THE MOST DARING CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD

IN ACTS OF APPARENT
INCREDIBILITY

Prepared for what may come their way, the three left the apartment on Joyce
Street,1 walked down the quiet suburbia along Renette then onto Magnolia, a broad
thoroughfare lined with apartment complexes rising over some older single family
craftsman homes and every few blocks a church of a different denomination. They had
several long blocks to traverse before they reached Main Street. Truman lit a spliff: this
time Zim did not refuse.
Zim thinks: Pot shuts down navigation system. Knocks out consciousness but not
self-consciousness. Can still walk. Bit of a wobble. But cant walk without self

Actual street in El Cajon. Actual routes are followed.

instruction. Knocks out automomatic reflexes.2 Maybe memory too. Didnt I see that
store before? A minute ago? Or was it yesterday? Which way is home? Dont know
after one puff. Two puffs and walk in circles forever. Probably a study there. Surely
done before.
-

See they are rebuilding that old historical house over here? Truman remarked.

Building a new old house you mean, says Zim. Used to be a parking lot. Before that

who knows. Doesnt matter. We create our history here, we dont preserve it.
He thought to himself: No history here. Besides who would want such
nightmares. Chinese dont care about history. Not a part of their race. Only see the
future, the only place with enough room for them all. History beat out of them, drowned
and buried. Us: we are nostalgic for what we think we are lost.
-

Supposed to be just like Fletchers old house,3 Truman said.

Truby knows his history huh mon, Bull said.. Whos that bro?

Owned the water rights here, said Truman, built the flumes out in the hills.

What flumes?
The lumber forming the boxing of the flume whould be from 1 to 2 inches in

thickness, according to the dimensions of the flume, and all joints should be calked with
oakum. And excellent example of a bench flume is that of the San Diego Flume Company
(fig. 47) which is 6 feet wide in the clear and 4 feet high; the bottom and sides are
planked with 2-inch redwood, and the boxing rests on transverse sills of 2-inch planking
laid 4 feet apart, and upon these are 4 by 6 longitudinal stringers, above which is

2
3

Brain physiology get reference, rework.

Actually the Knox Home. Relocated and rebuilt in 2005.

constructed the framework of the flume, consisting of 4 by 4 scantling placed at intervals

of 4 feet and braced by diagonal uprights 2 by 4 inches and 3 feet in length. 4
-

Wooden troughs,5 Truman said, brought the water from the reservoir to town. Used to

be if you wanted to be tough you were a flume walker. Walked the flumes clearing dead
snakes and shit so the water could flow. He built this town, you know. Almost by himself.
His name is everywhere.
-

Water is the real power, Zim comments, not oil.

Nah, women got the power man, Truman glees, you cant argue with that.

Cmon, theres no boundaries with sex anymore, says Bull, no ones got the power,

we all do.
-

No ones talking about one handed monkeychoking, Truman says, you wouldnt

know Bull.
6

No, I know, Bull countered, but I know power aint water. Maybe back in Earps day,
but now its access. He who has gives the best access wins.
Its water, Zim repeated, thinking: Earp left here to Klondike. Met London and

perhaps Chariman. A woman who adored fornication, expected Jack to maker her climax
and to do so frequently.7 Threesomes were the play of the days. HH and who knows
maybe Earp as well.
-

If its water, Truman said, then maybe they will build the flumes again after they

finish Fletchers old house.

From: Manual of Irrigation Engineering by Herbert Michael Wilson

Flume article.
6
Wyatt Earp lived in San Diego area 1886 to 1890, ran several gambling house, judged prize fights and
raced horses befriends Jack London in 1897 (slept with Londos wife Chariman)
7
From bio on Jack London. See Wiki: Jack London.
5

Captain Brabazon, who owned the big ranch just below us, had been an Irish
lord. He made wine, and he used to have the Indians come down and tramp out the
grapes; my mother and I used to think it was awful, seeing men in those vats, tramping
the grapes in their bare feet. But something like it used to go on in the flume, which
brought the water down from Cuyamaca to San Diego. The flume was a wooden trough
with boards on each side, and open on top. Men were employed to walk along this flume
with their bare feet in the water, to keep it clear of rabbits, quail and snakes. They would
walk five or ten miles down and back; they were Mexicans and Indians. One day when
my brother and I were going home we were driving along when I got very thirsty. He said
"Well, you know, right over there you can get a drink of water out of the flume." He said I
would have to scoop the water up with my hands, so I went over and stooped down to get
my drink. Right where I was going to dip, there was the print of a man's bare foot, and I
let out a squawk; I didn't want any of that water. He laughed and told me that it probably
would have been a dead snake or something, if the flume-walker hadn't been by there.8
-

Virtual is the new real, Monk said.

You make no fucking sense, Truman comments.

Its all going to change, Bull persevered, trust me.

