A/n: First of all, thanks to HK for betaing this for me, and ShotgunOpera for helping me out with a few tattoo questions. :) Second, I do not own The Outsiders, written by S.E. Hinton, nor am I making any profit. I don't own the song, Tattoo, written by Pete Townshend and performed by The Who. The title of this story comes from the Misfits' song, Where Eagles Dare.

Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated!

Wecome to my life, tattoo. I'm a man now thanks to you.

- Pete Townshend, The Who

"Hail! Hail! Hail! Lesser than Macbeth and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier."

- Shakespeare's Macbeth

Only once did I ever get into a fight with my father; not a verbal fight, either. I've been in plenty of those, and they're pretty persistent. Not since I was five had my father hit me. When I was five, it was for almost drinking drain cleaner under the kitchen sink, a damned stupid place to put it if you ever ask me. Only once since then has he ever hit me.

My mother walked out on Dad and me when I was thirteen, going on fourteen. A few years before, my brother had died in a car wreck. Dad picked up half of the pieces and expected my mother to do the same. Except that was too much to ask of her, I think. William had been her reason to live, her joy, her freaking pride. He was the brains in the family, he was the looks, and Mom just loved him. He was, in so many words, hers. When he died and Dad picked up the pieces so easily, Mom couldn't, and she certainly didn't see any reason to stick around and raise me. After all, to her, I'd be dead after William. She'd already caught me smoking before and beat the tar out of me for that. All she saw in me was my father. I looked like him, had his temper, and was just as worthless as him.

So Mom was gone and it was mostly my fault.

I guess you could say I started "acting out" after that. Whatever that means. I smoked more, I even drank some and soon enough I did weed. But I never, never cried. You don't cry when you're a rough boy.

Dad put up with me smoking, even in the house. He'd let me come home drunk sometimes, though most times he kicked me out for the night. But he couldn't handle a tattoo.

The first thing to know if you're going to get a tattoo is that you need to know the guy you're going to. For example, don't go to some guy recommended to you by fucking Dallas Winston called "Rich With the Skull Tattoos", because most likely, he's not going to be the best person around. Then again, where else can you really go to that is honorable? It's just, really? Rich With the Skull Tattoos must be a TEN on the "Stay Away From" scale.

Second: Tattoos hurt. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. All you can do is suck it up and don't be a pussy about it, otherwise you'll get ragged on forever by your buddies.

I made the first mistake. I didn't know Rich. I also didn't really know that when Dallas said it was like getting pinched with a million little needles, he actually meant it. And at fifteen years old, Jesus Christ, that hurt.

The whole stupid ordeal began after my fifteenth birthday. Mr. Curtis called it my "Golden Birthday", since I'd be turning fifteen on the fifteenth. I thought it was bullshit.

"What are you going to do for you birthday?"

Me and Sodapop were sitting outside the school parking lot, waiting for Darry to come strolling out with his buddies and give us a ride home.

"Hell, I don't know. Sometimes Dad lets me drink in the house if it's a real special occasion. It ain't nothing more'n another day, I guess. In three years I'll be eighteen and then I think Dad'll probably kick me out. I dunno."

Soda frowned. "No way, man. And if he does, you can stay over at my place. Ma loves you."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't really know what I'm going to do. But I think I'll walk home. Tell Superman I say 'Hey', 'aight?"

Sodapop gave me one of those weird looks like I was acting crazy or something and then just nodded. "Yeah, sure. See you around, Randle."

I waved and walked off as quick as I could. I just wanted to go home, I guess. The school was only a short walk from my place, and I usually stopped by Evie Kerrigan's on the way home. Not today, though. I almost ran home. And all I did when I got there was lay out on top of Dad's truck and close my eyes. It was one of those real nice Spring days out, just warm enough to not need a coat or nothing. I closed my eyes and just laid back on the roof of the car and that was it.

"Steve!"

I opened my eyes and jolted upward. Standing over me was my old man and he looked kinda pissed that I was on his car.

"Hey, Dad."

Dad just shook his head and pushed me off the roof of his car. No "Happy birthday, Stevie. You're the only thing I got left and it might not be much, but you make me real proud." Just a shove and a glare. "What're you doin', sleeping on my car?"

"Sleeping."

"Don't be smart, boy."

"I'm not, sir."

"You damn near scratched the paint off the car. What'd you think you're doing, anyway, sleeping up there? Dreaming some bullshit or something?"

