Let’s call him Paul.

“Have you ever had your face smashed with a claw hammer?” He queries in earnest.

It’s maybe a pretty standard experience for him, so there’s no reason for me to get all judgemental. After all, I don’t see a claw hammer anywhere close at hand. And even if these incidents had been immediately recent, I’m not a doctor.

For whatever reason, Paul feels he can tell my friend, Bat Country, and I his story. There aren’t enough safe spaces for honesty, so I like to do what little I can to foster them wherever and whenever they arise.

Even if it’s while I’m drinking high-quality malt liquor on a park bench. Watching the sun caress the skyline.

Rinsing down the day.

Bleaching out the past.

Paul’s debts are all settled. Notorized. He shows us the ink.

Figuring it was done with a fork, a random electric motor and some copy toner, it’s disappointingly good.

But it should be, since it’s the costliest tattoo I’ve ever seen.

I wonder if the ghost of that price lives inside the empty eyes of the stoic face scarred on Paul’s shoulder. Wonder if any of his story’s true. Wonder if it matters either way.

Take another swig. Give it another glance. Probably shrug.

Hope Paul managed to get something off his chest.