Passed an older couple sat on metal chairs on their porch. Surrounded by the dark

they could have been manikins and so Zim watched until he saw at least one of them
moved. The old man touched his eye. Could be saying hello. Could be feeling to see if
he was still alive. Old people like that. May need some reminder of the moment. Could
be my mind. Stare at anything and it will eventually move. Like dolls as a kid. Grow

Over the Hill to the Stonewall by Hattie Kaufman, San Diego Historical Society Journal, April 1958 Vol
4 No 2

old and the simplest things become grand accomplishments. Standing up. Walking to the
bathroom. Opening a door. Gallant deeds. Gramps and Mammy could be dead for all we
know. Ambulances come here daily. Even more to the assisted living home. Should
come up with their own disposal system. Another profit center. Why let someone else
make the money.
-

Hey this is where they say the body of that girl was dumped, Truman says to change

the subject.
-

Yea? Right here? Bull asks eagerly.

Yep. Right in broad daylight. It really aint safe no more, man. And creepy thing is I

think I knew her, man, that is what is really weird about it. They say she was a whore but
I dont think so. Lots of the others just disappear. Buried out in the desert somewhere.
Some buried alive.
-

Worst place to put a body, Zim says. Mummifies. Lasts forever, he thought, animal

digs it up, cant chew the rawhide. Not a good plan. Unless you want it found. Sacrifice.
-

Need to put it in water so it rots, Bull added.

Lot of girls being killed man, says Truman. About thirty of them I read.

Since when? Bull asks.

Since they started counting I guess, Truman says.

Some cult I bet, says Bull. Sacrificing them. Gotta be something like that.

More than four hundred women along the border,9 Zim said.

Hundreds dying just crossing the border, Monk said.

Web site with statistics and Amnesty International information

Different to have someone bury you in the desert than to die in the desert, Truman

said. Cant imagine the last gulps, the sand, dirt filling you up. What could that feeling
be?
-

Would you rather imagine your skin blistering off, your tongue swelling up until it

fills your mouth. Heard a guy bit off his tongue just to breath. Whats worse?
-

Maybe you go insane before you die, Truman said, like they say you die of fright

beofr eyou hit the pavement if you jump out of a building. Maybe you go nuts and it
never phases you.
Zim shudders with the words he read: snap the girls necks just as they cum.
Supposed to be better that way. Healdess pig kicking and kicking in its own pool of
blood. Wouldnt stop kicking. Guy laughing holding the chainsaw. Whos worse: girl
killer who feels remorse or pig killer who laughs?
-

With them girls, I bet its some church, Bull said, blood cult, Im telling you. Gotta

be.
-

Seems they think it is a bigger organization than that, Zim said, businessmen, police,

drug traffickers, all involved in some weird game. Dead women used to send messages
to each other. Its a sport. 10
-

Just the same shit thats going on in TJ, man, Truman said. Fucking war over there.

Remember we used to go there to fuck around. Crazy to cross now. That shit was bound
to come here. Matter of time.
The threesome walked for a while in sudden silence, the unbearable but
unbreakable silence of being stoned: when you struggle to speak but no words seem to fit
the gap from brain to mouth. In Zims head, the slience roared. The sounds of their feet
10

Harvest of Women

scraping the sidewalk is all he could hear. Oh! Whats this? A thought occurring: Perhaps
maybe is such that pot knocks out the connection between signifier and signified,
between sign and phoneme, between meemee and peepee?
-

I went to a volcano in Nicaragua where they sacrificed virgins,11 Bull finally said.

They built these steps to the top and when you got up there you could see almost all the
way down into the lava. The smoke and gases and stuff, a strange feeling being there.
You could swear the volcano was just asking you to throw yourself in. To this day I am
not sure what kept me from diving in that hole. I wanted to. Thought I would do it.
-

You may be a virgin Bull but no god would want your ass, Truman said.

What were you doing in Nicaragua, Zim asked, youve never told me this.

Pugga mahone,12 Bull said to Truman, it was when I was a kid, Bull said, some

church group my mom sent me on. We were building a school or something. My mom
made me do it. But what Im wondering is if your mind can be persuaded to do
something like throw yourself into a volcano, maybe it can persuade you to kill someone.
You know what I mean? Maybe something takes you, takes control and you just have to
do that thing.
-

Scary thought man, Zim said.

Yea, sometimes I scare myself.

Speaking of scary, you know Mexican whores dont wax, Truman said.

How can you say such a thing, Zim asked. And how would you know?

They dont. And I know so.

You mean theyre bush? Bull honked.

11
12

Masaya Volcano.
Irish for kiss my ass

No, said Truman, they shave. Its like kissing an old beard. Mouth ends up all rashed

up.
-

Why would you even go there? Zim said.

I hear guys down there pop their rubbers, Monk said. More kids the better. All

around the barrios.

-

You might say I did a little of my own investigation, Truman said.

Tienes albondigas, Chingon! Bull said. Always going where no man has gone before.

Not me, Truman said. All hearsay actually.

