The bell above the door jingled indicating a potential customer. Wiping the ink from the guy’s arm I looked up. Him again. He smiled and took a seat in the middle chair of an empty row of five soft backs. The other tattoo artists all noticed him and scanned one another’s face. We’ve all given him the same ink; a single tally mark.
He soon took his place, revealing the twelve slashes over his left breast. “One more to the collection please.” In a whisper added “a baker’s dozen.”
He doesn’t look dangerous but neither did Ted Bundy.