The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [2]
—Don't pull on it, don't pull on it.
—I'm not pulling on it.
She squirmed.
—You're sooo pulling.
—I am not, you're moving.
I looked at Chev.
—Did I pull on it or did she move?
Chev turned from his kit, a large needle between the fingers of his left hand.
—Just hold it steady, both of you.
The girl froze.
I looked back in my magazine and read about a scene in a movie called Amputee where a guy has his eyes gouged out and his toes are amputated by the bad guy and sewn into his empty eye sockets.
—I'm holding steady.
The clamp vibrated slightly as Chev ran the needle through the girl's nipple and she jerked.
I peeked at her over the top of the magazine.
—Not too bad, huh?
Part of a smile crossed her face and she shook her head.
—No, not too bad.
I nodded.
—Yeah, here comes the bit that really sucks.
Chev twisted the jewelry into the hole he'd just put in her nipple, and gripped the ends of the open hoop of surgical steel with two pairs of needle-nose pliers, torqued until they lined up, popped a tiny bead between them and pinched them together so they held it tight. The girl's mouth flew open and she made a long whining noise and a little urine stained the crotch of her way too fucking expensive for their own good jeans.
I looked at the photo spread in the magazine.
—See, hurts like a motherfucker.
Chev took the clamp from my fingers.
—Asshole. Get the fuck away.
—What? I was helping, you said I should come over here and help.
He released the clamp and the girl's nipple snapped back.
—Just get out of here, will you? Go get me some smokes.
I twisted the magazine into a tube and stuffed it in my back pocket.
—Give me some cash.
Chev looked up from the blood he was swabbing off the girl's tit.
—No.
—Fine, I'll tell them we're not using money anymore, that we've moved beyond outdated concepts like commerce and that they should just give me your American Spirits because it's a goodwill society now.
He placed a gauze pad over the girl's nipple and had her hold it there while he taped the corners down.
—I gave you money for breakfast this morning and you never gave me the change. Use that in lieu of goodwill and go buy my smokes.
—Thought the change was a tip.
—It wasn't. Go. Get out.
He took a card full of cleaning instructions from his work table and handed it to the girl and started telling her how to care for the piercing, blotting her eyes for her with a Kleenex.
—You're gonna want to take the bandage off in a couple hours, in the shower with water running over it so it doesn't stick to the dry blood. Then you gotta clean it, rotate the jewelry under the water.
She made a face and he stroked her hair and she leaned her head against his hand.
—It'll be cool. It'll hurt, but not bad. The hard part is over.
I leaned against the wall by the door.
—Until mom sees it and you have to explain why the hell you let some creepy tattoo artist poke a hole in your tit.
Chev stepped away from the girl.
—Go be useful. Now.
I slid my shades over my eyes.
—I am useful. I serve a constant reminder that you're not as cool as you think you are and that you used to run home early from school every day so you wouldn't miss Star Trek and it wasn't till you shaved your head and got inked and opened this shop that chicks like her would even look at you.
—Now, out, the fuck out!
I pushed the door open.
—And you have the whole original series on deluxe DVD and an autographed William Shatner picture that you got at a convention when you were fifteen and had chronic acne.
The door swung shut behind me as I walked into the sunlight, whatever Chev was saying to me muffled and lost.
I didn't need to hear it. I'd heard it all before. Anything Chev has to say to me, I've heard it. Most of it starts with asshole and ends with such a dick.
I dug in my pocket and found the six odd bucks left over from the breakfast run I'd done over to the Denny's on Sunset. I'd planned on using it for some tacos later.
—Crap.
I stuffed the money back in my pocket and headed out.
Mostly Chev is cool. Until