2017 Red Ribbon winner, The Wishing Shelf international book awards (Adult-Fiction).
A tattoo artist is pursued by the man of her dreams, but her biker-gang friends mistake him for a hit man out to get her.
It's 1995, and Galen Randall, the world'...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The last thing Randall said to Debbie at lunch that day was, "I'm going to see a man about a tattoo." This is what happened an hour later. Enjoy today's installment of LOU'S TATTOOS, A COMEDY OF ERRORS.
~o~~o~~o~
Scarcely an hour had passed since Debbie and Randall emerged from the Hard Rock Café darkness into the Bayfront Park sunshine and went their separate ways.
Pop O'Malley looked up from his desk to see a dove gray limousine squeeze itself into his tiny parking lot. A man in a black silk suit and white tie opened the rear door and stood. He looked handsome and very gangsterish.
When the gangster-man came through Pop's front door, Pop rose abruptly.
"I'm looking for Lou—"
"I know who you want!" Pop cut the man short. "And I know who you are, Buddy Petruccio. You can just take your fancy tattoo back to Vegas where it belongs and—"
"No! You look!" It was Randall's turn to interrupt. "I'm sick of this. There's only one way to prove to you people that I'm not this Buddy guy." He started unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly.
"What are you doing!"
"I'm giving Lou's protectors what they've all been asking for..."
He dropped his pants to the floor, shucked his coat and shirt to reveal:
"...my tattoo. My only tattoo. Satisfied?"
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
His black low-rise briefs did not hide black tribal markings circling Randall's body from waist to mid-thighs.
Whistling and applause erupted from the sidewalk outside the shop window, where three lady pedestrians were admiring Randall's physique through the tattoo parlor's window.
Randall posed for them, smiling.
The ladies laughed, blew kisses, and walked away giggling.
Pop slammed shut the Venetian blinds, cutting off further floorshows, and gaped at Randall.
Randall was accustomed to the questions that always resulted when people saw his ink for the first time. He simply answered them before Pop could ask. "New Guinea. Five years ago. Because it was the only way to get the pictures I wanted. The tribal shaman used a sharpened bone and pulverized plants mixed with saliva. It took four days and, yes, it hurt like hell. No, I don't think I'd do it again." That finished, he pulled up his slacks and reached for his shirt.
"I don't allow no cussin' in here," was all Pop said as he watched Randall finish dressing.
While buttoning his shirt, Randall said, "My name is Galen Randall, Mister O'Malley, and I'm in love with your daughter."
