The Chesterfield style, buttoned and studded black leather desk chair was not exactly what Antonio Vilas; better known as Tortilla to his friends, was looking for that day, but it had his attention from the moment he saw it.  It had a walnut frame, was fully adjustable, and sat on five legs with castors and patinated brass caps, with a low back, and it caused him to light up like a seven-year-old birthday boy.  

When he rolled it into Prodigy Tattoo; the shop in which he worked, the other artists were hard at work, but still gave a curious glance to the unusually giddy Tony as he passed by them.  When he slid it beside the desk at his station, he just gazed at it with awe in his eyes.  While awaiting the only client he had scheduled on this particular Sunday, he kept cutting glances from his new chair to his associates, eagerly anticipating introducing them.  

He did feel quite silly the longer this went on, but it didn’t exactly inspire him to become any less thrilled about his new tattooing chair.  His old one had been falling further into disrepair by the day.  Had he not been leaning back to take a look at what finishing touches were left, he may well have carved far deeper than intended into the flesh of one of his regulars when the castor wheel snapped.  Fortunately, ending up sprawled out on the floor when it gave out was a best-case scenario, but the ‘what ifs’ that darted across his mind at the time, assured him it was time to replace the old girl.  

“Well damn, Tortilla, ain’t that classy,” Andrew North, the shop owner said, after walking over to see what Tony was so excited about.  

Andrew; better known as Houdini to his associates, had given his friend the nickname back in the day, mostly because it was often his go-to snack in between appointments.  Though he had never explained his own adopted moniker to his friends, they crafted theories from some time spent in some far-off prison he escaped from, to turning to tattooing when his dreams of becoming a magician didn’t work out.  

He would just claim that the story was not appropriate for such civilized conversations as this establishment would require, but the name stuck nonetheless.  William, the most recent addition to the team, was not quite as fond of the name his buddies had chosen for him, and would often attempt to make suggestions for a new one.  Unfortunately, it would seem he was stuck being referred to as Wonka for the foreseeable future.  

“Could change it to Wonky, if you’d prefer,” Tortilla would say from time to time when the subject came up.  

William would just roll his eyes and try to keep a lid on his frustration when he would have to endure Wonky Wonka jokes for the remainder of the day.  All in all, they were a tight-knit group, when everything was said and done.  Yes, they would often go out of their way to get on one another’s nerves, but it was all in good fun, or so they would claim.  

“Damn man, you gonna start wearing a smoking jacket next? Maybe puff away on a pipe in between tats?” Wonka said, pulling off his black latex gloves.  

“Come on, guys! This thing is fucking sweet, right?” Tony said, running his fingers across the low, leather back.  

“Oh yeah,” Houdini added, “fucking beautiful Mr.  Hefner.”

Tony offered a forced chuckle to the words of his friends, but still rolled his eyes in dispute.  

“Just take a seat, huh? I bet it’s more comfortable than your shitty stool,” he scoffed.  

Andrew planted himself down into the chair, causing it to roll back a foot or so, almost slamming against the shelf behind it.  

“Meh, I’ll stick with my shitty stool,” he said, pushing himself back up.  

Though Wonka and Tortilla both could barely catch their collective breath from the laughter that erupted when Houdini’s face planted to the floor, he did not appear remotely amused.  He just glanced back to where his left foot was still entangled between two of the five legs of the chair, barely taking the time to notice the blood streaming from his nose.  

“Shit man, you ok!?” Tony asked, reaching a hand to help his boss from the floor while attempting to hold off his laughter.  

“Fuck your fucking chair!” He replied after getting back to his feet, storming off in the direction of the bathroom.  

As soon as the door slammed at the rear of the building, Wonka and Tony both lost it again.  When Andrew yelled some muffled swearing from within the small restroom, it did not help them come any closer to settling down.  The fact that they were still chuckling when he emerged from the back room, did not help matters at all.  

“Not fucking cool, guys,” he said, walking back to his station, without so much as glancing at either of them.  

“Come on, man.  It was just an accident!” Tony said.  

“Yeah, you’d act the same way if it was one of us,” William added.  

Tortilla let out a sigh when no response greeted his words, before gesturing to the chair once more.  

“You wanna try?” 

Wonka just raised his middle finger, before strolling back to his station.  There wasn’t much talking for the remainder of the day, between the three, but when Tony’s client arrived, he was happy to just settle down into his new chair, to christen it properly.  

Antonio specialized in black and grey, with a Gothic and dark style somewhere between realism and neo-traditional.  He was best known for his intricate and detailed skulls, which is exactly what that day’s client had requested.  While Tony had drawn up a rough design of the reaper-like figure holding a pocket watch, this regular customer had allowed him the freedom to improvise a bit, as long as it included the chosen elements.  

As he settled down upon the cozy, padded black leather, he found himself entering ‘the zone’ as soon as he carved that first line across the flesh.  He was barely responsive to any of the small talk his client was attempting to make, as he was solely focused on the art he produced across his canvas.  His arms were lined with gooseflesh while he worked, be it from the vibration of his machine, or simply the excitement of his work.  

