Work Text:
Jack Kowalcyzk opened up his tattoo parlor. Jack (known locally as Jackie Schick) had set up here in Portland Oregon because, for some reason, sailors and tattoos went together. As he swept away last night's dusting of snow, an old Cadillac skidded to a halt in the slush. A big guy in a mullet and a leather jacket jumped out and nearly slipped in the icy street.
"You do tattoos here, right?" The guy asked him.
Jack pointed at the sign, reading "Schick's Tats". "' 'S what the sign says." He answered.
"Wise guy, huh?" The big guy said. "No matter. I want some ink done." He strode into the shop.
Another muscle head wanting barbed wire on his bicep, thought Jack. Oh, well, it pays the bills. The big guy didn't look at a single sample, just took off his jacket, hoodie, shirt and undershirt. He turned away and Jack saw the livid burn on his back, still healing. "Jesus, buddy! What happened to you? Someone brand you?" Jack blurted.
"Back in Jersey, that's what we call nunya." The guy said.
"Nunya?"
"Nunya bidness! Ain't nobody's business, that's why I'm here! Scar like that, people have questions. I don't want questions! Just cover it in blue ink, right?"
"You think nobody'll ask why you have a tattoo of some strange symbol on your back?" Jack asked.
"Sure, but I got an answer to that! I was drunk!"
Fair enough, thought Jack. He had some customers who didn't think it was a real tattoo if they had any idea how it got there. "This is still pretty raw, buddy. It's going to hurt like a bitch."
"I can take a little pain." He pulled a fist out of his pocket, encased in a brass knuckle-duster. "I can also dish it out, capiche? Let's get goin' Michaelangelo, chop, chop!"
Jersey? Brass knucks? Capiche? What kind of Cosa Nostra bushwa you got yourself into, Jackie boy? "Hey, I don't want no trouble, mister! Whatever you say!"
" 'Bout time!" He settled himself on the tattoo seat and Jack got to work. Give him this, he didn't flench or make a sound. Jack finished, applied some salve, went through the care and feeding of a new tattoo while the big guy just worked his shoulder around. "Listen, mister. It's on the house! Just tell me, do I have to worry about whoever did that to you comin' after me?"
"You got brothers?"
"Two." Jack answered.
"Then you know how it is. It's like this. I get a postcard from my twin brother for the first time in ten years, asking me to please come. We had a falling out, y'know? Anyway, Poindexter wants me to take a book of spooky secrets and magic bullcrap to the ends of the earth. We get in a fight and I accidentally sent him through a portal to another dimension, like ya do. So, no, ya don't gotta worry about the guy who did this to me comin' after ya."
"Fine, don't tell me! Keep it a mystery!"
As the guy was getting back into the Caddy Jack heard him say "Mystery. I like the sound of that! Mystery Shack! Much better than Murder Hut." He drove off eastward, into the morning sun.