One rainy night he packed up the kid in a yellow slicker to go get himself inked; higher up his neck. Next thing, waiting in there for Monty to finish up, it struck him that the kid should be inked, too. It struck him that the kid should have his own identity early. The wife had split for parts unknown making any opinion from her out of the equation. Not that he’d have consulted with her. Almost three, the kid hadn’t started talking yet.

Monty wasn’t keen. A crisp twenty slapped down on the counter solved that.

“He’s my little trooper. ” And Jake took another hit off the bong, tickling his son behind the ear. The boy was unresponsive.

Monty, wrecked during the whole ink, kept complaining. You’re fucking nuts, I can’t have him move a stitch while I’m painting.

“Calm down. He’s still as a rock. You seen him get twitchy once since we got here?”

Before he started, Monty had flipped the sign to CLOSED locking up the place tight. Four locks plus a chain. Muttering all the while: I don’t like it, I don’t like it one bit.

“It’s art,” Jake said.

“I could hang for this,” said Monty.

Afterward, he sat back contemplative on the stool. “What if he gets a blood poisoning or something?”

“I wanna get outta here before the heavy rains,” Jake said. “They’re predicted… the drainage this part of town…”

Monty was still muttering. “A huge mistake. What if his mama…”

A tiny snake head blossomed on the chubby upper arm.

Jake let out a guffaw. “Don’t you go worrying yourself about her. Bitch is back on the game.” His face darkened like when Monty pulled the shade down over the door window.

Monty smacked his lips. “That’s Bella for ya.”

“My son’s gonna be a man before he gets to kindergarten. Nobody’s bullying my son or pulling down their pants showin’ their junk. Not to my kid. No possible way.”