Thought you had a Mexican gal? Zim asked Truman.

I like them neat and trim, Bull said.

Yea, but she waxes for christs sake, Truman said, wouldnt put up with it any other

way. Anyway, we broke up.

-

In a heart, triangle even, Bull said.

What happened, Zim asked.

Irreconcilable differences you could say, Truman said.

You mean? Zim asked.

Yea, Im a pig, a dumb assed gringo, you know. Maybe I should have smacked her,

who knows.
-

Zim says he wants to write a piece on cunnilingus, Bull said. Says everyone writes

about blow jobs but not the other way round.

-

Really, Truman said, what you going to call it? Guess whos cumming for dinner? Get

it c-u-m!
-

Not sure, Zim said, but its not a porn piece.

Should call it Eating Gilbertas Grape, Monk said.

Eating pussy is an art, Truman said. Worse part of dating someone new is figuring it

all out all over again. Each woman different. Up here, down there, a little harder, a little
softer.
-

Women expect it now, Zim said. Some guy at work was telling me he had been

married for twenty five years, never did it. Then he divorced and started dating again and
all of a sudden he was in unknown territory.
-

Do it right, Truman said, and youre her champion.

This guy had lost part of his jaw to cancer, Zim said.

He would have to apply for the Special Pussy Eating Olympics then, Truman said.

Me, Bull said, I like my bush nice and neat.

We are all going to die of cancer, Truman said. Prostrate, brain, lung, skin, something

going to get us and eat us up.

-

Eating Gilbertas Grape, did you like that, huh? Monk honked.
Zim couldnt help notice how many others on the street slipped into the light then

back into darkness. Coming and going. Where from and where to? When does a town
cease to be a stranger? Further down the street he could see the brightly lit carnival sign
of the Carousel Bar. The lights continuing around the top edge of the converted
watertower. A knob protruding from the belly of this town. Colleen: hope shes working
tonight. Talk went well with her the other night. Did nt drink too much. Helped her
friend Dylan to the car. So it seemed for first time. Good excuse to stay away from
home. No need to be there when the goons come round. And really I should celebrate.
Big day. Only one. Need to ditch these two.

Lets go in there a minute? Truman said, pointing to a tattoo parlor across the road.

Not now, Bull whined, Im hungry.

Hey, Ill go with you, Zim said with sudden interest.

And with a reluctant Bull in tow, they crossed the street into Saliga Tattoo and

Piercings.
On the walls: pagan symbols, satanic pictures, barbed wire, crosses, things Celtic,
things Chinese, big gunned soldiers, eagles and hearts, phosphorescent bare breasted and
long limbed women. Sex and pagans. Sacrifice and torture. Religious kismet. Parlor of
pain. Disfigurement. Atonement maybe? On the tattoo artists forehead: a cross or a
shamrock: Never what you think.
A tattoo of a shamrock is associated with the white supremacist prison gang
known as the Aryan Brotherhood. But many people with Irish descent who are not at all
affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood often have shamrock tattoos. These people who are
jailed are forced to cover these tattoos by the AB as they aren't allowed to wear the AB
tattoo even though it is an entirely Irish emblem. Inside each of the three leaves of the
shamrock is often found the number six. St. Patrick used the shamrock to teach ancient
druids the holy trinity, and by adding a 6 in each leaf the Aryan Brotherhood makes a
comment of turning good to evil. 13
-

Why did you want to come in here? Bull asked Truman

I want a new tat, Truman answered.

Now?

Maybe.

13

Wiki: Tattoos

10

Hey, Truman said to the heavily inked guy behind the counter, tapestries on arms and

exposed shoulders: tentacled behemoth on one, harpoons and seawreck scattered across
the other, on his forehead a Gaelic cross, when he stood up: a bulge in his pants like an
angry fist. I wanted to get the sign of the rooster, the Chinese sign, Truman said, you
have some pictures of that.
-

Sign of the cock, sure, the tattoo artist said. Or I could just do it for you.

Well let me see some pictures first, Truman answered. Then in a lowered voice to the

others when the tattoo artist stepped into the other room: Who knows what kind a cock
Id get if I left it up to him.
-

A cock? Bull said.

Yea. Year of the rooster. My Chinese birth year. What are you Zim?

Dont know.

When were you born.

Sixty seven.

Probably the monkey, Truman guessed.

Yea Zims a monkey. Bull said. Smart as fuck. But always wanking off.

Bulls a pig, Truman said, no shit.

No bullshit, Zim affirmed.

Besame el culo, Monk said.

The tattoo artist brought out a thick binder. Each page covered in plastic sheet.

Do some guys get hardons while the tattoo gun is whirring? Blood from fresh tattoos?
Rooster looks ok, never would put that monkey on my landscape. No disambiguation.

11

I want this one, Truman said. But I want to double it up, two of them, facing each

other. Can you do that?

-

Sure if you want, the tattoo artist said.

