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(the January 2013 Issue)




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The Tattoo

John Ragusa

    Herbie Freedon was flamboyant. He liked for people to notice him. And for this to happen, he was always doing crazy things, like playing Russian Roulette. If something got him attention, he’d do it. He liked being the life of the party, too, because it got him noticed by the other guests.
    He dressed outlandishly and came up with clever, witty things to say a lot of the time. He just had to show off.
    Of course, his big ambition was to become an actor. That would get him fame and publicity, the two things he wanted the most. He attended drama school, where he impressed and amused his instructors and fellow students with his hammy histrionics during rehearsals. He proved that he could overact with the best of them.
    Herbie’s girlfriend Betty told him that he had a big ego.
    “Baloney,” he said. “I just hate to be ignored.”
    “I think you’re a bit vain, actually.”
    Herbie pursed his lips. “Am I vain just because I happen to have a high opinion of myself?”
    “Herbie, you think you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
    “Can I help it if that’s true?” he said flippantly.
    As he was watching an action movie on television one night, Herbie saw that the lead actor had a tattoo on his arm. It showed a big, red heart with “Connie” written across it; evidently, that was his wife or girlfriend’s name. Suddenly, Herbie realized how he could be in the spotlight all the time. He could get a tattoo of a heart on his arm, just like the actor’s, and have the name “Betty” written across it. Everywhere he would go, people would see it and consider it (and him) colorful. It would also show Betty how much he loved her.
    So he went to a tattoo parlor. He said to the Chinese tattoo artist, “I’d like to get a tattoo on my arm of a heart with ’Betty’ printed on it.”
    “I can do that,” the tattoo artist said. “Have a seat. I’ll get my tools.”
    Herbie sat down on the armchair. The tattoo artist gathered his tools. Then he drew a heart and Betty’s name on Herbie’s arm. Afterward, he engraved the ink with an electric needle.
    When he was finished, the tattoo artist said, “That will cost you $800.”
    Herbie’s jaw dropped. “Eight hundred dollars? You know something? You’re ripping me off!”
    The tattoo artist looked offended.
    “I am an honest man, sir.”
    Herbie took $800 from his wallet and laid it down on the counter.
    “If you ask me, you’re nothing but a thief,” he said.
    “You insult me,” the tattoo artist said. “You’ll be sorry for it.”
    “I’m already sorry I came here,” Herbie said. He walked out the parlor, slamming the door loudly.
    That night, Herbie and Betty were having dinner at his apartment.
    “You really fix up good steaks,” Betty said.
    “I learned how to cook them from my mother,” Herbie said.
    “I think this is nicer than dining in a restaurant. We don’t have to put up with crowds and noise.”
    “We don’t have to shell out a lot of money for our meals, either.”
    Betty casually looked at Herbie’s arm, and she saw the tattoo.
    “Hey, what’s this?” she asked.
    Herbie smiled proudly. “It’s my new tattoo.”
    “You have the name ’Katherine’ tattooed on you! Herbie, how could you? You’ve been seeing another woman!”
    Before Herbie could say anything, Betty picked up her steak knife and, in a fit of rage, stabbed Herbie through the heart with it. He was dead in an instant.
    The tattoo artist had used black magic to change “Betty” into “Katherine.” And when he read about Herbie’s murder in the next day’s newspaper, he was satisfied that he had gotten his revenge.



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