Come to think of it, I had been dreaming. "Yeah. I had a dream about an eagle. It was stealing from someplace, but I couldn't tell where. I kept on trying to get it, but it'd just slip away from me every time I came closer to it." I have no idea why I told my dad all this. The less we talked, the better off we were. And yet here I was spilling my guts about a silly dream that didn't even make sense. But it had. It was the most lucid dream I can recall. The eagle was huge, and it wore this big brown leather jacket, and it was always stealing from everyone. Sick people, jaded people, rich people. It just kept taking and taking until it was so goddamn racked with guilt for all the stealing that it just faded off. Or something like that. I'm not sure exactly how it ended. But I kept chasing after it, and sometimes I'd copy it, but I could never do quite as much as it did. I never stole as much, I never had as much, but I was much happier than the eagle. When I watched it fall, I wanted to save it, but it was like I was just stuck there, watching it spiral down out of control.

I told this all to Dad and he just looked at me. "You been smoking something?"

"No! I can't have some dream or nothing without being crazy?"

"Son, dreams like that don't mean a thing."

I glared at my father and stormed into the house. I felt like crying, but I pushed it down. If I couldn't have dreams, then I certainly couldn't cry. And certainly not in front of my father. I went into my room and reached under my bed. Eventually I found a Ked's shoebox full of singles, fives, and ten dollar bills, and a few twenties. It was all money that I'd been saving up since I was almost nine. I'd never have to be dependent on anyone but myself.

I grabbed a fistful of cash, stuffed it into my wallet, and ran back downstairs. Dad was by the door, frowning.

"Son, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm just bein' truthful."

"Bullshit! You ain't never encouraged me, you just put me down and treat me like shit, and I'm not sticking around for that." I pushed past my father and walked out the door with about twenty bucks in my pocket and nowhere to go. I decided I'd go find Dallas, who was usually good for a pick-me-up.

The only thing was, this was Dallas. He could have been anywhere. My best guess was by the river or at the corner store. I checked the corner store first, since that was closest.

"And you can just get out of here. That's right, young man, I said leave!"

I grinned. I was right. Dallas was at the corner store and he was arguing with Mr. Roth, the owner. A few spectators had gathered, but I knew that this would end in only two ways. Dallas would either heed Roth's advice and take his no-count hood ass somewhere else, or he'd get pissed. The latter was almost inevitable.

"Hey, Dally!" I grinned at Dal before he got the chance to say anything to Roth.

"Randle. Fuckin' A. Happy birthday, man."

Dally and I started walking out of the place when Mr. Roth started muttering under his breath. Dally took one step toward him and Roth jumped back almost a foot. Dal grinned and then spat at Roth's feet.

I shook my head. I didn't know whether or not to laugh. Sometimes guys like Dallas were too much.

"What're you up to, Dal? Gettin' into trouble I see."

"Who the hell are you, my parole officer?"

"Guess I gotta be." I grinned and laughed. "So, what are we gonna do now?"

Dallas and I sat down at the bus stop and he lit two cigarettes, passing one to me. "I was gonna get a tattoo."

"Really? What kinda tattoo?"

Dallas shrugged and got up, tossing his cigarette onto the ground as the bus came near. "I dunno. Naked lady? I stole $20 from my old man's woman. Anyway, there's this place uptown called Ink 'n' Needle and I know the guy, Rich who works there. I think that's his name. We just call him Rich With the Snake Tattoos."

"Sounds ok. I wonder how much it hurts."

"What are you, queer? Why does that matter?"

"I ain't a faggot. I just wanna know if it hurts."

"Well it don't," Dally said.

"How do you know?"

"I just do, you pussy."

I shook my head and looked out the window. Dal wasn't worth arguing with.

Ink 'n' Needle was about a half hour bus ride on the outskirts of town. How Dallas knew the characters he did, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was because he was better friends with the Shepards than I was, or because he just attracted shady people. But just from the looks of it, you could tell that Ink 'n' Needle was not the friendliest place in Tulsa.

"Do you know this Rich guy?"

"Sure I do. He's a friend of a cousin's. Or something like that. I'm not too sure, but I've met him. Talked to 'im plenty of times."

"I can tell."

Dally punched me hard on the shoulder. "Are you gonna go in or not? 'Cause I'm not gonna babysit your sorry ass."

"Yeah, yeah. I mean, I was gonna use this money to get away from my dad for the week, but I guess I can go back home."