While Truman leaned forward in a massage chair with his face in a doughnut

shaped pillow towards the floor, his back and torso bare, a blast of ethyl alcohol as the
tattoo artist cleaned his instruments and then swabbed Trumans shoulder. Turns up the
rock music now blaring from a portable boombox behind the counter. Zim sat back on
the other side of the room and watched as the needling began. Maybe this is where I
start, he mused, begin the stories Ive begun. Rewrite, rework. The history I dont know.
Not on computer, paper. Jot down each idea on skin. Remember I got a history. Look
down: read what I forgot. Write it backwards: Read it in a mirror. Doubt these needle
guys smart enough to do that. Tonight the night to start?
-

Hey buddy, Bull shouted to the tattoo artist, whats with the squid on your arm?

I dont know, the artist said, read Moby Dick, you know. Kinda couldnt get it out of

my mind. Changed my life even.

-

Wasnt Moby Dick a whale?

Not sure anymore, the artist said. Looks cool though.

Bull couldnt stand still. He walked over to Zim and whispered in his ear,

Whod put a fucking cross on his head like that?

Someone wrongly devoted.

Shit, not him. Talk about regretting your actions. What could you change that into

later when you give up on ol JC?

-

Maybe it is supposed to be Ahabs ship. Still taking shape.

12

Shave his head and make it a crown, Bull said, put a ruby on the top there.

Hey, Bull whispered changing the topic, Truby had a brother who died, you knew that

right?
-

Huh?

Yea, they were twins. Two cocks. Get it?

Had no idea.

Kid wasnt right though, you know what I mean. Kind of a freak.
With nothing more to say, Zim looked outside. A man standing at the window,

long hair, a shock of white off his forehead. Hands on the glass: fingerless black gloves.
Whats he want. Bum. Collector? Nah. Maybe kidnap a girl. Why not. Why do they all
look alike. Not cool. Pinched faces. Dorks. Losers. Quiet kid in school. Kids picked
on him. Maybe we make them into killers.
-

Some of these tats are wild man, Bull said spilling across a magazine.

You going to get one next Bull? Truman said.

He wants one on his back, Zim said, bendmeover.

That would take all night, Truman muttered. The tattoo that is.

You know these fuckers were stoned, an ignoring Monk says, the only way they could

come up with this stuff. Look at this shit! Whoo! The best reason to get fucked up is to
let your mind go, you know? Get out of the normal patterns of thought that hold us back.
The brain has all this capacity, all these things it can do and we dont take advantage of
any of it.
-

The brains a beautiful thing man, Truman said muffled by his pillow.

13

Well you know Zims got other ideas, Bull continued, believes the brain is nothing

but a mutation, just a big ol tumor. Just one of your cancers Truby.
-

Brains make us human, Truman said from his pious position in the chair. The only

difference between us and a flatworm really.

-

But Zim thinks its a mistake, the Monk continued, a cancer, nothing advantageous to

it at all.
-

Worms arent bombing cities, polluting the air with cars, not as far as I know.

You tell him Zim.

Not worth telling, Zim said, still leafing through the tattoo bible.

If the brain is just a mistake, Truman said, like a wart, then do you mean the same

thing for consciousness, free will?

-

Yep, I guess, conceded Zim.

And so my brain is kinda like a tumor that is going to kill me?

Probably already doing a pretty good job look at you ticking toxic ink under your

skin.
-

Nothing toxic buddy, the tattoo artist said without looking up.

But your brain isnt going to kill you Truman, Zim said, its going to kill all of us.

Like in a war.

Maybe.

Like in putting a pillow over someones head.

Like polluting. Disease, sloth, whatever.

Pretty pessimistic shit dude. You need some happy pills bro.

14

Look we are the only beast that is unhappy with its brain. Always seeking to alter it,

to find a different way to feel. We always want to change our mood, find a happier place
to be. We are always at war with our brains. It is a constant struggle, like we are always
trying to deaden a pain, trying to excise an abnormal growth, something doesnt fit and
we arent sure what it is, something doesnt feel right. Yes, it is not a very cheerful
philosophy.
-

You signed the release agreement, right? the tattoo artist asked Truman with sudden

concern.
-

Yes. You know what Zim, I dont buy that, Truman said, tensely situated in his chair,

his face to the floor, the tattoo artist mercilessly scribbling, dipping and dabbing at this
shoulder blade. Let me tell you why.
-

This is the place for confessions, Bull said.

I got a twin brother.

I know, Zim said, stammering.

Yea, identical twin. Jeremy. Born two hours after me. Umbilical cord wrapped like a

noose around his neck. No oxygen to his brain, so his brain never grew. His body was
all contorted and shit, curled up and twisted. Hmph. But he always had a smile on his
face. A dumb fucking smile. His eyes sometimes seemed to look at you if you said
something or touched his face. But he had no brain, no human brain, some people would
freak when they saw him.
Bull and Zim dumbed.