About three hours in, somewhere off in the distance he heard a voice calling to him.  For a moment, he thought he may well have unlocked a passageway to the other side through the intricate details he forged upon the flesh, but when he finally snapped his attention back to the world around him, he realized it was no otherworldly entity, but the man whose skin was being decorated at the time.  

“Cool if we take a break,” he asked, wearing an expression of sheer exhaustion, “I could use a smoke.”

*Oh…yeah, um, I’m sorry, man.  Got a bit carried away, I guess.”

They both laughed a bit, while Tony wiped down the shoulder he had been operating on.  The tall and bulky man who had been adorned with a good seven of Tortilla’s works to date, took an enthusiastic glance in the mirror, nodding his gleeful approval, before strolling towards the exit.  

Though Antonio considered joining his client for a smoke, he didn’t feel especially compelled to lift himself from the cozy chair he’d sat upon for some hours now.  When Bob Clancy, his regular for a good two years now, came strolling back in, he was still gushing over the work his artist had already completed a good three-quarters of.  

“This might be the best one yet,” he said, rolling his stiff neck, “it’s different, you know, from your usual stuff, but in a good way! You’ve come a long way, man.”

While Tony briefly considered looking deeper into the words, searching for some underlying insult to his previous work on the man, he couldn’t help but agree that this was something special.  The way the light source cast a shadow over the left side of the skull, while the tattered cloth of the hood hung low upon its brow, really brought it to life, in his opinion.  

The longer he stared at it, the more he began to map out the finishing touches that remained; something that almost made his mouth water with anticipation, for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint.  

“You ready to get back at it then?” 

“Hell yes! How much longer, you think? Not to sound like a puss or anything, but feeling a bit like ground beef, y’know?” Bob said with a slightly embarrassed chuckle.  

“Maybe another hour, give or take.  Cool?” Tony said after examining it more closely.  

“Yeah…yeah, I can handle that.”

Sure enough; after a solid hour, almost to the minute, Tortilla was wiping down the fresh tattoo for the final time.  As he gazed upon his work, he felt that this may just be the smoothest black and grey he had ever applied, but when he stared directly at the lone, vibrant, emerald green eye, just across from the empty socket to the right of it, he felt a bit stunned for a moment.  

He glanced over to the small ink cups he had set up before beginning, wondering exactly when he had laid out the three shades of green, one turquoise, and two of yellow.  For a moment, he felt lost and a little exasperated by apparently being so zoned out, that he didn’t even recall this part of the process, but when his client spoke up, he found himself even more stunned.  

“You were right, man.  That green against the black and grey really pops! I fucking love it, brother!”

“Yeah, um.  I’m glad!” Tony replied, surprised by both the addition of color to what was planned as a monochromatic tattoo, as well as the fact he had seemingly run this by his regular customer.  

He wouldn’t admit this to anyone; his having had a conversation he could not recall, nor the vacant memory of even pouring the ink, but he could not deny it did turn out quite remarkable.  Antonio had always been his own worst critic; always finding flaws in his work that nobody else could see, but not this one.  This, he thought, could very well be the most incredible tattoo he’d ever done.  Hell, it may have been the best he’d ever seen in general, though he wouldn’t speak those words aloud either.  

“Holy shit, man!” Andrew remarked, having finally stuck a fork in his childlike pouting, “I might need to get me one of those chairs too!” 

“Yeah, dude,” Wonka added, “that piece is fucking amazing!” 

Tony felt his face flush a little, but he accepted the praise with a wide smile.  

“You think?” He said, “Maybe a comfy ass makes all the difference!” 

They all found this remark to be quite hilarious, but neither of his workmates could pull their eyes away from the shoulder belonging to Bob Clancy until he strolled contently away from them.  Antonio left the shop for the night soon after, feeling more pride in his work than he ever had before, with William and Andrew still tossing compliments his way as they walked out with him.  

Over the days that followed, life at the shop went on as always, with still lingering wise cracks passing back and forth concerning Andrew’s puffy nose.  It had only swelled for a day or two, after his swift descent to the floor on account of his legs entwining with Tony’s now favorite chair, but he still held the grudge.  

There was one more aspect to the animosity he felt, though; one he would not speak of, even if he were held at gunpoint.  Be it due to the aforementioned ‘comfy ass’, or something else entirely, Houdini could not deny that the work Tortilla had churned out since replacing his broken, old seat, dramatically rivaled his own.  

He did take pride in this to a point, mind you.  Tony had been Andrew’s apprentice some years back, so he could still claim some credit for the incredible and intricate artwork he was gracing upon the flesh of his clients.  Still, he could not quite ignore some semblance of jealousy when new customers would request Antonio, over either of the other artists in the shop.  

