The customer, a dweeb named Harold, wanted me to tattoo a pregnant succubus on his right bicep. He said it was to commemorate his girlfriend getting knocked up–which I thought was a weird way to put it. When I asked why a succubus, all he said was that he liked her face. The ladies on my flash sheet were mostly modeled after Jade, who had broken up with me two hours earlier. This guy couldn’t have picked a shittier tattoo on a worse day.

Harold wasn’t a tattoo person. From his bowl cut, to his pressed slacks, checkered shirt and sweater vest, he looked like the poster boy for geekdom. I suspected his mom still picked out his clothes, but whatever; he was paying me in cash, not fashion tips.

“Dmitri’s a cool name,” Harold chirped at me, while I prepped my machine.

“Look, Harry,” I told him, drawing a test line on his shoulder and watching him squirm, “I prefer not to chitchat while I work. That vibe with you?”

“Yeah, man,” he said, gritting his teeth in anticipation. “Do your thing.”

Despite the stereotypes against tattoo artists, I’m not usually a sadist, but something about Harold evoked a subtle cruelty in me, and I really dug in. He jerked his body in response to the needle’s stinging pressure, but I wouldn’t let him budge. I gripped his arm until the skin turned white, wielding my machine with my other hand, hardlining, shading, and saturating the voluptuous curves of the succubus, making sure to accentuate her burgeoning womb and swollen teets.

Outline to color, the whole piece took a little under an hour. Even though it was flash, I charged the noob eighty bucks, figuring he’d stiff me on the tip. He paid with a hundo and told me to keep the change.

Even at that price, Harold got the better deal. That pregnant succubus version of Jade was the cleanest tattoo I had ever inked. It made me depressed, so I closed the shop early and went next door to Madison’s to get obliterated.

***

Two days later, Harold returned to the shop, complaining that his skin was on fire. After that immaculate piece? He’d probably sanitized it with bleach, or some other barbaric vandalism. If Harold wanted to fuck up his own body, that was his business, but that tattoo was my art.

“Unscented antibacterial soap and warm water, Harry,” I lectured. “Aquafor if you’re really worried about scabbing.”

The expression on Harold’s face bothered me. I knew he was paying attention, but his shoulders slumped, his eyes stared at nothing, and he shook his head like a sleepy horse dodging flies.

“Sure,” he muttered. “Unscented soap. Aquafor. Cool.” He sucked in a breath and released it in a whoosh.

“There’s this other issue.” Harold started pulling his arm out of his shirt.

“I woke up in the middle of the night and felt something solid, about the size of a silver dollar, passing through the pores on my bicep.” I pictured Harold in full flannel pajamas, probably wearing a stocking cap, maybe even a sleep mask.

“The pain was so intense, I started hyperventilating, flexing every muscle in my body, sweating everywhere, and groaning. Finally, when I switched on a light to look at my arm, I saw this.”

Harold showed me the tattoo of the pregnant succubus–only she wasn’t pregnant anymore. She had birthed a little, red infant with tiny goat horns and a barbed tail. While I don’t believe in the supernatural, I struggled to come up with a rational explanation.

“It’s a cover-up,” I alleged. “You’re trying to scam me.”

No tattoo artist on Earth could execute a cover-up that flawless. But what other explanation could there be?

“My tattoo had a baby,” Harold sighed. “Which is insane. I may need a psych evaluation.”

He paused, calculating his thoughts. “You might want to get one too, Dmitri.”

Harold put on his shirt and departed before I could kick him out. His behavior, along with what I’d seen on his arm, shook me. My next client wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes, so I slipped over to Madison’s for a quick shot to settle my nerves. The whiskey helped, but it didn’t erase the breastfeeding demon child from my mind. Was it my imagination, or did the baby look exactly like me?

***

Jade had dumped me over the phone.

“No bullshit, Dmitri,” she said. “Someday I want to have a baby, and I need to know right now if you’re onboard to be the daddy.”

Her lack of bedside manner rankled me.

“And ruin some poor kid’s life?” I responded.

“I figured,” Jade said.

She paused while the siren of an emergency vehicle passed by.

“So long, Dmitri,” she said and hung up.

I’d never been kicked to the curb so resolutlely–the definition of a clean break. But now that the succubus had given birth to a Hell baby with my face, I felt the stirring of conflicting emotions. I loved Jade, worshipped her, and would burn down the world for her, but my current lifestyle was not conducive to childrearing.

But if that pud, Harold, could do it…

I took the rest of the week off to sober up and get my shit together. First thing, I texted Jade, and apologized for my dismissive attitude. Texting felt impersonal, but I had behaved callously–unforgiveably so, and she deserved her space.

***

When I got to the shop on Monday, Harold was outside, standing in the rain, waiting for me. His eyes were puffy from crying. Dirty smears streaked his clothing. A sticky substance tangled his hair. And he smelled like wet dog crossed with dead hobo.  

“It’s a bloodbath,” he whimpered. “My body has fallen under the spell of Satan’s armies.”

