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—Not the same, man. Not the same.

He blew smoke rings.

—Says you.

I lifted my head and stared at him. I opened my mouth, observed just how red his eyes were, and gave it up.

—Sure. Says me.

I stood up and made the room go sideways and Chev grabbed my arm and eased me back down.

—Whoa there, Hoss. Easy there.

—I'm cool, I'm cool.

I stood again, slower this time, and went over to the mirror on the wall and looked at my face.

—Crap.

There was a knock on the door. Chev opened it and his apprentice Dina stuck her pierced face in.

—Hey I'm doing this.

She held out a stencil of a little pitchfork-wielding devil.

—What should I use?

Chev looked at it.

—Loose seven for the line work. Straight seven for the color. You need a machine?

She squinted, smiled a little.

—Can I?

He picked up a small plastic case from the desk, undid the clasps on the side and took out a chromed tattoo gun and handed it to her.

—Got to get your own gear, lady.

She took the machine from him.

—I know. I'm saving. Thanks.

She started to close the door, saw me and stopped.

—Fuck, Web, what happened? Looks like you got beat up.

I pointed at my split swollen lip, bloody nose and the gash in my forehead.

—Is that what it looks like, Dina? Because I'm afraid you're mistaken. Wounds like these, you only get them one place. Between your mom's thighs when she crosses her legs too fast.

She flipped me off on her way out.

—Fuck you, you dick.

The door closed and Chev faced me, flicking ash on the floor.

—Feeling all better?

I ripped the paper wrapper off a gauze pad.

—I'm getting there.

He stubbed his butt in a tin ashtray with a Hamms label enameled at the bottom.

—Good. Because seeing as the topic of your dickness has come up, I thought we might talk about you being such a huge fucking phallus to Dot.

I pressed the pad over the oozing gash.

—She call you or something?

He fingered another smoke from his pack.

—Yeah, man. She called me. She called to tell me the homeless couple was screaming in the alley for help and that you were all fucked up down there. She hadn't called me, you'd still be there, asshole. And, by the way, she added that you flipped out on her and said some fucked up shit about me.

I used another pad to wipe dry bloody snot from my upper lip.

—Yeah, well, I may have been less inclined to say fucked up shit about you if you hadn't been talking to her about shit that's none of her business and that you should know better than to talk about with chicks you're nailing and that you know damn well you're gonna kick to the curb next week.

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the high buzz of Dina hitting his machine, tuning the power. He put his head out the door.

—Dina, baby, no higher than ten volts on that machine. It'll get squirrelly.

He pulled his head back in and closed the door.

—I'm not gonna be kicking Dot to the curb next week.

—Fine. Week after next.

He lit up and blew smoke.

—I like her. I'm not kicking her anyplace. She's cool and she's gonna be around for awhile. Adapt to the concept.

I looked for my Mobil shirt.

—Fine. You adapt to the concept that you shouldn't be talking about some things to chicks you've been fucking for twenty-four hours. No matter how much you're deluding yourself about the longevity of your affections for her.

He leaned his back on the door and folded his heavily decorated, gym-enhanced arms over his chest.

—Web, with all due respect and love, you are not the only one who's dealing with that shit.

I stopped looking for the shirt.

—What?

He raised a hand.

—Look, man, I'm not saying it's the same thing, but we live together. You know? And you're my best friend. And this shit ain't easy. I mean, all this, this whole asshole of the year thing you're doing, it ain't easy. Someone, someone I like, asks me why you're such a dick, that's a complicated answer. Because I want her to know that you're not a dick. Well, not just a dick. That you're cool. So I have to tell her some things. And seeing as how we are best friends and seeing as how we live together and seeing