As weeks turned to months, Tony’s work had gained the attention of some of the better-known tattoo-related publications in the country; a reputation he had only dreamt of achieving when he chose this field so many years before.  Yes, this brought a great deal more new clients to the shop; even some from a great many miles away, but they only had an interest in one-third of the artists in the building.  

It wasn’t until a good six months had passed by; while Andrew was flipping through the pages of his colleague’s portfolio, that he discovered one consistency in every tattoo Tony had produced over that time.  Though his clientele was primarily interested in his black and grey, there were still those who insisted on full-color work; something he was still quite skilled in, though not as smoothly as his monochromatic work.  

Regardless of whether he etched one of his famous skulls, a raven soaring to the heavens above, or even Christ himself upon the cross, they all contained a single, emerald green eye in one location or another.  In the dead center of a vibrant red rose, the eye peered out, an especially gory zombie-themed piece from a week or so back, holding the eye between its gore-lined jaws.  A set of simple, praying hands were parted ever so slightly where the palms would normally meet, revealing a shadowed eye gazing out from within.  

There were some that Houdini had to search for the eye; not unlike a child seeking out the man in the red and white striped shirt amongst the crowd, but he would locate it eventually.  What was even more troubling to him, as he leafed from one page to the next, was that he could swear they were glaring back at him, like those old paintings of eerie little children, whose eyes would follow, no matter where the onlooker stood.  

Having decided he had allowed his imagination to run far too wild for his own good, he slapped the book shut, cut the lights, and headed home from the night.  He had already lingered far longer than intended after his associates made their goodbyes for the day, and only just began to realize how exhausted his body was feeling.  

The next day, when Andrew and Wonka arrived at the shop, Tortilla was nowhere to be seen.  Both double-checked their phones to see if he had alerted them to his possible tardiness but just shrugged it off when they saw no evidence of such.  With their chosen careers being one of not having to keep a particularly strict schedule, they didn’t feel the need to concern themselves with his absence.  He had been pulling some serious hours since his name became such a hot topic in the community, after all.  

After a good three hours passed, while Andrew was finishing up the final session of a full sleeve, he decided it was unlikely that Tony would be attending work that day.  With that realization, he could not fight off the temptation that had been building for several weeks.  Once his client was content, he strolled back to Antonio’s station, glanced around like a common thief approaching a liquor store, and pulled his friend’s treasured chair to his spot in preparation for his next appointment.  

“Really, dude?” William said with a sarcastic chuckle, glancing up from the thigh he was operating on at the time.  

“I mean, what the fuck, right? I’m just curious,” he replied, laughing nervously as though he was defending his actions to a superior, rather than the guy who only recently became a fully licensed tattoo artist.  

“Just don’t bust your ass again!” 

“Yeah, I’ll stand up all slow like, and shit.”

While Andrew was not particularly thrilled about his two o’clock appointment; a landscape of all things, he had to know if there was something to this chair.  The idea grew more laughable to him the longer he pondered on it, but as ridiculous as it seemed, he had to try it out.  He was still rolling his eyes at his silliness when his client strolled in a good fifteen minutes early.  

Once the cups were filled with the many shades required for the task at hand, the stencil applied to the bulging calf muscle of the customer, and that first dip of the needle into the ink, Andrew softly sat upon his pilfered throne to begin his work.  With that first light stroke, he could feel his fingertips tingle with anticipation, far more so than they had in years.  

As tedious as he found landscape tattoos to be, he was almost exhilarated as the minutes quickly sped by.  Though he had initially set aside four hours for this piece, the quicker the time passed, the more confident he felt he could knock a solid hour off his initial estimate.  

His client, one Jacob DeLancy, who wore three of Houdinis original works already, had been attempting to make small talk, off and on for a while now.  Though Andrew had lazily replied to each question or statement that was sent his way, he didn’t pay it much attention, until, 

“You hear about Bob Clancy?” escaped his client’s lips.  

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Andrew thought, breaking his focus for a moment.  

“He’s one of Tortilla’s regulars, right?” Wonka asked, having strolled up to check on his mentor’s progress.  

“Oh yeah!” Andrew said, leaning back to stretch his back for a moment, “What about him?” 

“He’s dead!” Jacob exclaimed, “pretty fucked up situation, at that.”

According to Mr.  DeLancey’s tale, Clancy had not only violently put an end to his own life but had brutally murdered his wife and his brother, before taking the butcher’s knife to his own throat when the work was done.  Supposedly, as Jacob told it, he had caught the two fooling around behind his back, tied them both up in his basement, and taken his time carving into them with the cleaver.  

Later on that night, Andrew and William would do some research to see if the man had been exaggerating the brutality of the crime, but if anything, it would appear he had neglected some of the more gruesome details.  Whether it was before, during, or after the untimely demise of Patricia and Jonathan Clancy, the late Robert Clancy had carved the eyes from both of them.  

Since he used that same wide cleaver to exact his horrendous crime of passion, he had apparently made quite the mess of their faces while he performed the unlicenced surgery.  William felt a shiver run the length of his spine as he read aloud some of the details he was surprised to find so explicitly laid out in the article, while briefly wishing he was not such a visual thinker.  

