parkave2skidrow

The glass-fronted building bearing the sign 'Sweating Bullets Body Art' used to be one of the satellites of the ridiculously fashionable Von Roehm et cie. She often wishes they hadn't had to sell the main Park Avenue location. That would've been rich, 'sleazing' the place up. As if people like that weren't already sleaze.

As she cleans up her hardware, Nightwish's "Bye Bye, Beautiful" is blaring loud enough most people couldn't hear anything, and the door doesn't open, but she still notices the sudden materialization behind her and whirls, shifting into an aggressive stance as she does so.

Then she relaxes, something visibly going out of her, and rolls her eyes. "Savant, don't sneak in like that."
"Were you gonna rip my throat out?"
"Maybe."
"Hot."
"Go to hell."
"Heard a guy's arm got infected after he came here."
"Bullshit. I sterilize right and use fresh ink."
"I think it was from the gash."
"Oh, him. Well, you should've heard what he said. But his ink was healthy."
"Uh-huh. So how about dinner?"
"Can't," she deadpans. "I've got to do my nails tonight." They visibly elongate towards sharp points as she says it.