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Never Again

| Right | November 12, 2012

(I often go to a diner near my apartment that’s popular with bikers, who are as a rule, very courteous customers. However, the number of motorcycles out front often attracts a crowd of what the regulars call ‘wannabes’. These are people with new motorcycles and flashy tattoos that just want to show off.)

Customer #1: *showing his friends his arm* “Look at this tat, man. Knife through the heart, and then through an eye. I wanted to show that I’m tough and all, but I wanted something new, so I asked him to add the eyeball.”

Customer #2: “I got an eye, too. It’s on the palm of my hand. Like the monster from that maze movie.”

Customer #3: “Aw, man. I could never get anything on my hand. That’s gotta hurt like s***.”

Regular: *to himself* “P***y.”

(Unfortunately, the three overhear. They jump up and surround the man.)

Customer #2: “What, you think you’re so tough? You think your tats are so bada** , huh?”

(This particular customer is in fact ‘so tough’. He looks old, but he’s a retired police officer.)

Regular: “At least my tattoos have some kind of meaning to them.” *rolling up his sleeve, pointing to tattoos* “Dead kid. Took a gang off the street. Arson.”

Customer #1: “You murdered a kid?!”

Regular: “Nope. Showed up when somebody else did.” *rolling up his other sleeve to reveal a badge tattoo* “Because of this.”

(Realizing he’s a former policeman, the wannabe customers recoil.)

Customer #3: “Pig!”

Regular: “If I still had my nightstick I’d—”

(Suddenly, the owner’s elder mother appears.)

Elderly Mother: “Ruhe!” *all four turn to stare at her* “Well, that’s what they used to say to us if we made a fuss about our tattoos, you know.”

Customer #2: “You got a tattoo, lady? What is it, a ball of yarn?”

(With that, the mother rolls up her sleeve to reveal a concentration camp tattoo.)

Elderly Mother: “No, just a number.”

Customer #1: “What does that even—”

(Customer #2 suddenly realizes what the tattoo means. He immediately drops some cash on the table, grabs his wannabe friends, and heads out the door at a breakneck pace. The regular? He sits there for about ten minutes staring at his own tattoos, before finally finishing his food and leaving… but not before leaving behind a hundred dollar tip.)


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