15

But he was my brother, you know, Truman said through the pillow. I grew up with

him. He was as much me as I was. We were 100% the same. You know what I mean.
Except for one moment, we were exactly the same. This is his sign too.
Zim nodded, then pretended to look down at a magazine of bodies covered with
serpents, swirls, skeletons and chains. Thinking: Bull set me up. Knew what he was
doing all along. Porque Judas? Porque porker?
Zim finds a pattern with handcuffs.
-

Hey, Zim said, now heres something.

Handcuffs? Bull said. Kind of kinky bro.

No, Houdini, Zim said. He was my hero you know. Add some chains, could be cool.

Hey, Monk said pointing at the boombox, fucking wild, this song is about Houdini, its

from Nick Caves new album. 14

-

Yea? Zim said.

Yea, called Did Lazarus Dig.

Clawing out of the earth huh? Zim said. Houdini tried that. Almost killed him.

Maybe You know, he was once handcuffed and buried in the stomach of a whale. Put
those images together, you know?
-

He died when he couldnt get out one time right, Truman asked from his supine

position.
-

No, Zim said. That was what they said in the movies. He died from a ruptured

appendix.
-

14

Not nearly as dramatic, Truman said. I can see why they changed that in the movie.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Dig Lazarus Dig 2008

16

Houdini would let anyone punch him in the stomach, Zim said, as hard as they could.

One day a student came up to him while he was lying down and asked to punch him in
the stomach. Houdini said sure. But before he could prepare himself the kid walloped
him. He died a few days later.

15

Dont get handcuffs, Bull said. Really gay man.

Nah, the tattoo artist said, can do it real cool man. Ill show you when Im done. Not

gay at all.
Ever since I can remember hearing the Lazarus story, when I was a kid, you
know, back in church, I was disturbed and worried by it. Traumatized, actually. We are
all, of course, in awe of the greatest of Christ's miracles - raising a man from the dead but I couldn't help but wonder how Lazarus felt about it. As a child it gave me the creeps,
to be honest. I've taken Lazarus and stuck him in New York City, in order to give the
song, a hip, contemporary feel. I was also thinking about Harry Houdini who spent a lot
of his life trying to debunk the spiritualists who were cashing in on the bereaved. He
believed there was nothing going on beyond the grave. He was the second greatest
escapologist, Harry was, Lazarus, of course, being the greatest. I wanted to create a kind
of vehicle, a medium, for Houdini to speak to us if he so desires, you know, from beyond
the grave.16
-

If you think that is the design you want, the tattoo artist said, you got to follow that.

You have to follow your desire for the design. It may mean something, it may not. Not
now anyway, but I guarantee you someday it will.
-

15
16

You sound like youre serious about your stuff, Bull said.

Houdini web site.

Nick Cave web site

17

You will only get him started, Truman said from his pillow.

I think tattooing is a form of love, the tattoo artist said. A love not for oneself and not

for a tribe, but for mankind. The most painful aspect of tattooing is not the physical pain
one experiences while being tattooed. It is the pain of death. We are all destined to die.
And that's why I see only two motives to be tattooed: life and death. And sometimes they
are linked together. You cannot separate in a single drawing which part of it is life and
which part is death. Like this one here. You did not tell me what this tattoo of two
roosters was to symbolize. But I can tell you I bet one represents life and one represents
death.
-

Whoa! Monk said, that is scary. Dont you think man?!

If you have only one reader who can understand the slightest part of your work, you

have given something to him and this reader will give it to someone else. That is love.
Love is something people give each other through time and through space to make life
more comprehensible and more bearable. Tattooing for me is a declaration of love for
life. Because it communicates that every single day of your entire life you look at it and
understand what it talks about. It talks about love.
-

Keep going bro, Monk said sitting down in a barber seat.

Well, my story is a bit long, the tattoo artist said, but let me tell you anyway.

The Story of the Tatu Artist17

I didnt always love myself or love anyone for the longest time. I ran away from
home as a kid, signed up with the sideshow of a small circus as a bug swallower, then

