[ti]private[/ti]fool decisions

Oz it not meant to be here. There are dozens of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that he had just come to San Francisco to work at the UNOVRCon booth, that he had plans to hangout with friends he doesn't usually get to hangout with, and that, oh yes, this isn't his fucking tattoo studio. But, Alex had had to take his apprentice to the ER (long story) and had begged Oz to man the studio until he was back because with the amount of people that are out drinking tonight, at least a few drunk idiots would have the brilliant idea of getting a silly flash tattoo. Been there, done that, but still...

"Tsk, greedy bastard." Oz smirks, knowing well Alex is going to compensate him for his work and time anyway.

At least he wasn't wrong, because there had actually been a couple of drunk idiots.

The next one couldn't possibly be worse than group of giggling college-aged girls that looked as if they were seconds away from throwing up on his nice sneakers, right? Surely not! And yes, thankfully, his sneakers are fine.

"Yo." He greets argent with a slight smile, sitting at the front desk. "Looking to get a tattoo? We only do flash ones from that selection without appointment. We're not doing piercings tonight."

Oz hates giving other people piercings, don't ask him why. But, anyway... he gestures vaguely to the closest wall, where rows upon rows of small and relatively simple designs are on display for customers to choose from.

"Hm?" Oz leans closer to have a look at the design his newest customer is pointing at, his gaze falling on the small pair of wings. Pretty standard, classic, nothing revolutionary, but that's kind of the point of getting a flash tattoo. He's not here to judge what tattoos people want or why they want them; if they're happy with it, that's all that matters.

"Hell yeah, that's a nice one, dude. You can take a seat over there while I prep the stencil." He nods towards the nearby tattoo chair, oh so very comfortable and of the usual black faux pleather. "You want it exactly in that size, right? What placement are you thinking for it?"

Placement. Probably should've used different wording, huh? Oz is not used to dealing with drunk customers anymore; all his tattoos back in Toronto are exclusively by appointment, and he sure likes that way more. But, alas, sometimes you gotta go back to your roots.

Oz would argue that wings could go just about anywhere if you're creative enough and that there are countless representations of that in illustrations throughout history, but you know... he's not in the habit of arguing with drunk barely-more-than-teenagers who have clearly unjustified superiority complexes.

So, he keeps the thought to himself, and while the stencil is printing, he grabs one of the usual consent forms one can expect when getting a tattoo and offers it to the kid on a clipboard along with a pen — he sure isn't going to get his ass sued, no sir.

"Here, have a read of that and sign. We can't get started without it."

Tonight, stencil prep time also happens to be 'chug your half-empty cup of gross lukewarm fast-food chain coffee' time and even after that's done, the honest answer to the question posed by mr. drunk jock with the ugly signature would be resoundingly negative. But, Oz is a filthy liar, and so, he smirks while taking back the clipboard:

"Oh, thrilled."

And that's how it begins.

In Oz's experience, drunk clients are short tempered and fickle as fuck, so he doesn't bother with getting too finicky with the placement of the stencil. He makes sure it's not crooked, he confirms that this guy-whose-name-he-still-doesn't-know likes how it looks, and that's that. Soon enough, the tattoo gun is set up.

"I'll start off slow, yeah?" He tells his client once leaning over him, his tone ever calm and even. And then, as if to distract him from what's happening: "So, are you from around here or just stopping by?"