Tattoo

Tattoo

“I got it.”

“No you didn’t. You said you wouldn’t.”

George and John stood toe to toe. They stood nose to nose, eye to eye, as close as they could.

“Prove to me you got it.”

“I shouldn’t have to. You should take my word for it.”

They still were nose to nose, eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder and now fist to fist.

“I don’t take your word for it. You’re a dirty rotten liar.”

“Take that back. I got it I tell you.”

John raised his arm. He pulled back his sleeve, and there it was. “See, do you believe me now?”

“How do I know you didn’t just draw that yourself?” George tried to rub the drawing. “With a sharpie.”

“I tell you it’s the official tattoo from the Corona Squad. See? I have the ID number and everything.”

John’s arm had the crown tattoo with a number in the middle. His number was 98542. The crown was black, the number was purple.

“Looks kind of amateurish to me. I still think you did it with a sharpie,” George said. He smacked John’s arm.

“I was tested, were you? Huh? Did you get it? Get your test yet? If not, you’re living on borrowed time, mister. You’ll be dead in a week.” John pushed George away. “You’re not even wearing a mask.”

“Give me liberty or give me death.”

“Mask it or casket.”

“Hunker in your bunker,” George pushed John to the ground.

John tripped George, who fell on top of him. They wrestled for a few minutes, then suddenly started to laugh hysterically.

“Who started this whole mess?”

George said, “Beats me. But at least you’ve got a great souvenir for 2020.”

W/C 287