Pat Bodzianowski

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Pat's shop was an old school tattoo parlor with mysterious, curtained back rooms and walls of crude flash mixed in with the new. No radio played to distract you from the needle's sting, just buzz from the machines, general conversation, and nervous joking around. Playboys and ashtrays scattered about and the odd, heavy smell of hair oil, cigarettes, and green soap. Testosterone so thick you could cut it with a knife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pat was a real man's man. He shaved you with a huge scary straight razor, claimed his hands were too big for gloves, had encyclopedic knowledge of dirty jokes, packed heat, and always bought the pizza. He practiced taxidermy in the eerie limestone basement under his shop, raised pit bulls, and spawned a title contending, amputee boxer, Craig "Gator" Bodzianowski.

 

The Pat I knew had a heart of gold. He never claimed to be a saint, he definitely did some damage in his day, but he mellowed out while hanging onto a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for the ladies. He let me in the door when that still really meant something. Without him it's a much less interesting world.