Andrew just stared, slack-jawed at the computer screen, attempting to cough the lump in his throat into submission before sacrificing his lunch to the keyboard, lying crooked on the table.  He had been somewhat mentally checked out while he finished up the pleasant beach scene upon the calf of DeLancey; brooding over such a brutal crime taking place in the little town he had called home for the better part of thirty years.  Even so, he was not quite prepared for the graphic article Wonka looked up after his client walked out.  

It was while Andrew and William shared the silence of the otherwise vacant shop, that the former realized he had neglected to snap a photograph of the work he had performed upon the borrowed chair.  He was left without an answer to whether or not the far more comfortable seat than he was used to, had indeed made a difference in his work, but he felt no desire to dwell on it at the time; not after the revelation of one of the shop’s regulars being capable of such brutality.  

With the two days ahead being their days off; Monday and Tuesday, as weekends were their busiest days, Wonka and Houdini both decided to just take it easy.  Some weeks, they would line up clients for their off days, just to make a little extra scratch, and though Andrew had initially made appointments for that Tuesday, he made arrangements to reschedule.  

While he was still very tempted to take Tony’s chair for another spin, to perhaps give it another test run, he felt he needed the time away, far more so than he would even verbalize at the time.  William contacted him about going out to get some drinks that day, but he feigned a headache to turn down the offer without being overly dismissive to a friend.  

When that Wednesday arrived, with Antonio still not reporting for work, his colleagues began to show a bit more concern for his absence.  Not only was he booked solid for the next few months, according to the ledger they kept next to the phone, but he had still not contacted either of them with any sort of excuse.  In addition to these facts; though he was scheduled to tattoo three to four clients each day for a good deal of the foreseeable future, nobody showed up, other than those with appointments with the two remaining artists.  

They attempted to call him, but to no avail; there wasn’t a single ring before the voicemail message kicked in.  After work that day, they both jumped in Wonka’s jeep and headed over to Tony’s place.  Though neither of them was surprised to receive no answer at the door, they shared a worried glance before giving up on knocking.  

As they began to head back to the shop to pick up Andrews’s truck, Wonka strolled to the mailbox, to see it almost fit to burst from the veritable slew of letters and packages stuffed into it.  With no answers as to the location of their friend and colleague, the duo went their separate ways for the night, to reunite the following morning once more.  

Each day that followed, did so without the slightest trace of Antonio.  After a few days of this, Andrew began to regularly pull the deserted chair over to his station, making sure to move it back before leaving for the night, just in case his friend should reemerge.  After another two weeks passed by, he no longer returned the cozy, leather seat; just left it where it was when he was finished with the day’s appointments.  

He couldn’t tell much of a difference in his work, since he had been regularly using the borrowed chair, but it was far more comfortable than his stool, though he would be certain to never admit that to Tortilla, should he ever come back.  Things got back into a stride after a few weeks, with the two remaining tattoo artists left to assume their friend had decided to just give up the life of a popular, local artist.  

Yes, they missed him, but after a solid month of his absence, Andrew had grown to believe he would not be returning.  With that in mind, he even began to consider hiring a new apprentice, though he often found that process to be quite exhausting.  He had been pondering all of this while absentmindedly tattooing an American traditional eagle across a new client’s back, almost panicking when he came back to his senses.  

The sigh of relief he exhaled upon seeing that the work was almost complete caused his head to spin slightly, but he was thankful that his muscle memory had taken the wheel while his mind wandered away for a time.  Not only that, but he couldn’t deny that this may be one of the most well-constructed pieces of this nature he had ever crafted, though he wasn’t a particular fan of the style.  

With that being the last appointment of the day, Andrew headed to his truck, only giving a half-hearted wave to William on the way out.  Be it from his good friend and colleague having apparently fallen off the face of the planet, or just the simple fact that every day had begun to feel like a rerun of the last, he just wasn’t feeling it of late.  

Though he felt guilty about leaving Wonka as the only other tattoo artist left, he decided to make some calls, push back some appointments, and take a few days off to get his head straight.  His most recent apprentice was understanding of his plight; assuring Andrew that he would hold down the fort in his absence.  With that, Houdini, the man who proudly founded the now most popular tattoo shop in town, hoped to not even think about the damn place for a solid seventy-two hours, if he could help it.  Unfortunately, things would not go as he had hoped.  

Though the first day of his much-needed sabbatical went just as he had hoped; free from the stress of work, and quite relaxing in his growingly melancholy state, the second did not flow as smoothly.  

“They’re all dead, man,” the voice of Antonio Vilas whispered from the other end of the line.  

While Andrew had been both excited and surprised to see his friend’s name appear on the screen of his two-year-old device, he felt his extremities begin to shiver from his words.  

