And What Be of That Guarantee?

I waited patiently to let the on-coming hearse pass before I pulled out into the traffic lane. It was coming, then going by at a fair clip. I noticed that it was painted not that death-by-acceptance traditional black color, or that denial-of-death untraditional white color, but rather a dignified death-stupefying non-traditional wine color. But it was the graffiti on the side that flashed by my eye.

Very difficult to make out, but I thought I saw some manifestation of the word “tatooz.”

And with a little hustle on my part, I caught up with the thing, and even pulled up beside it.

Sure enough. “Tatooz by Bonz.” “Tatooz guaranteed until death.” “Tatooz to die for.”

A roving tattoo-parlor no less.

Now to be perfectly honest, I can’t/won’t understand why anybody in his or her right mind would “go” to tattoo-parlor in the first place. But to have one come to them!?!

That would have to be a death-defying experience.

Perhaps using this “mobile” service would allow the tattooee to honestly say to their parent, their spouse, their partner, their friend, “I’ve never beeeeen to one of thoooose places.”

But just let us suppose that I totally lost my mind. I called that 800 number on the side. I slunk out the door and crawled into the back of that carriage of tattoable death, and . . . . asked about that guarantee.

“And what be of that tattoo after the death?”

The Refectory Manager