This will be a bit lengthy, but I assure you, hang in there, it's worth the payoff. All I can say is this; I have, as of now, met THE most fucked-up human being I have ever met in my whole life. I would never believe this story unless it happened to me. Let me put it to you this way...how's this for a conversation opener: "I have a terrible fear of being gang raped." Now that I have your curiosity piqued, I'll elaborate....
She called the shop and begged for someone who worked in a private room, me being one of the few, I got the call. She asked if I could do a certain tattoo for less than a certain price, one of our competitors had given her a quote and she wanted to know if I could beat that. I said I'd have to see it, she said it's only letters. I said, well, what kind? She didn't know. I was wondering how she got the quote then. I told her to come in and show me something from our font books and I could give her an idea. She whined that it was really far to make the trip. I hate those calls, they want you to give them an answer, even though there isn't one. If you want to know how hard it is to price a tattoo on the phone, and how annoyed we get when you press us for prices despite the fact that we say we can't, try this: call a car dealership and ask how much a car is. When they ask what kind, say, "Not too big, but not too small. Maybe a blue one." Keep acting vague and stupid for about five more minutes as the dealer tries to figure out what you want. If you listen carefully enough, you might actually be able to hear the guy pop an aneurism.
But I digress, I'll save the phone rant for another day. I sighed and told her I could probably beat the price, just come on in. "Great!" She answered cheerfully, "I'm right down the street, I'll be there in five minutes!" What happened to being 'too far away'? Oh, well, I thought, people will tell us anything to get the answer they want.
When she arrived, her arms were laden with paperwork, a bottle of water, a plastic cup of pop, a box of wheat thins, a gigantic bottle of hand sanitizer, and a book. I wondered if she was moving in. She picked out a font quickly, some Old English variation, but refused to tell me what she wanted it to say. "I'll tell you when we get in there," she said, meaning my room. So I brought her back there. "It's a joke between me and my finacee," she told me. Long way to go for a joke, I thought, but I was curious.
In the room, she ordered me to lock the door, which I did, hesitantly. she took a breath, and said, "Don't think I'm weird or anything," She warned. I wasn't liking where this was going. Her odd behavior, her fidgetiness, I was beginning to think I had a real live on on my hands. I was right.
"I want 'Satan's Bitch', across here," she began, drawing a line across her chest with her fingers, and then turned her back and did the same across the top of her butt. "And I want 'God's Wife' here."
"Uhhhhh huh," I said, turning to my desk and getting some tracing paper. Whoooo, Nellie, I thought.
"I wore my favorite swimsuit, to make sure it's not going to show at the pool and all, you know," She informed me. "But I'll have to take it off for you to do the tattoo, 'cause it's really low on my breasts, you know." Good thinking, Sparky, I thought to myself. Now you're using your noggin. I was tracing away when she piped up again from behind me. "I have a terrible fear of getting gang raped." As if she were telling me what she had for lunch. I didn't even know what to say. "If anyone kidnaps me and tries to fuck me, I think that will scare 'em, seeing 'Satans' Bitch' on my chest, don't you?'
"Sure," I agreed. I priced the tattoo a bit lower than what she had been quoted at the other shop and she got upset. "Really? But I want to pay you _________ hundred dollars." So what was all that fuss about on the phone? Sheesh, this one didn't even know what planet she was on, and the tattoo she was getting wasn't even the most obvious indicator.
She felt compelled to explain her choice, even though I really didn't want to know. "I was on this rugby team? And there was this really mean girl--I've never had a lesbian experience. But we called her Satan because she was so mean. And my finacee thinks it's really hot 'cause, you know, I won't do that. So he can see this tattoo while we're having sex." Yeesh. I was glad I had my back to her so she couldn't see me cringe. But she kept on going regardless of the fact that I was trying to ignore her to the best of my abilities.
"And the 'God's Wife', that's cause, like, my Mom was a preacher. And so we all have tattoos, 'cause she told us not to get them. but I told my fiancee that I was never going to get married, I was going to get married to God. So, it's funny, you know?" Hilarious. I was nearly pissing in my pants. I'm sure no one would find that funny, except the orderlies who would be wiping her ass in the nursing home one day.
"Do you have some tape I could put on my nipples?" She asked. "So I can cover them, you know, it's going real low." Oh, so Satan's Bitch is modest! How cute! I assured her I did and kept drawing. "You know, I get bikini waxes," she said, and I almost dropped my pencil, "and it's like, the thing is falling off, you have to tape it on, they're all looking at your cooter." Right, like an asthetician is in it for the 'cooter'. They want to do your wax and get it over with. Besides, if you're willing to lie spread-eagle on a table and have a stranger rip hot wax off your ass crack, is there any point in being shy?
She suddenly began to panic. "Don't tell any of those guys out there what I'm getting!" she barked. I promised her I would not, that they wouldn't even ask. "Yes they will, "she replied sullenly. "I know it!" I reassured her it would be fine. She then told me to make something up to tell them. How about 'Looney Bitch', I thought.
I sighed and went out front to make the stencil. "Hey, check this out," I said with a grin, showing one of the guys out there. He laughed and asked if she was hot. "Nope," I told him, "but she's bat-shit crazy!"
Trying to put the stencil on was a nightmare. She taped bits of paper towel over her nipples and kept telling me "More tape!" I told her she was sticking the tape in the spots where I was going to put the stencils and she needed to relax. "But I don't want you to see!" She whined. Finally, I asked her which was worse, me seeing a tiny peek of her areola, or her having a crooked tattoo for the rest of her life. She finally relented and I went to put the stencil on. She immediately lifted her hands to cover her well-taped nipples.
