A Fistful of Knuckles
“This image of hell covered Patsy’s chest, tattooed into the latticework of scar-tissue that was his flesh. There were nicks and knocks, slashes and slits, grazes and gashes and great, gouged trenches, telling the story of a lifetime of pain and violence and blood and thuggery. Across his stomach sat three ghastly indentations – Sam knew at once that they were old bullet wounds – and these had been elaborately decorated with a trinity of tattooed women; naked, buxom, horned and horny, these she-...devils caressed the wounds, pressed themselves sexily against them, made demonic love to them. Patsy had turned these old battle scars into proud trophies – more than that, he had turned them into depraved objects of lust. He was proud of his injuries. They were symbols of his manhood. They were a turn-on.
My God … thought Sam, his blood running cold. I’ve seen that tattooed devil face before! I’ve seen it swimming up like a shark out of the darkest waters of my psyche.MoreLess
My God … thought Sam, his blood running cold. I’ve seen that tattooed devil face before! I’ve seen it swimming up like a shark out of the darkest waters of my psyche.MoreLess
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