Garrett Crowe
I have decided to walk through a portal to remove all of my tattoos. I must hold my hands above my head, close my eyes, and step forward. It is like being perp-searched by the police. Although after I walk through the portal, I will no longer be a perpetrator. I will be a brand new citizen, instead. I will be exclusive and clean. I will be allowed express services: fast travels, fast groceries, first in line with access to the top floors. If I decide to procreate, my high IQ children will flourish in the network state. Many options are at my disposal. The portal will change my life. Conversely, the most famous cannibal in American history preferred victims without tattoos. I do not know how I will taste after I exit the portal. Does it rid the ink from my epidermis like a rind? Or has the ink forever saturated my body like a cured ham? I will ask a doctor, but first my fleeting romanticisms must be removed. These romanticisms include all the times I traded pain for change. Yes, at one point in my life, I needed a wolf with a top hat etched onto my shoulder. I needed a handcuffed pinup on the inside of my thigh.
I needed to hold the Book of Revelation on my backside. The tattoo parlor was like a clubhouse back then. If you don’t belong, don’t be long.
I would arrive for a severed Copperhead. I was available to chit-chat with the artist about hot rods, martial arts, and extreme films. I never stared at the artist’s machine. That was against the rules. In the evenings, dice were shot and 40s drunk. I brought my brother along a few times, making it a family affair. We both received Polito swallows behind our ears. After the portal, these good, old times will be forgotten. I have not spoken to my brother in a long while, and the parlor no longer exists as it once did. The shop was mortally vandalized by a notorious artist-felon-psycho nicknamed Toothtaker, who smashed the windows and marked the walls with yellow spray paint. Even the famous sign at the front of the parlor was destroyed. I admired the sign every time I visited. It read something like:
Here is the marking of the skin—applied by the needle man with sadistic delight using lamp-black, prussian blue, cinnabar, and mother’s milk. The way of our savage ancestors to win a lover, to frighten an enemy, and to invoke magic. Thus, blissfully revert to your own primitive type. Experience a certain pleasure in the process and romance of being tattooed.
Today, these sentiments have long vanished. The portal negates all romanticisms. The portal negates the past, and it is my turn. I am ready to walk through. I am ready to start over again. I am sure of it. No regrets.
losing our grip on purpose 