Mojo has just as much as me, maybe more. He brings along a laptop and printer/scanner combo for anyone who might want to print images off the internet for their tattoos. Somehow he even manages to sneak one of the poseable tattooist chairs out of the 804 on his lunch break, stowing it under a tarp in the back of his pickup. I reschedule the two clients I have down for appointments on Friday and I’m ready to go. The last thing I pack up before I leave work Thursday night is my tattoo machine.
With all our stuff tied down alongside the chair under the tarp, I climb into the pickup’s cab and we’re off. Mojo swings by a McDonald’s to grab a bite to eat before we hit the interstate, and as he’s digging out his wallet to pay, he mutters, “Shit.”
“What?” I ask, reaching for the wad of twenties