17

Borrowed from various sources from tattoo.com

18

learned to swallow swords. There I met this tattoo artist, Doc Nelson, and I thought he
was kinda cool so I began thinking about being an artist myself. Started practicing on
myself with needles and some ink. Some of the other performers saw some of the stuff I
was doing and they let me try it out on them. I got pretty good. Doc Nelson told me that
if I had a passion for this I really needed to go find a master to study with, there was more
to tattooing than just cool designs. And so somehow, I dont remember, I ended up going
to Japan, where they are really into tatooing, having been at it for thousands of years I
think. Actually I went first to Bangkok and there was a lot of tattoing going on there, but
everyone kept telling me to go to Japan, that Japan was where you went if you were
really going to be serious about toattos. And so that is where I went and met my master
and this changed my life forever man. Forever.
In the first two years, I only did chores. I used to wake up five a.m. and sweep my
masters house inside and out. I also wiped the floor with a damp cloth. In winter, my
hands were numb with cold water. My fingers were swollen. The master didnt teach me
anything about tattooing yet. As you might imagine, tattooists cant make mistakes on
their job. So the purpose of chores was to discipline the pupils. If the pupils completed
two years of chores, then the master allowed us to learn how to tattoo little by little.
At meals, I was allowed to have only one cup of soup and one dish. We would get
one bowl of rice as well. Even though I wanted to eat more, I couldnt because I was in
training. I was only 19 and I was starving. It was tough experience. Todays kids would
never understand how tough that training was. Sometimes the master yelled at me and
even hit me. To endure such abuse requires great patience, which you dont have at 19,
but this is what I learned first, patience. Because of his treatment, a lot of the pupils just

19

gave up and ran away. Of course, I often wondered why he hit me. Although I had anger
towards the master, I could not talk back. All I could do was obey what the master said. I
was so frustrated that I cried in bed so many times. The master sometimes slapped me
without any reason. However, later on I found the master purposely hit me and forced me
to do over work for my mental training. I hated him so much during the apprenticeship.
Looking back now, I am ashamed of having had such feelings towards my master.
-

Ashamed, Bull said, sounds like an asshole to me.

Let him finish, Truman said. And so the Tattoo Artist continued.
I slept at the masters workplace. I wanted to be a great tattoo artist as soon as

possible. In the middle of the night, Id pick up the needles from the masters tool box,
and practiced tattooing on my thigh, no ink, remembering how my master did his work. I
practiced on both my thighs with the bamboo stick every night after work. I didnt know
how to use the and my skin bled and swelled. During the daytime I did chores. If I had no
work during the day, I would sit down by my master and watch his work from the
distance. I used sit for 2 hours straight just watching my masters hands to learn his
tattooing skills. The master would say to me: Im not going to lecture you, you steal my
techniques by watching my work. But my skills were not improving easily. I couldnt see
any progress at all.
One day, the masters wife asked me to split wood. Pupils normally call the
masters wife ane-san. The masters wife looked so happy when I called her ane-san. So
I called her ane-san during the apprenticeship. One day while I was splitting wood in the
back yard, I got hotter and hotter. I was in a sweat, and took off my shirt and trousers.

20

Ane-san came and asked me to take a rest. She brought a cup of tea for me. Ane-san was
surprised to see my traces of the needles on the thighs.
-

How did you get scars on the thighs? She said. Do you practice tattooing by yourself?

Yes, I said, but I cannot tattoo well like the master does.

Have you ever seen my husbands legs and ankles? she asked again

No. I said.

His whole legs are covered with tattoos, she said. You know what I mean? He told me

that he practiced tattooing on his legs with the ink when he was a pupil. Thats why his
legs are all black. He also told me that a tattooist needs to learn by tattooing his own body
to become a professional tattooist. There is nothing to replace human skin. So you have to
learn tattooing by tattooing your body.
And so then I wondered if I should practice tattooing with the ink. Otherwise I
couldnt get how the ink was inserted into the skin. I decided to master the techniques
until my whole body would be black. I will never give it up, I said. If I give it up, I wont
be a true man. Since then, I practiced tattooing on any parts of my legs from the thighs to
the ankles almost every day. But I made a mistake and have regretted it ever since.
Except for my seaty underpants, I was naked in the yard with the ane son, who was very
pretty, and she was talking to me and because I was only 20 and had no control over such
thing I got an erection and I had no way to hide it. Ane san saw this of course and took
pity on me and offered to help. Unfortuntely the master found out and I was banished
from his workshop forever. At first I took this as a sign that I would never be a tattoo
artist as I had betrayed my master. And so I came back home and gave up my dream.

21

But one day, I was in a pawn shop selling my electric guitar and I saw underneath
the glass an electic tattoo gun. Just out of curiosity I asked the owner if I could look at it.
This looks old, I said. It is, the pawn show owner said, you are holding one of the first
electric tattoo guns ever made, made by an Irishman named Samuel OReilly, its
probably a hundred years old. Does it work, I asked. Nah, he said, piece of junk, but this
thing changed tattoos forever.
On the side of it was the guns name: Electric SkinArtists Pen. And I knew I had
found a sign. Maybe it was the Irish in me connecting with this guy OReilly, or maybe it
was the word SkinArtist connecting with something I had nearly let die away inside of
me. But right then and there I made up my mind, and I took my training, which I did not
think amounted to much, and went off on my own, discovering that I had indeed learned
very much, stuff I am still learning that I learned today.
You know, probably because of my training and the places Ive been, people I met
and stuff, I have come away with some different perspectives on all this. Some of these
things people think are pretty weird. But you know when you begin to put all the
different pieces together of all the things that you have learned, sometimes what comes
out of that is a lot different that you might have expected at first. Little things from way
back can have a big significance, you know. While some big things dont seem to matter
at all.
For example, personally I think tattoos are a message that traces how we all
came to be. True we put these marks on our skins, we arent born with them, but the
desire to put these marks on our skin and the desire to put certain symbols permanently
on our skin are big things, and are, I think, a communication with our past. And our past