“What? Who’s dead, Tony? Where the hell have you been!? What’s going on with…”

“All of them, Drew! Every poor bastard and bitch I inked since I got that goddamn chair…they’re all…”

His whispering and erratic voice turned to whimpers as he began to sob.  That’s what it sounded like, anyway.  For all Andrew knew, he could’ve been maniacally laughing, rather than almost uncontrollably wailing.  

“Calm down, brother…just talk to me, man.  Why do you think…”

“Just turn on the TV! Look online, hell, check out a fucking newspaper! Have you even paid attention to what’s going on out there!?”

He went from such wounded sobriety in his words, to agitated and frantic quickly, not even missing a beat.  

“Alright, man.  Gimme a sec, and I’ll boot up the laptop, okay? Just don’t go anywhere.  I’ll be right back.”

Life in such a small town comes with its shared conveniences, along with some healthy drawbacks; one of which is that just about everyone knows almost everything about everyone else.  With that factor in mind, Andrew was certain that a supposed rash of deaths would not have gone unnoticed, especially with some of the more gossipy clients who come and go at the shop.  

When the first page of articles popped up on the screen of his laptop; however, he couldn’t help but wonder how deeply his head had been buried in the sand of late.  Though the brutal crime and subsequent suicide of Bob Clancy was the subject matter of at least half of the first page of results, those that were next in line reflected some other familiar names.  

Jennifer Ross, who had commissioned a beautiful, Gothic, black and grey half sleeve from Tortilla had seemingly lost her life to an animal attack.  According to the coroner’s report, it may have been a large dog or a small bear that tore her throat and chest to shreds, but the local sheriff was not ruling out foul play just yet.  

Alexander Kale; another of Tony’s regulars, who received a total of three tattoos over those first two months of the cozy new chair in the shop, found himself sandwiched between the front end of a lifted F150 and a brick wall.  From the information reflected in the article, the truck had supposedly been unoccupied when the accident occurred, according to several witnesses.  Mr.  Kale, it would seem, was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, when the vacant vehicle ended its descent down the short hilly road.  

Again, the local law was not ruling it out as a possible homicide, as heavy trucks generally do not find themselves rolling unoccupied down steep inclines of their own volition.  The fact that the owner of the vehicle was out of town at the time of the incident; having left his vehicle parallel parked beside his home, as he usually did, had him ruled out as a potential suspect.  

Given the bizarre nature of the alleged freak accident, the investigation was still ongoing, but with as many townsfolk that witnessed the brutal death of Mr.  Kale, it was hard to fight the simple facts.  Those being that it would take a near-perfectly planned series of events for anyone to have murdered someone this way.  

Ramie Hawkins, a tattoo virgin before Tony graced his upper arm with an impressively detailed skull and rose, also lost his life in a vehicular accident, but one far more cut and dry than its predecessor.  Onlookers described the young man walking the sidewalk with his eyes glued to his phone, seemingly ignoring their screams for him to stop, before he strolled into the road, meeting a transfer truck within seconds.  

The driver of the truck has been undergoing some psychological assistance but is not being held responsible for the death.  None who saw the man walk directly into oncoming traffic could claim that anyone was responsible, but the man himself.  It was just one more life-ending accident of many that had befallen this small town of late, but Andrew could barely wrap his mind around it.  

As he scrolled down, the list of local deaths grew longer and longer, and while he gazed at the screen with his mouth agape, he could barely believe what he was seeing; not only the numerous townsfolk who had lost their lives but that he had heard nothing about it until now.  Had he been so self-consumed these past months, that such horrible events were occurring without him so much as acknowledging them? 

“Wonka hasn’t mentioned anything either,” he thought, defending his ignorance of these bizarre events, “not like I’m the only one who didn’t know.”

It was while the back of his mind was defending the front, that he suddenly remembered his other colleague.  He almost flipped the laptop to the floor as he got to his feet, heading for the coffee table, where he had left his phone.  The heavy sigh he exhaled upon hearing the dial tone, signifying Tony had ended the call, was almost as quivering as the words his friend had spoken, only moments before.  

For a moment, he considered driving to the shop, to discuss this revelation with William, but he thought it best to allow his mind to process it before getting behind the wheel, especially with how much death had already befallen this small town.  On top of that, given his quickened pulse, he could hear his emergency bottle of Jack calling from his den.  

Those first two shots settled his trembling fingers a little, but when he pushed the glass to one side, tipping the bottle to his lips, he allowed his chaotic thoughts to be swallowed by the burgeoning inebriation.  It didn’t take long for the whiskey to work its magic; clouding his senses and easing his weary mind for a time.  He was still clutching the near-empty bottle when his eyes drooped, sending him to the wonders of La-La land, and away from the word of this world for a while.  

When he was awakened by another unexpected phone call, Andrew was already annoyed when he answered.  

“I’m so sorry man, I know you’re trying to chill, but you gotta come to the shop, like, now!” 

Wonka sounded particularly wigged out about whatever was going on at the shop, which required the attention of its founder.  

