He'll Regret That Later

Brian was sitting in the middle of our broken couch, where it sagged the worst, when I told him I was going to get a tattoo.
“Cool,” he said. “What are you getting?”
I knew he wouldn’t want to come. Brian left the couch only to scavenge and bring back smashed up televisions and other abandoned shit that he arranged around himself. When he got tired of anything he threw it into the front yard.
I stood there for a moment and Brian didn’t look at me. He was leafing through a women’s magazine he had found in the alley the day before. I think it was Good Housekeeping or something like that. Brian didn’t care about irony.
“You’ll see,” I said. I kicked some empty beer cans against the wall.
Brian looked up. “Now?”
“Yeah,” I said. I picked up my backpack from the floor and stepped on a pile of wet socks on my way out. “I’ll see you later.”
“See ya, man,” said Brian, and went back to his magazine.
The ripped screen door slammed behind me.

The tattoo place was small but typical. Large bald headed men with meaty inked biceps wielded needles. The floor was checkered black and white and unswept. Bright and cheaply framed designs lined the walls, none that I would get. They reminded me of Tweety Bird on a fat woman’s calf. I wanted dark, realistic.
“You know what you want now?” One of the large men approached me. I had talked to him before, on my trial visit. His huge forehead intimidated me.
“Yeah,” I said. I pulled the photo out of my pocket and lifted my pink t-shirt. “There,” I said, pointing to the empty space above my heart.
“Okay, man.” The man took the photo from my hand, led me to a white vinyl covered chair and began.

The pain was great. I gripped the sides of the chair with my head tilted back. The ceiling was separated into dotted tiles, and loud, shrieking music flowed through a stereo. It took a few hours, with me occasionally checking the work. Even if I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have said anything. But it did look real.
“Good thing you got the dates right,” I joked to the man. He didn’t laugh.
I paid him and left the place, riding my bike back to the house. My skin felt sore and red as the wind pushed my t-shirt against it. I couldn’t wait to show Brian.

I dropped the bike on some broken chairs in the yard, ran up the concrete steps and pushed the door open. Brian was where I left him, rolling a joint. When I came in he paused and looked at me.
“Been waiting,” he said. “Whatcha got?”
“You’ll see,” I said, and went to get something from my room.
When I came back Brian was raising the joint to his lips. “Wait,” he said. He lit it, and breathed in, closing his eyes. “Show me,” he said, holding the smoke.
I lifted up my shirt. Brian opened his eyes, and when he saw his face on my chest they widened in disbelief. Brian’s profile drawn in dark black ink was raised up towards God, his hands clasped together in a prayer.
He choked out the smoke.
“No shit,” he coughed. “What are the dates? I was born in 1985…”
“And in 2006 you die!” I yelled, pulling the sword out from behind my back and swinging it straight up through his belly. Brian let out a cry and died, thus fulfilling the prophecy written that day upon my chest.

This story will be published in Denver Syntax in December.