22

began in China. Look at tattoos. In my opinion, there is something Asian about most all
the designs used in tattooing. I think that more than fifty percent of all tattoos somehow
use Asian design. I think people feel some deep meaning and see the beauty and like it.
So where does this come from? How many people from El Cajon have been to China,
know anything about China? But when they come in here what do they ask for? Huh? A
Dragon? Two Chinese cocks! See what Im saying?
-

Fuck that is weird, Bull said, you know?

Well, the link between us and our ancestors came through the people of the Bering

Sea, you know that right? Four thousand years ago or something like that you could walk
from China to South America over the Bering Strait. I came to know about this because
it seems that some of the wildest tattoos anywhere have been found on men and women
who died in the Artic region back then, some were tattooed mummies that they found.
These tatooos told the story of these people, the story of the seasons, of hunting and
history. Well these people came here from China, and then one day the landbridge broke
or fell apart or flooded or something and these people could no longer get back to China.
They had to go south into the Americas. Eventually some of them moved all the way to
Mexico and Central America and they became the Mayans and the Toltecs and the
Olmecs. But you can stll see the tattoing in the Eskimos who still live in the Arctic. And
you can see the tattoos in the Indians in the south. These markings and symbols have
been a part of our entire journey, from then until now. And so I think, and this is just my
idea but it seems to have some basis, that we are pulled to carry on this tradition. We
dont know why we tattoo our skin but we have to in a way. We dont know why we
choose this design or that, but we are compelled and that compulsion is our ancestry, the

23

one we all forget, but one that eventually comes back to the surface of our skin as a
reminder.
I hate to sound like I'm old school. But anybody that hasn't been though this
training and hasnt been tattooing for at least 20 years are Johnny-Come-Latelys, as far as
I'm concerned. Not long ago, I had to put a long-sleeved shirt on to go to the store
because it was blowing people away. Now, people don't pay any attention to me. I can go
walk in a bank or anything else and I've got tattoos, so what? Now there's hundreds of
people out there just here in El Cajon who got more tattoos that I got. And so once the
piercing started, these people are getting into not just body modification, but into pain
and the spirit of what pain means to you.
All thats bullshit to me. The magic is, first of all, you're motivated to get a tattoo
from deep within your psyche, and also, the psyche even helps you pick out the design.
That's why people get tattooed when they're drunk. Once you get alcohol in your system,
you're not you anymore. You just block that thing out and that's why they wake up and
say, Well, I was drunk, I wish I didn't... They wouldn't have picked that piece had they
been sober.
I believe that people who love tattoo, whichever nation, race or color they belong
to, are all effected by a most basic and primitive desire which causes them to love and
admire tattoo. I thnk human beings are looking for that bridge linking spirit and flesh,
kind of like that bridge we walked across thousands of years ago and tattoo is just the
best way they can find to express themselves. In my view, the more material thingss
human beings enjoy in this world, the poorer and hollower they will feel spiritually.
Therefore in my opinion, more and more people take to tattoo and hope to compensate

24

somehow for their hollowness and vacancy through this way. They try to express their
inner worlds, to give vent to their desires, and to find balance between spirit and flesh.
But one of the nicest feelings that you can get if you're a tattooer is every now and
then you'll tattoo somebody and they are just like, man....they look at that mirror and
they're speechless and youre part of that good feeling, that they might never have that
again, ever. And you are a part of it. That's the magic.
-

There youre all done bro! the tattoo artist said.

Wow! Truman said, let me see!

Truman stood up, his face redseamed by the pillow on which he rested, could

have been crying.

-

See, he said, showing off the bloody carving.

Its going to be all swollen, its a wound you know.

Yea, but it looks cool, Truman said, great job man.

You take credit, right? Truman asked the tattoo artist

Back outside, the glowing sulfur street lamps and the neon blurs of Main Street
signs kaleidescoping ahead. Truman, with a patch under his shirt covering the burning
birds carved upon his scapular, lit another joint.
-

You know, my Dad loved Jeremy way more than me. Jeremy couldnt disappoint him

you know. Everything little thing Jeremy did was genius, everything was a victory, had
to celebrate it. I could never live up to his accomplishments. I had none.

25

At least you had a father, Bull said. I think my mom stuck a syringe up her twat to

have me. Or jumped some old man at the hospital. Hopped him one night real quick and
left. He never knew.
Zim thinks: Wonder if Bull ever forgets the real story. Wants to. All our moms
have a past. Bull may want to forget.
-

Yea, well, in some way Jimmie is what I always wanted to be. Strange huh. Now my

dad wont have anything to do with me. Like I should be dead or something.
-

Ask Zim about that, Bull said, his mom wont talk to him no more. Not since he quit

med school. Huh Zim? And his Dad well thats another story.
Zim just shook his head. Traitor is after something. Wont quit until he gets it.
Vengeance for what?
-

Lets forget all that shit, Truman said, passing Zim the half finished joint. I didnt

mean to bum everyone out in there.