“What’s goin’ on, Will?” 

“There’s been a break-in…it’s a fucking mess, man.” 

That had Andrew’s undivided attention as he sat straight up in his bed, attempting to rub the back of his neck to relieve the building tension.  

“I’ll be right there.  You call the police?” 

“Yeah.  They’re on the way…just…you gotta check this out.”

When he finally arrived at the shop he took such pride in, even with his recent brooding, he could barely believe his eyes.  Not only had just about everything in sight been knocked from shelves and tables alike, but the many colors of ink spilled across the floor, and splashed upon the walls, blended with what appeared to be vomit.  Given the scent that caused his stomach to instantly rebel, it would seem that was an accurate assumption.  

“Those functional?” The tall and slender officer asked, gesturing to the security cameras mounted high on the walls.  

“Yeah,” Andrew replied, “we recently upgraded them too.”

“Can you…”

“I’ll pull it up now,” he said, tiptoeing between splotches of ink and upchuck, attempting not to add his own brand to the numerous puddles.

Fortunately, the wide tablet had not sustained any damage or bodily fluids from whatever had occurred.  It was still propped on the front desk, next to the phone and desktop computer, both of which had not been quite as fortunate.  When he returned to the officer, just outside the door, he exhaled the breath he had held through his brief excursion inside.  

As soon as he regained control of his senses, he tapped his fingers across the device, seeking out the footage from the previous night.  When he pulled it up, he and Wonka both felt their collective jaws hang limp as the video progressed, while the cop muttered a few obscenities under his breath.  

The somewhat grainy recording showed Antonio coming in through the front door, closing and relocking it behind him.  He just stood in place for a moment, seemingly talking to himself, as far as anyone could tell anyway.  With the footage lacking audio, it appeared as though he was just flapping his mouth around, but his mannerisms were all over the place.  

When he finally began to move forwards, seemingly toward the back of the shop, he started waving his arms around, with his jaws still flapping as though he were furiously screaming at someone.  There was no indication that anyone else shared his company at the time, but that didn’t prevent him from continuing this rant for minutes on end.  Once he finally appeared to calm from this harried argument with the air around him, things grew even more bizarre.  

Even the officer jumped when Tony sprinted across the room, tackling the chair which once more sat next to his station.  The fact that Andrew knew himself to have left it parked beside his desk when he left for his sabbatical would not sink in for a few days, but that was the least of his concerns as he glared at the screen.  When his good friend, Tortilla, slung the cozy, black leather chair down the short hallway behind his station, he was almost grateful the camera couldn’t pick up the back rooms.  

For some time, the footage showed only the vacant shop, leaving the trio, who gave each other questioning looks, to wonder if the craziness had ended.  It wasn’t until they decided to indulge in a little small talk to pass the time, that they were shown in speckled, grainy footage what had caused all the wreckage in the shop.  When the chair came racing across the room with a wide-eyed and startled Antonio sitting upon it, any hope of rational conversation went out the window.  

Tony was clearly screaming out as the chair darted from one side of the shop to the other, slamming its passenger against walls, tables, and shelves alike, spilling their contents to the floor.  Tortilla looked to be attempting to push himself off of the somehow self-driving seat but seemed unable to break free.  As it careened from one object to the next, its rider’s head and shoulders slammed hard from one solid surface to another.  

The small castor wheels sprayed the spilled ink to either side as it sped through the puddles its path of destruction had wrought, before finally coming to a halt, spinning in place.  The occupant of the chair retched a spiral of halfway digested food at the walls and onto the floor, still desperately pushing against the armrests in an attempt to break free.  When it looked as though this chaotic ride had ended, it began once again; darting from the back of the shop to the front.  

“…aaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaa….aaaaaAAAAAAaaaa….” Andrew heard in his mind as his screaming colleague came in and out of view, back and forth, over and over.  

When the swiftly rolling chair finally came to a sudden stop, sending Tony soaring a good five feet in the air, before landing face first, skidding through a pool of ink and fresh vomit, Andrew feared the worst.  He and William just gazed at the screen, with the latter shaking his head from side to side, holding his hand over his mouth.  

It wasn’t until Antonio came to, attempting to push himself up from the floor while fighting against his hands and knees slipping, that all three of the viewers of this bizarre footage exhaled a grateful sigh.  They watched on as the beaten and exhausted man got to his feet, before limping to the door, taking one final glance back over his shoulder.  He appeared to mutter something else as he snapped the deadbolt open latch, pulled the door ajar, and hobbled out into the night.  

The officer pulled the hat from his head, rubbed the stubble of his scalp, and walked back to his vehicle.  He took a seat in front of his steering wheel, looking as though he was quite tempted to crank the car up and squeal his tires away from this place, but he just began to speak into his radio, words that the two who still gazed at the tablet could not make out.  

Without a word, Wonka strolled into the shop, leaving Andrew standing alone at the open door.  When he returned to where his mentor stood, dragging the chair by its leathered and buttoned, low backrest, the two exchanged a silent glare for a moment.  There were no words to be spoken at that time; only the understanding that this damned chair could not remain within these walls.  

