He was steady. His graphiti arms ended in black latex and the only shudder they made was from the needle point gun. His eyes were shaded by yellow lenses, and fidgeted from side to side, glancing at the mirror, my face, the ink, then the tattoo, it became routine. His torso was thin and modeled spider-man vs. the green goblin, professional with a childlike mind. His hair was onyx and shaped into a flat mohawk that drooped over the bridge of his nose. Average sized ears were taken over by a collage of piercings, some gauged, some regular. His lips were tightly clasped together, almost as tight as my arm against the cushioned rest. His eyelids flashed, each time the buzz from the gun started. The corners of his mouth raised, each time I winced, an evil smile, but quite unique.