-

Look! Monk said. Isnt that Geddy? 18

Where, Zim asked.

Over there, walking with those books.

Yea bet it is, Zim said. Cant miss him.

Whos that? Truman said.

Geddy, Monk said, strange dude. Inventor. Look at him. Looks like Einstein. Zims

nemesis.
-

18

Huh, Truman said.

Zims street nemesis. See Human Wayfinding by _________

26

Remember we were talking about wayfinding, well Geddy is the guy I told you wrote

a book about it, Monk said. Actually got it published. They had an event at the library.
Local celebrity cuz of it. Zim has his own book on it. But ol Geddy beat him to it.
-

Hey Zim, I still want to hear these ideas on navigation.

Zim thinks:
Geddy: self proclaimed expert on human navigation. Self published author. Still

won an award. Small town will grab on to anything. Idiots book. Worse yet I have to
answer to Geddy. Have to preface everything with Geddy this. That. Probably will have
him write preface to mine. What coincidence him here.
-

Well, maybe we should catch up with Geddy and ask him, Zim said with a smoky

exhale.
-

Naw, Monk said, hes full of shit. You got the shit down. Tell him about it. About the

modelings, no landmarks. All in the brain. Tell him.

Zim passes the nub over to Bull the monk.
-

Navigation is prelanguage, presymbols, done directly with moving neural maps, Zim

said. No stored images, no landmarks. Brain maps the world into a shifting neural
representation of the world. When you turn right on a street you dont turn at such and
such a building, you turn down a neural road. Got the ability way to remember direction
long before self consciousness, before anything thought about what they were navigating.
Navigation is at the root of cognition. Start there and we get to all the other stuff.
Memory. Thoughts. Intention.
-

Brilliant huh? Bull applauded with the shortened spliff between his lips.

Cant prove that shit man, Truman countered.

27

Sure I can.

How?

OK, howd you get here tonight, Zim asked.

Huh?

How did you get over to our apartment tonight.

I walked, fucking old man that fuck.

Tell me the turns.

I came off Magnolia, turned left. Then I went right on Jamacha, no I mean left.

Turned left on Jama

-

See? Stop, Zim said, youre translating. Neurons to signs. Signs to words.

Hes got you Truby.

Still dont see it.

You never will, Zim said. Thats the point. And I need a beer.
There is chaos and there is order. Then there is the chaos that creates order, the

chaos from out of which order comes. Traffic theory. One small perturbation can create a
massive disaster. An accident, a car traveling too slow, a ladder in the middle of the
highway, a dog wandering off and on the road. Sometimes they arent disturbances at all.
Men slow their cars to take a look at a woman walking along the side of the road. Flyers
that look like dollar bills spilled across the road. Sometimes it doesnt even take an
actual event. A perceived event can be the disturbance that creates the problem.
Northbound drivers slowing to see what looks like an accident on the southbound lane.
These are the variables that are often overlooked or ignored. Variables that even the
sharpest minds know all too well, that sends some of these minds to drink, others to the

28

brink, to women if they are men, to get married and have a child if they are women.
These are not variables that can simply be loaded into an equation or smoothed out by a
computer. They are factors that impede knowledge. They are the genital herpes of logic,
the chancres of scientific prediction.
Human navigation. Wayfinding they call it. Mental road maps. What dont I
know about these? The human fabric of knowledge. The web of meaning. Where are
you today Willard old boy? The anesthesia of modern information. Internet and
television. The fabric that brings us all together. At night, we join one another each on
our own couch, enjoined through TV, our computers.
-

Where you going? Bull honked.

Over here, Zim said.

The Carousel? Bull said. Its Thursday. Sure it aint queer night or something? I aint

dressed for the boys.

-

Youre queer enough, Truman said, you just aint nearly queer enough.

That outfit is pretty gay, Zim said. What are you worried about? Think someone

wants your fat pucker?

-

They got TV? Bull asked.

Sure, why?

Wakefield is pitching, Bull said.

Padres stink, Truman said.

Wakefields my hero, mon. Gotta jiggler like a moth.

Bug tosser is right, Truman said, cmon I got an edge.

29

Look Bull, Zim said eyes raised the sign above Love Pandora on the other side of the

street. See whats for sale.

-

What, a Hendrix sex tape? Truman said.

Yea, Bull said.

Just then, a squattish figure stepped out of the darkness of the entrance of the

Carousel Bar and stood beneath the lights and yowled. His hands raised and head tilted
towards the sky he cursed then scurried off.
-

That must be our cue, Zim said. Lets go.

30