needleandink

It was a good thing, Adrian thought as he propped the door open for the day, that he was good at managing money and at entertaining himself. His business wasn't one that lended itself to a steady stream of customers.

Ink, he found, called all manner of people. Expressionists, impulsives, mourners, and, of course, falling down drunks. Some people planned their ink for months before they committed it to their skin, some came by, browsed, and left with stinging skin and a tube of Aquafor. And some stumbled in, determined the way only alcohol can cause, demanding whatever had made sense to a liquified mind.

He had a special form for those, and every one of them on video, declaring their inebriated desires. They were some of his favorite customers.

There were no appointments on the books today, so he'd spend it printing out some of his latest work and working on some original designs.

Shadow, his three year old black cat, wound around his legs and purred up at him until he picked her up and stroked a hand down her long back. "Finally awake, huh? You're getting to be a slacker, your highness."