It was starting to burn, more than it was supposed to. He’d only gotten the tattoo two days ago, but he had taken care of it exactly as he was supposed to. It didn’t look infected, yet something didn’t feel right. Why did it burn? And why was he surrounded by neatly stacked piles of hundred dollar bills? He couldn’t remember anything, but he wasn’t hung over. In fact, now that he thought about it, this was the second night in a row he couldn’t recall. He didn’t even go out last night. But at some point between 9pm yesterday evening and 9am this morning, Charles Andover had somehow acquired what counted out to be £50,000. But how? The only thing that came to mind was just ludicrous: it was the tattoo. But it couldn’t be the tattoo, could it? “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever you have left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” he thought. That’s what Sherlock Holmes always said. But this didn’t just seem improbable, this was impossible. Charles could barely comprehend the possibility that a tattoo had…well, was somehow controlling him.
Days earlier Charles was dumped by his girlfriend, fired from his job, and, citing him as too much of an embarrassment, his parents committed suicide. All of this on his thirtieth birthday. That night he did what any man would do on such a red letter date; he drank until both memories and consciousness were lost.
It was 2:37pm when he woke up. Aside from the usual hangover headache, there was dried vomit encrusted around his mouth and a surgical bandage on his left shoulder. Removing it in front of the bathroom mirror revealed a rather crude and cartoonish tattoo of a devil. He found a business card in his back pocket, folded and wrinkled. It had the word “Custom Tattoos” written on it. There wasn’t a number on it, only an address: 66 & 2/3 West 6th Street. Not thinking much of it, he nursed his hangover all day and went to sleep early.
It was 6:33am. Charles sat straight up in a cold sweat. Maybe he’d been having a nightmare but he couldn’t remember. He was inches away from returning to sleep when he noticed he wasn’t in his bedroom. He wasn’t in his house at all. Fortunately, it was at least a woman’s house judging by the naked one lying next to him. Still not wanting to have to answer any questions come sunrise, he quietly got dressed and sneaked out. Before Charles even had time to think about it, he got a call from his parents’ lawyer telling him he’d been left out of the will. This didn’t come as a shock considering the suicide letter.
Dear Charles,
Your mother and I have, after heavy consideration, decided to end our lives. Don’t take this the wrong way but it’s mostly your fault. After all the failures in your life we hope that our suicides will finally inspire you to turn your life around. Don’t miss us as we most likely won’t miss you.
Best of luck in the future,
Harold and Margaret Andover.
They used their full names. How informal and cold it was. Still, being left out of the will entirely was enough to incapacitate Charles from doing much the rest of the day other than stare at the wall. Even eating food seemingly required too much time and energy from him. That night, once again, Charles went to sleep sober and alone.
The tattoo! He had the devil on his shoulder and it was manipulating him. Like something out of a shitty Stephen King novel. Unsure of what to do, he found the business card from the other day and went swiftly down to the address on the card. 66 & 2/3 West 6th Street. It wasn’t there. There was no 66 & 1/3 let alone 2/3. Now it was time to panic. The devil was clearly beginning to have more influence over him whenever he slept. He stole £50k last night; he could only imagine the crimes would get worse and the prison sentence longer should he be found out. And then in flash he had the best and simultaneously, worst idea of his life. Charles bolted straight to the nearest pub and ordered three pints. He slammed them down as fast as he could and ordered three more, and so on.
Evening came and yet he was still conscious. So far his plan wasn’t working. He kicked things up a bit with a round of shots: Tequila, Vodka, Whiskey, and, to ensure total blackout, Jägermeister. Ten pints of ale followed quickly by such shots of hard liquor were enough to put someone in the hospital.
The next morning Charles woke up in the hospital with a jackhammer of a headache. He couldn’t remember anything which was both promising and unnerving. Had his plan worked, or did the tattoo still have total control over his nightly escapades? The nurse came in before he could check and took his vitals and informed him of the routine stomach pump he was subject to in the early hours of the morning. When she left he jumped out of bed and grabbed the nearest mirror. Pulling off his hospital gown, naked in the middle of the room, he found a surgical bandage on his right shoulder. Pulling it off, he was pleased to find a crude tattoo of a cartoon angel.
As dumb as a plan as it had been, it worked. If a devil tattoo on his shoulder was controlling his evil impulses, surely an angel tattoo would add some counterbalance. If the plots of Stephen King and R.L. Stine novels were going to invade his life, he’d seen enough cartoons to recognize the old shoulder angel/devil routine when he saw it.
The next day came and went without incident. With no job, no girlfriend, and no parents he took his £50,000 and moved to Belgium where people were as lazy and as apathetic as he was.
BB