"Put your hands down," I told her.
"Go lock the door."
"It is locked."
"Check it again." Jesus, obsess much? I knew I was in for one of those where you have to reposition the stencil fifty times because it's off by one millionth of a nanocentimenter. I checked the door and turned back to her, suddenly she gasped and covered her breasts again with her hands. "Now what?" I asked. She pointed frantically to the mirror. "Can anyone see through there?" Oh, hell.
"No, no one can see through there, it's not a two-way mirror, I'll take you out there and show you myself." My patience was long gone at that point.
"Cover it with paper towels!" She yelped. Now, my boss doesn't look kindly on us giving paying customers the boot, even if they act crazy/rude/impossible/dangerous. If I had my way, I'd have flung that door open wide, shoved her into the hallway, taped nipples and all, hit her in the head with her stack of papers, and maybe thrown her shirt out there too, just before I slammed the door in her face as she screamed. However, I do not have my own way, and I began grudgingly taping paper towels over the mirror. She yanked more off the roll and handed them to me. "More, more, I can still see some down there," she coached. I was wondering if she ever smoked crack cocaine, as I had heard of crackheads spending hours covering all the windows in their homes to keep the FBI or whomever from spying on them. "I have a fear of getting raped," she said again, as if looking and raping were the same thing and that was why I was taping paper towels over my mirror like a dope. "I'm a travel nurse," she added. I have no idea what that is, anyone know? Anyway, she continued, "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that happens." I was really hoping she wasn't going to tell me. Luckily, she didn't.
So, finally, the room was secure, the stencil got applied, after a good twenty or so adjustments, I lost count at about seventeen, I shit you not. So I get her to recline in the chair, and she asks if she could do her paperwork while I tattoo her chest. I wondered, would she be using the top of my head as a desk? I told her no and got to work. She was plenty occupied without her paperwork, though, She kept raising her head to look at that mirror, making sure there was not one sliver of glass showing.
"My fiancee is a lawyer," she told me cheerfully. "So I call him Satan, so, that's why, the tattoo, you know?" Well, wait a minute, what happened to the lesbian rugby player? But then I decided I really wanted to know was what kind of meds she was on, how much, and if the rubber room was comfy.
She kept putting her hands up, and, of course, right in my way, to fix the tape. The green soap, water and Vaseline were making a mess of her 'pasties'. After about the third or fouth time, I was ready to pin her down by the neck with one hand, and with the other, yank off the tape and tell her to fucking deal with it. I just told myself to suck it up and get it done. When I had finally finished, I was simultaneously relieved, and yet miserable that I still had another to do.
She was so excited, she was going on and on about how much she loved it. Her joy immediately turned to a fit when she saw there were streaks of purple from the stencil on the white trim of her swimsuit. She had insisted on pulling it up over the stencil to see if the suit would hide the tattoo. That would be a pretty freakin' scandalous suit if it didn't cover a tattoo less than a half inch above her nipples, but I obliged. So she's carrying on and on about the suit being a hundred dollars and it was her favorite suit, I finally grabbed the bottle of green soap, gave the spot a squirt and told her to go home and wash the thing in cold water. And soak your head while you're at it, I thought.
So we got started on "God's wife". She kept wanting it lower, lower, lower, until she had the crack of her ass dividing the two words. Then she wanted them moved closer together. She began to go on and on about church, telling me solemnly that she was "a very religious person." Right, because devout folk get "Satan's Bitch" tattooed on their tits, and the name of God in their ass crack. I must have missed that part of Catholic school when I was a kid.
So, the second part went by fairly uneventfully, except for her repeatedly telling me, "No one else can get this tattoo! If anyone else asks for it, say no, even if they really want it!" I wearily told her that I didn't think she needed to worry about that. Then she went on to talk about meeting her finacee at this hospital she works at, they were working together. Hm! A lawyer who has a second job...in a hospital...maybe he just loves helping people!
We finished and she was all smiles, telling me I was so awesome, blah, blah, I was so relieved it was over. "I gotta give you my number! We should totally hang out!" Oh, yes! Me and Satan's Bitch, pals for life! I can't wait to meet the fiancee, I'm sure he must be a stalwart chap, if he could wrest the wife of God from the kingdom of heaven! Or Hell? Oh, for Pete's sake....
She scrawled her number on a piece of paper. "Now, if anyone else wants this tattoo, you call me!" She said sternly. "Because my friends are gonna see this and want it too." Wow. That's gotta be some bunch, if they actually even exist outside of her psychoses.
She left and I wearily cleaned up the aftermath, tearing down the paper towel fortress. An hour later, the phone on the wall rang, guess who.
"I wanna add a word to this," she said breathlessly," I just thought of something hilarious!" Oh, I could hardly wait.
"What do you want to add?" I asked warily.
"Just two letters, in the middle of the one on my chest."
"What letters?" I asked again, with a definite edge to my voice.
"My." She said triumphantly. Satan's MY Bitch. I weakly told her I was booked up for the rest of the night. Total bullshit, but I simply could not deal with all that again, not for two letters. She assured me she'd be back, and she'd send me lots of business, she's in California all the time, and had lots of friends there who want tattoos. Apparently, California is completely devoid of tattoo shops now? I was unaware of this development.
So, there it is, the craziest person I have ever tattooed. I get a new winner every now and then, but this one will be nearly impossible to top. In fact, if anyone does manage to top that, I think I will be forced to retire immediately, as I will be the one who's finding out if the rubber room is comfy.
