The needle pricked his skin and a whimper crawled up his throat. The pain was unbearable. He clenched his fists, pressed his lips together and grimaced.
The tattoo artist asked him if everything was all right, and Richard had to push the moan tumbling back down so he could finally answer ‘Yes’. The tattoo artist then said ‘Good, because the pain is about to get worse’, pressing the needle back on his skin.
The little man clawing and crawling its way up reached his mouth and wrenched it open, letting a long groan free. The tattoo artist paused.
‘We can stop if you want, you know?’
‘No, I don’t have time to waste. We have a dinner reservation. I can take it’, sneaking in a wink at his girlfriend.
‘You’re the boss.’
With an army scrabbling its way up his throat, he felt a surge of excruciating pain when the needle reached his ankle. He closed his eyes and seized his girlfriend’s hand. She gave it a light squeeze.
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