Hindsight

May 1, 2007

Staring into the mirror, he decided, this was in fact the worst day of his life.

At 37 years old, he stood about 5’9 and pretty trim. He wasn’t bad looking, which of course was how he had gotten himself into his current situation.

He looked down as his feet, as if for some kind of reassurance.

Smiling back at him, his big toe tried to cheer him up: “Its not that bad man, chicks will dig it!”

“Really?” he asked carefully, his sunken shoulders daring to pull back ever so slightly.

“No you idiot,” his smart-assed toe replied “ not only do you look like a complete moron, you’re fucking talking to your feet. You are so loosing it!”

He was loosing it a bit, he agreed. But who wouldn’t buckle under this kind of stress. He was 1900 miles from home, his flight left in just under 2 hours, and he was standing in front of his motel mirror in the boxers and tee-shirt he had worn the day before getting verbally degraded by one of his toes. Yes, yes he was definitely loosing it.

Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts.

“Maybe its not so bad” he thought “maybe all I need to do is relax and look at things from a different perspective.”

He took three long deep breaths, opened his eyes, and stared back into the mirror.

Reality persevered.

Closing his eyes tighter this time, he actively tried to image something else. “Think Buddhist” he ordered himself “think beautiful opening blossom.”

He opened his eyes, and stared back at his new full head tattoo, it was clearly not an opening blossom.

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck” he chanted quietly, his brief flirtation with calm slipping away.

“Maybe I can get someone to touch it up” he pondered “maybe they can make it look like a…”

It was useless, she had done her work all too well, and now he had a very realistic vagina tattooed across his entire head.

His shoulders sagged down even further, contorting his body so thoroughly he nearly toppled over. He felt nothing, just a pallid cold acceptance – he was fucked.
Over the last 5 hours since he had awoken to discover his new body art, he had progressed through all the classic stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression…

Of them all, anger had been the most proactive, though sadly not the most productive.

He had gone back to the tattoo shop, confronted her, screamed, yelled. It did not go as he planned.

Even before he had gone back and confronted her, he had suspected she was a lesbian, or at least bi-sexual. Nobody could tattoo a fur-pie like this one, without having had a fair amount of personal experience – and he certainly didn’t mean by looking in the mirror.

She had been just as drunk and high as he was, and barely remembered anything about the night at all. There was something about a crying lesbian, mortified that she had blown a man the night before, that really took the wind out of a good angry tirade.

In the end he had spent 45 minutes consoling her, adding a drool and snot stained sports jacket to his already considerable acquisitions on what had supposed to be a perfectly normal business trip.

Staring again into the mirror, he couldn’t help but compliment her work. Down to the finest details, including working in the only remaining stubble on his otherwise bald head, the likeness was remarkable. Having been with more than his fair share of women back in the day, he had to concede, it was pretty beautiful.

He just wished it wasn’t on his head.

Sitting down on the corner of his bed, the events of the night before began playing through his mind for the thousandths time that morning. It had started out pretty well, he had closed his deal, wined and dined his clients, and made out pretty well at the novelty slots in the lobby. It had been there that he met her. Tiny tank top, full sleeves, and a walk that said she knew how hot she looked; he hadn’t had much of chance from the onset. She was clearly not his type, which as luck would have it, was exactly his type.

She had offered to buy him a drink, he agreed, things progressed.

By 3am they were loaded and at her shop, him in a chair that belonged in a dentist’s office, her in his lap trying to convince him to let her tattoo him. Drunk as he was, he wasn’t going for it. Not that he minded tattoos, he was just the kind of guy that liked to think things through. Actually it was a quality he didn’t really like about himself, always too prudent to change his routine. Well, maybe he would go crazy and buy a new brand of cereal next time he went shopping, but he sure as shit wouldn’t be getting a tattoo.

Then it happened, she offered a playful deal.

With the benefit of a hangover and a really sore fresh hairy-snapper tattoo covering his skull, he was able to see that perhaps it hadn’t been the strongest choice. However, at the time, and with no small help from the copious drinks throughout the evening, he had decided to go for it.

It had been pretty glorious, not to mention ending a bit of dry spell for him, but all in all he was thinking it probably wasn’t worth it.

“JEWISH!” he suddenly yelled in time with his epiphany “I’ll convert to Judaism, they wear those little hats all the time!”

“No, wait” he reconsidered “weren’t those hats really small, and weren’t they only worn on the back of the head?”

But still, maybe the idea could work. Muslims wore skullcaps sometime, he reasoned. Or better yet, his mind raced, Sihk! He was certain he had read some article about how Sihks could even wear their turbans to work.

“Yes,” he decided “I can always go Sihk.”

Finally having reached some level of peace, he went about hurriedly packing and getting ready to catch his plane home, blissfully unaware of the beautiful full panel necro-beastial orgy tattoo, done as a parody of the last supper, which covered the whole of his back.

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13 Responses to “Hindsight”


  1. That was excellent Phil.
    I really dug build and pacing of the whole thing.
    I also liked how you felt it unesscary to explain why his toe was talking to him…some things just are what they are.

  2. w0rmwood Says:

    Thanks sir, it came to me on my bus ride home… odd, but I’m happy with how it turned out.

    ps – if you want to find a cool image to go along with it, that would be grand. I cant do that from work.

  3. engtech Says:

    I need to take the bus more often.

  4. max Says:

    Men in turbans are never going to look the same to me.

  5. w0rmwood Says:

    You know how the expression goes:

    “Never judge a head by its turban.”

  6. max Says:

    This is a recurring theme with you guys, this “things men have hidden under their hats” theme.


  7. Hmmm…. two separate pieces where the male character was hiding female body parts under a hat. You can just come out and Tell use WOrmwood…we do not judge.

  8. engtech Says:

    wormwood does wear a hate quite often.

  9. Esmerelda Sconeflinger Says:

    Yes, Wormwood does wear his hate on his sleeve.

  10. w0rmwood Says:

    You guys are so literal, its clearly a thinly veiled metaphore for my spiritual emptiness and metaphysical insecurities.

    Oh, that and I’m a pervert.

  11. Jive Says:

    “blissfully unaware of the beautiful full panel necro-beastial orgy tattoo, done as a parody of the last supper, which covered the whole of his back.” = awesome

  12. Trevor Says:

    I’m glad my coining of the term “necrobestiality” came in so handy. And thanks for not clubbing me to death yesterday with that bloody stick, Mr. Author. Classy as per usual.


  13. i have a tattoo on the back of my neck that is now a major corporate logo.
    it seemed like a good idea at the time.

    i should totally sue amazon


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