William just gave a nod to the officer who appeared taken aback by this cursed seat being dropped off beside his car, but he didn’t argue.  When a jet-black SUV rolled up next to where he was parked, several people wearing masks, latex gloves, and white overalls climbed out, along with a woman in a grey pinstriped pantsuit.  She looked to be quite pretty; maybe around her mid-thirties with her blonde hair tied into a tight bun, though very serious in her expression.  

“You two should head on home,” she said in a pleasant, somewhat understanding voice, “we’ll be in touch soon enough, but I’m afraid your shop will be closed for a few days.”

Andrew and William nodded; still unable to locate their collective voices, before heading to their vehicles.  They gave one more glance to one another before they parted company, but that would be their last interaction for some days.  Not only were neither of them in any rush to get to work on fixing the place back up, but Andrew, for one, was getting to the point that he didn’t care if he ever entered the shop again, even if it was his pride and joy for many years before the madness of late.  

“Turn off the light!” a voice called from inside when Andrew entered his home, flipping the switch to his left.

“Tony!?” he replied, recognizing the harried voice of his friend and colleague.  

“Please, Drew…cut it off!”

“What the fuck, man!? Where are you? What’s going on?” Andrew asked, reluctantly doing as his friend requested.

When Tony finally rose from behind the recliner, near the back of the room, Andrew felt his jaw drop for the second time that day.  Though the room was dark, aside from the sunlight beaming through from between and underneath the closed curtains, he could make out the markings lining his friend’s arms, legs, and face.  

As Antonio hesitantly walked from behind the couch, before flopping his body down onto it, Drew felt his legs marching him onward, dropping him to the recliner across from where his colleague sat.  His eyes traced the seemingly numerous emerald green eyes tattooed on what looked to be about every inch of his friend, unable to wrap his mind around how he was able to even accomplish this task, were he the one responsible for it.  

“Christ, man.  What the hell did you do to yourself?” Andrew asked, staring dumbfounded at the man before him.

“I didn’t…it.  It’s everywhere I go…”

“You’re not making any sense; you know that, right?” 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  It’s just…every time I see it,” he stared down at his own hands, flipping them over to reveal another eye on each palm, “another one appears.”

“Huh? They’re just, like, showing up on you!?” 

“Kinda.  Yeah.  Thing is, I feel the needle, you know? I feel it cutting into my skin, but when it’s done, it’s already healed,” he seemed almost in a trance as he spoke, gazing from one arm to the other, “They don’t scab up or nothin’.  Don’t even bleed, but every one of them looks as fresh as if it’d just been done, even bein’ as smooth as they feel.”

He ran his fingers across the skin of his forearm, his legs below his shorts, and finally his face, wearing an almost mentally checked-out expression.  

“I’ve seen everything, Drew.”

“Everything?” 

“All the deaths of everyone I inked; every one of ’em.  Clancy; when he killed…when he murdered his family, I watched it happen, but it wasn’t directly, y’know? It’s like I was lookin’ through the eye I put on his shoulder…took me a minute to figure out what was even happening; bein’ such an odd angle and all.”

Andrew just stared at his friend, unable to even think of a word to speak.  Yes, he couldn’t believe that any of this was rationally possible, but he couldn’t deny that something was very wrong with the man he had known for close to two decades.  

“When he turned the knife on himself, I…I felt it cut.  Like it was my throat he was slicin’ through.  When it was done, and I realized I wasn’t dead, I went to the bathroom to check it out.  I wasn’t cut, but I had this,” he said, raising his chin to reveal the large, emerald eye in the center of his neck, right across his Adam’s apple.  

“Tony, we need to get you some help, man.  You can’t…”

“Nobody can help me, Drew!” he barked, cutting his former mentor’s words short, “it’s gone too far! I tried to stop it, but it’s alive, brother! As fucking insane as it sounds, that God-forsaken chair is…I never should’ve brought it to the shop.  I never should’ve bought the damned thing.  I can’t…”

His own wailing sob put an end to his words, leaving Andrew to consider whether or not he felt safe enough to move to the couch and console his friend.  For minutes on end, he just gazed at the crumbling man, while his mind stumbled between the disbelief of this madness and the desire to help his friend.  This inner battle ultimately led to little more than causing him to feel incredibly awkward the longer this went on.  

“We’ll get you some help, man,” Andrew said, finally deciding to take a seat beside his old apprentice, “it’s gonna be alright.  You’ll see.”

“How the fuck is it gonna be alright!?” Tony said, swatting at the arm Drew attempted to wrap around him, before jumping to his feet.  

“Tony, just cool it, man.  Let me at least try to help…”

“Look at me!” Antonio barked, pulling off his shirt, “I’m beyond help now!” 

