Read Online Broken People by Scott Hildreth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Hildreth
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lease agreement, regardless of location) Check with authorities for approval prior to commitment.
CLOTHING - If using generally good taste, no restrictions. If poor taste is used, removal and replacement with alternated clothes is required. Taste is defined by the authorities.
EDUCATION - Required. Housing and location must be approved by the authority.
TATTOOS - Prohibited.
The prisoner turns and looks at the wall behind him. He looks at the sheet of rules. He takes another look at the authoritative figures. He looks back at the sheet of rules, and stares. The prisoner thinks. Ponders. He could, after being given the list of requirements, smile and nod, and sign the sheet of paper. Neatly folding his copy, and placing it in his pocket, he could exit the cell, and walk free of the confines of the institution. And, after he was free from the watchful eye of the authoritative figures, he could just say, “Fuck It. Fuck You. Fuck Prison. Fuck Authority. Fuck the Man. Fuck Hard-boiled Eggs, Fuck the System. Fuck Racism. Fuck the Government. Fuck Confinement. Fuck This. Fuck Oatmeal.”
“Fuck NOT getting a tattoo.”
The prisoner decides. He takes the provided pen, and signs the sheet of paper. The man leaves the institution, avoids the authorities, and later that day, he walks to the local tattoo parlor. Standing at the door, prepared to enter, the man notices a sign. The message is bold, clear, and meaningful.
Needles, flesh, pain, blood. But then
you take a step back and see a piece
of artwork. Creation from
destruction. That’s what tattooing is.
T hat’s how God created and saved
the world. That’s what life is.
Keep calm and get inked - The Management
The man enters the tattoo parlor, and walks to the front counter to make an appointment. He unfolds the sheet of paper and shows it to the person scheduling the tattoos. He is told it will require a one and a half hour session. The man agrees, and makes an appointment.
On the scheduled day, the man arrives on time. He stops to read the sign again, and smiles. The tattoo artist greets the man as he enters, and mot ions to the rear of the parlor.
“There’s an old barber chair back there that I just finished recovering. Take a seat and get comfortable. I will be just a minute. I’m Steve,” the artist extends his arm, offering his hand in a friendly gesture.
“Call me Hoot.” Smiling, the man grasps the artists hand and gives a firm hand shake.
The man walks to the rear of the parlor, a nd finds the restored barber’s chair. Placing himself in the chair, he finds himself immediately comfortable. He begins to relax and listen to the music. As the Five Finger Death Punch’s “Coming Down” plays over the speakers, the man remembers the video. It reminds him of some of the thoughts he had while remaining in his cell in prison. Thoughts of living, of dying, and of recovering from the unhealthy thoughts. The recovery takes time. This was his new beginning. The man closes his eyes, and gets lost in the music.
“Hoot, you about ready? You alri ght?” the artist asks.
“Shit, I think I may have nodded off for a minute, Five Finger Death Punch. Hell I haven ’t heard that song for a bit,” the man apologizes as he opens his eyes.
“Good stuff, it sur e is. I loved the video. Makes a man think, you know. Now, what are we doing today?” the artist asks as he sits in his chair.
The man reaches into his right pocket, removes the yellowed sheet of paper, and unfolds it, handing it to the artist. Tapping his right inner forearm with his left hand, the man responds, “Her e you go. On my right forearm.”
“Just like this?” t he artist asks, holding the sheet of paper where the man can see the depiction.
“Exactly,” t he man responds.
The artist nods. As the man watches, the artist sterilizes the table, prepares the ink, and gets the tattoo machine out of a drawer. Holding the tattoo machine at arm ’s length, the artist looks at it,
CLOTHING - If using generally good taste, no restrictions. If poor taste is used, removal and replacement with alternated clothes is required. Taste is defined by the authorities.
EDUCATION - Required. Housing and location must be approved by the authority.
TATTOOS - Prohibited.
The prisoner turns and looks at the wall behind him. He looks at the sheet of rules. He takes another look at the authoritative figures. He looks back at the sheet of rules, and stares. The prisoner thinks. Ponders. He could, after being given the list of requirements, smile and nod, and sign the sheet of paper. Neatly folding his copy, and placing it in his pocket, he could exit the cell, and walk free of the confines of the institution. And, after he was free from the watchful eye of the authoritative figures, he could just say, “Fuck It. Fuck You. Fuck Prison. Fuck Authority. Fuck the Man. Fuck Hard-boiled Eggs, Fuck the System. Fuck Racism. Fuck the Government. Fuck Confinement. Fuck This. Fuck Oatmeal.”
“Fuck NOT getting a tattoo.”
The prisoner decides. He takes the provided pen, and signs the sheet of paper. The man leaves the institution, avoids the authorities, and later that day, he walks to the local tattoo parlor. Standing at the door, prepared to enter, the man notices a sign. The message is bold, clear, and meaningful.
Needles, flesh, pain, blood. But then
you take a step back and see a piece
of artwork. Creation from
destruction. That’s what tattooing is.
T hat’s how God created and saved
the world. That’s what life is.
Keep calm and get inked - The Management
The man enters the tattoo parlor, and walks to the front counter to make an appointment. He unfolds the sheet of paper and shows it to the person scheduling the tattoos. He is told it will require a one and a half hour session. The man agrees, and makes an appointment.
On the scheduled day, the man arrives on time. He stops to read the sign again, and smiles. The tattoo artist greets the man as he enters, and mot ions to the rear of the parlor.
“There’s an old barber chair back there that I just finished recovering. Take a seat and get comfortable. I will be just a minute. I’m Steve,” the artist extends his arm, offering his hand in a friendly gesture.
“Call me Hoot.” Smiling, the man grasps the artists hand and gives a firm hand shake.
The man walks to the rear of the parlor, a nd finds the restored barber’s chair. Placing himself in the chair, he finds himself immediately comfortable. He begins to relax and listen to the music. As the Five Finger Death Punch’s “Coming Down” plays over the speakers, the man remembers the video. It reminds him of some of the thoughts he had while remaining in his cell in prison. Thoughts of living, of dying, and of recovering from the unhealthy thoughts. The recovery takes time. This was his new beginning. The man closes his eyes, and gets lost in the music.
“Hoot, you about ready? You alri ght?” the artist asks.
“Shit, I think I may have nodded off for a minute, Five Finger Death Punch. Hell I haven ’t heard that song for a bit,” the man apologizes as he opens his eyes.
“Good stuff, it sur e is. I loved the video. Makes a man think, you know. Now, what are we doing today?” the artist asks as he sits in his chair.
The man reaches into his right pocket, removes the yellowed sheet of paper, and unfolds it, handing it to the artist. Tapping his right inner forearm with his left hand, the man responds, “Her e you go. On my right forearm.”
“Just like this?” t he artist asks, holding the sheet of paper where the man can see the depiction.
“Exactly,” t he man responds.
The artist nods. As the man watches, the artist sterilizes the table, prepares the ink, and gets the tattoo machine out of a drawer. Holding the tattoo machine at arm ’s length, the artist looks at it,
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