a poly blend shirt in a bold color. I bet those boys talked about the community service project they took part in, spending time with the lost, funny dressed little man with the slightly hickish accent, when they were drinking green tea wheat grass smoothies with their coven, I mean friends, that night.

So many questions: Does Dieter's friend, Dude 1, have a name, what does The Hype do for an encore, and how much sedation did it require to attache the implant-rod-serrated knife edge-thingymabob in Rose, Seattle?

I'm not meant to know. Pretty sure.