Andrew just looked upon the endless stream of almost glowing eyes etched into the flesh of his friend.  

unable to form his erratic thoughts into anything comprehensible.  Though he had previously assumed that the eyes were some sort of reflection of every one he had adorned his clients with, these were far greater in number than if they represented everyone he had tattooed throughout his entire career.  

He lifted himself from the cushioned seat on trembling legs, to get a better view.  There were so many; each of different dimensions and style, that they overlapped in some places, or covered tattoos he already had, but Andrew could swear that every one of them was gazing into his soul.  He couldn’t convince himself to look away until they all began to blink in varying intervals.  

“What the fuck!?” he said in a trembling voice, dropping back to the couch when his legs gave out from beneath him.  

“I-I got no choice, Drew…I can’t…”

Those stuttered words were the last that Tony spoke, before turning from his slack-jawed friend and mentor, and running for the door.  Andrew still just stared deeply across the darkened room, while his mind lingered in full panic mode.  As he mumbled under his breath in words that made no sense, he finally broke free of his cozy couch, to race after his friend.  

By the time he reached the open door, Tony was nowhere to be seen.  Over the hours that followed, he drove from one street to the next, desperate to track down and attempt to help his old apprentice, but this quest would prove fruitless.  When he got back to his home, he placed some calls to both friends; those who knew Tony, and the police, still clinging to the hope he could find some way to make all of this right.  

Days turned to weeks, still yielding answers to neither where Tony had gone, nor what had become of him.  Even though life had returned to something resembling normal to the employees of Prodigy Tattoos, they still had so many lingering questions.  While fixing the place back up after the bizarre events that left it in such disarray had taken several days, and the town itself was still reeling from the series of unusual deaths, things had returned to some semblance of normalcy.  

It wasn’t until close to two months had passed since the disappearance of Antonio Vilas, otherwise known as Tortilla to his friends, that Andrew understood this nightmare was far from over.  When a potential new client came into the shop, she asked if she could take a look at some of the previous work the two remaining artists of the shop had done.  

Having two and a half decades of experience under his belt, Drew could sometimes be a little offended when someone came asking for reference material.  Though he was well aware that he couldn’t expect everybody and their mothers to know of his reputation, he couldn’t always prevent the immediate annoyance of such a request.  Still, he handed the young woman both his own portfolio, as well as Williams, with a nod of agreement from his associate, who was in the middle of a back piece at the time.  

Andrew left her to browse through the pages filled with images of tattoos spanning years, to shoot the breeze with his colleague and his client for a time.  He only had one more appointment that day, as his regular customer who was meant to be his two o’clock was a no-show, so he had time to kill.  He let out a somewhat audible sigh when the woman in the waiting area gestured for him to approach.  

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking almost embarrassed, “I just wanted to ask about some of these,” she pointed to the open book on her lap.  

“Sure thing,” he replied, feeling more at ease after seeing she was holding his portfolio at the time, “ask away!” 

“Well, I was looking for something simple, you know? It’ll be my first and all, so maybe, like, a rose or something like that, but I really like this recurring theme you have on a lot of these in the back.”

“Theme?” Andrew asked, knowing full well that, though he specialized in Japanese traditional and new school, the great majority of his work reflected in this particular book, varied by the page, “what sort of theme did you have in mind?” 

When she gave her reply, the lead artist and owner of Prodigy Tattoos felt his head spin as the blood drained from it.  

“You know, the eye? It’s a really cool touch, and I love how you made it hard to find in a lot of these.  Is it, like, a trademark thing you do?” 

Andrew pulled the book from her lap, causing her to jump from how quickly and erratically he moved.  When he looked at the pages to see that emerald green eye glaring back up at him from the hull of a clipper ship, the mouth of a tiger, and even the wings of an intricately designed butterfly, he let the book slip from his hands, fleeing to the bathroom in the back.  

Some moments later, he heard a knock on the door, followed by Wonka’s voice, 

“You alright, man?”

“I’m good…thanks…”

“Okay.  If you need anything, just holler.”

“Yeah…will do.”

He heard mumbled words grow quieter as his colleague seemingly walked back to his station, to resume the back piece he had been working on for three hours by this point.  After spilling the contents of his gut, Drew closed the lid, flushed, and took a seat for a few to attempt to clear his head.  

No matter how hard he tried to wrap his mind around the foreign and unplanned element of the work he clearly remembered doing, he just couldn’t fathom it.  For those past months, he still thought about Tony quite a lot, but only now did he far more desperately wish he could locate him.  While he sat alone in that small room, dwelling on the possibilities of what was in store for him, a burning pain in his upper right thigh pulled his attention back to the real world.  

As he reached his trembling hand to the hem of his shorts, he was breathing so heavily that he thought he may well lose consciousness before having a chance to examine the stinging flesh beneath the khaki fabric.  When he finally convinced his fingers to pull back the thick material, the single, slightly glowing tattoo etched into the skin gazed back at him, before giving him a quick wink, as if to say,

“That’s right, buddy-boy, I’ve got my eye on you.”