He removed his shirt. From wrist to clavicle, his arm and shoulder had transformed into the American Traditional equivalent of Bosch’s Last Judgment. From the germ of my creativity, an apocalypse had spread, covering Harold’s flesh like a fantastic rash. I studied the artwork, searching for the demon child.

“Over there,” Harold said, pointing without touching. “Perched on the brink of the ravine. The creature with the bat wings.”

It’d grown wings!

“Incredible,” I gasped.

“Every day brings new obscenity,” Harold lamented. “Demons with animal heads crawling out of cracks and chasms on my forearm. Churches on fire. Clergy hung from the gallows.”

As he spoke, his face seemed to retreat into his skull, like a collapsing barn.

“Meteors striking schools and hospitals. Rockets exploding in the sky. Tsunamis crashing into cities. Entire civilizations sucked into the frozen pits of the hellscape on my arm!”

The original succubus tattoo hadn’t moved, but I felt her eyes on me. Something about the pout of her lip indicated disapproval. Of the apocalypse? No, something else.

“Tell me again,” I inquired. “Why the succubus? Are you and your partner Satanists?”

Harold delivered the same reluctant horse crap as before. “I’m no devil worshiper.”

I pressed further. “I just think that portraying the mother of your child as a demoness feels disrespectful.”

“It’s probably not my kid,” Harold admitted. “Anyway, I changed my mind. I don’t want any part of that dodo egg.”

His body suddenly tensed, every muscle flexed in tandem. His eyes bugged out of their sockets, and a sound like a braking locomotive escaped his throat.

The Antichrist tattoo, with the face so similar to mine, flapped its inky bat wings, flew across Harold’s arm, and landed upon a corpse-strewn battleground near the crook of his elbow. With a watchful eye upon me, the creature began to feed, stuffing images of viscera and gore into its grinning, baby face. Its glee filled me with unexpected pride.

Inspired, I snatched up my sketch pad.

It didn’t matter if Harold had been cursed by a pregnant witch, or whatever was behind his apocalyptic sleeve. Every tattoo artist is responsible for their ink, so I had an obligation to help. I didn’t possess magical power or training in religious ritual, but I had a tattoo machine and the skill to use it.

As I sketched, I imagined milquetoast Harold with his dependable job, his inoffensive interests and bland taste in everything, becoming a surrogate father for some unfortunate bastard. Even the possibility saddened me. I had accidentally helped create life on Harold’s body, and he rejected it. Even the Antichrist deserved unrequited love, something a selfish moron like Harold could never provide.

I finished my drawing.

“Where’s the face?” Harold asked. “It’s just a jumble of wings and eyes. That’s scarier than the demons on my other arm.”

“It’s a biblically accurate angel,” I explained. “No way am I putting another tattoo with her face on you.”

Harold cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.

I laid the stencil on his left bicep on my first try. Harold sat obediently for the beginning of the tat, but around the fifteen minute mark, his body started to convulse. I looked at his other arm and saw the Antichrist baby mobilizing his army. They must have gotten wind of our strategy. How far and how fast could they travel across Harold’s skin?

 I grabbed his left arm and held it steady while I worked.

The demons advanced. My Antichrist baby climbed up the side of Harold’s neck and bared its fangs menacingly.

Harold’s trembling increased, and he sobbed violently.

Ignoring the pressure of the precipitous enemy forces, I applied the angel’s color, really packing it in, giving it divine presence.

More demons crept across Harold’s back and chest. He swatted one on his stomach.

“Quit moving,” I snapped.

As the army assembled on Harold’s shoulder, I applied the last few strokes of shading, completing the tattoo.

The instant I pulled my machine away, the angel came to life. It glided effortlessly across Harold’s skin, lasers shooting from its manifold eyes, cutting bloody swathes through the demon horde. Its feathered wings flapped and spun on rings, like electrons around the nucleus of a holy atom. I watched it obliterate the entire tattoo apocalypse in the span of seconds, before flying back to Harold’s left bicep and powering down.

Mercifully, the angel had spared the Jade succubus, as well as the naughty Antichrist baby. Its charity towards its inky brethren gave me hope for the future of Harold’s upper body. But, having fulfilled my end of the bargain, I washed my hands of the whole ordeal.

“Problem resolved,” I said, wrapping his arm in cellophane and taping it in place.

“What do I owe you for the wing monster?” Harold asked, still dazed from the righteous slaughter that had just transpired across his body.

“Don’t date any of my friends,” I said, “and we’re square.”

The little Antichrist tattoo with my face regarded me solemnly. I could tell it didn’t understand why I had thwarted its Armageddon. It’s called tough love, kid. You’ll understand when you’re older.

My cellphone pinged, probably Jade.

After Harold and his epidermal religious war departed, I sanitized everything he’d touched, and the air inside instantly smelled sweeter. I thought about what he had said about his own forthcoming baby, It’s probably not even my kid, and prayed his testicles would get eaten by wolves. What an absolute waste of flesh.  

 I wondered what Jade would have to say about all this.