Free Bullets of Rain by David J. Schow Page B

population had figured me out, at least as much as they cared to, because I could draw. Pictures."
        Art cocked his head. It was a quizzical expression, like Blitz would make.
        "Remember it," Derek said. "If you're doing time, and you can draw, then you can tattoo, and if you can tattoo, you can survive in prison. Although you'd have to get a little artier than blueprints." He coughed. "Blue print-hey, that's funny."
        "Yeah, but jail ink is usually shit-dragons and gang tags and naked women done by somebody with a hot nail and no style."
        "That was my target. I could actually draw, that is, illustrate. I got a lot of attention for the right reasons, instead of for the rape-ability of my asshole, or my superfine, sensuous mouth. Once you cycle into the population and learn where the goods come from, you can score practically anything. I spent a shitload of dough on an electric toothbrush, and made it into a tattoo gun. You rubber-band a bunch of needles around the wiggly bit. It worked pretty fair."
        "I was going to ask about the eyeball on the back of your hand," said Art. "Kind of a bit of a problem in the 'identifying marks' category, isn't it?"
        Derek examined the eye, languidly half-open, on the back of his left hand. The eye looked back at him as if wondering how interesting the answer would be. "It's one thing if you've got a shitload of Maori jazz crawling up your neck onto your face. This, I can hide. Cost of doing business. Call it a learning experience."
        "Still…"
        "I read you. I designed the eye so I could cover it up with a driving glove. Then those fingerless motorcycle gloves fell out of style and the joke was on me, right?"
        "You could wear a snappy single glove, like that inspector in that Frankenstein movie."
        Derek's brow furrowed. "Hey. Bust your dog's balls, okay? I have to be careful; I have a new identity to protect. I thought of finding some guy who knows which end of a laser not to stare into, but you know what? I don't want to lose it. It looks out for me, spiritually. Keeps an eye peeled while I'm asleep, in the astral, I don't know. What can I say? It grounds me. I think it's going to stay." Derek stood up and pulled his heavy merchant marine sweater over his head. "If the eye bugs you, then you're going to hate this."
        Art was going to say, Just don't take your pants off , but the spit dried up in his mouth. Derek's left arm was end-to-end dermagraphs. The wrist was clean but most of the forearm was gauntleted in a Celtic weave of knots. At the elbow on both sides was inked an anatomically correct bone joint. Wrapped around the biceps was an armor-patterned snake, flicking its forked tongue toward the rattles on the tip of its own tail. Above that, near the ball of shoulder, was a sun or star that looked to be going supernova. Derek moved closer and sat cross-legged on the floor so Art could observe the tour of the gallery.
        "Problem is, most guys bring photos they want to immortalize. Girlfriends and pets, RIPs. Sword and sorcery hokum, biker chic, broken hearts. Mom. Shit from some dog-eared girlie magazine. Anybody who bothers to go to the library usually requests an Egyptian symbol or classical image."
        "I was going to ask if that was the Eye of Ra."
        "Sort of. My interpretation. But you've got the inspiration right. Another biggie is astrological signs. Flags of all nations. One guy whose bro died in prison came to me to duplicate his friend's tat, as a remembrance."
        "What was it?" Art was fascinated.
        "Just a purple sort of flower, like an iris. At least it wasn't a hula girl, or Hot Stuff." He indicated the sleeve. "Celtic patterns are always good. The barbed wire thing was popular, but I always thought it was kind of pussy-you know, wooo -you've got a picture of razor wire on you. That's like wearing an empty cartridge belt as a fashion accessory."
        "That