Tattoo

Would ye be knowing that I have a tattoo on my arm? 

It covers the original scar that emerged after I was spitting logs. A piece of metal shot off from the hammer so fast and furious it sheared through my shirt and lodged itself within my mighy bicep. 

Faith and Begorrah! It hurt!

The doctor used his scalpel to hunt for the shrapnel. He cut in, following the little bugger's pathway. He stopped when his blade reached the muscle tissue. "Leave it be," he said to me. "It'll work its way out, of its own volition, in a month or two." His words brought me no comfort. And the next words that he uttered made me even unhappier: "or it will encapsulate and take up permanent residence." 

It took its sweet time, as if it were no faster than a lazy slug. So, what else could I do but assume that after two long years, it had taken doctor's option number two? 

The scar was hideous, making onlookers recoil in revulsion. To remedy the situation, I sauntered down to the Long Beach Pike and found a tattoo parlor. The artist embedded a bird, beautifully concealing the scar. 

My tattoo was not even one year old when that lazy piece of steel immobilized my arm with a hellacious pain. The little bugger finally made its way to the surface of my bicep. My tattoo, which had been doing a fine job of obscuring the original scar, now has its own unfortunate scar. It got one hell of a tonsillectomy.