"How much do you have?"

"Twenty bucks."

"Randle, you don't know shit about running away."

Before I could respond, Dallas walked into the place and I was left between the bum on the side of the road and the safety of Ink 'n' Needle.

Inside wasn't any better than it was outside. As a matter of fact, I'd reckon a guess and say the inside was worse. Rich's seats were ripped with stuffing coming out and the lights were dim. It looked more like some sad bar than any place I'd like someone to stick a needle in me.

But Dally looked over at me and gave me a rare grin, looking almost excited. He was talking to a short, stocky man with a beer gut and a red snake tattooed down his arm. This must have been Rich With the Snake Tattoos. Dal and Rich shook hands and then Rich came over to me.

"How old are you?"

"Old enough," I said.

"You're a cocky sonofabitch, aren't you?" Rich grinned. His teeth weren't in the best shape, either. I guess he really represented the place he owned.

"Nope. I ain't no goddamned sonofabitch."

Rich clapped me on the shoulder and chuckled. "We'll say you're eighteen, then, Carl Severson. A'ight, Carl or whatever your name is, what do you have in mind for a tattoo?"

What did I have in mind? I had no idea. That's the third thing you need to know if you're going to get a tattoo. Know what you want. First of all, it saves time. But most important is that it keeps you from getting some dumbass tattoo like "Mom" or something stupid like that.

"Um, well, I dunno."

"How about a snake? I'm good at those." Rich flexed his arm and the red snake on it danced a little.

"Uh, no thanks."

"Well, have a look at the wall art while I take care of you friend, Floyd Waters." Rich gestured to Dallas. I don't know why he worried so much about making up false names, 'cause it wasn't like there was cops or spies in there. Then again, I guess he might have been kind of crazy.

I waited an hour while looking through the sketches Rich had placed along the walls for customers. He truly wasn't a bad artist, actually. I eventually settled on the perfect tattoo and sat down for the remaining hour until it was my turn.

The hour passed slowly and I just flipped through stacks and stacks of Playboy mags. Rich didn't seem to run out of them ever. Finally, Dallas came out grinning.

"Look at this!" He lifted his shirt sleeve and showed me his tattoo. It was just what he said – a naked redheaded lady. "When I move my arm, she dances."

I couldn't help but grin. It was true.

"All right, kiddo. You're up. Know what you want?"

I nodded and followed Rich into the back room. It was at least a little more sanitary than the front room. I told Rich what I wanted and paid him the $10 he told me it'd cost. The next hour was the most painful hour of my fifteen year old life. Needle after needle went in and out of my skin. It felt like I was being attacked by a relentless swarm of bees.

But in the end if was worth it. On my right arm was now a flying eagle, just like the one I'd seen in my dream.

Rich wrapped it up in a bandage and handed me some bottle. "Take the bandage off in two hours, or something like that, wash it in warm water, then rub this stuff on it. Just a little though. And pat it dry. If you rub it you'll fuck it up, and that'll cost extra to fix. If you pick at the scabs, you'll fuck it up. Don't itch it, don't soak it, or get it in the sun. Do this for a month and you'll be fine, I guess. If you're not, it's your problem and you probably didn't follow the directions thoroughly." Rich then pushed me and Dallas out the door. I heard it lock behind us and the "Closed" sign came into view.

"Weird guy," I said.

"Yeah, I think he's on something. Like bennies or something." Dal shrugged and we made our way back home.

When I got home it was about seven forty-five. Dad was still home with one of his girlfriends.

"Hi," I said. I didn't even look at him, I just went straight to my room.

"Stevie?"

I ignored him by turning up Come Fly With Me. It was a favorite of Mom's, and that was something Dad hated to remember.

Two hours later, though, Dad came into my room. No knock, no "Stevie?" Dad came bursting in swaggering on one foot with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in one hand.

"Where were you all day, kidddddo?"

I looked up from my algebra homework. "Out."

"Out." From the door I could tell he was pretty goddamned drunk. Dad didn't drink too much, but when he did, he got drunk. "Steve was 'out'. What was Stevie out doing?"

"Stuff, Dad. I went to the Curtis's for dinner. Where's your whore for the night?"

I touched a nerve.

"My what?"

I chose to remain blissfully ignorant of the voice in my head that told me stop while I still could. "You know, the chick you found outside the grocery store. Where'd she go off to?"

Dad came closer and I took it as my chance to get out of my room as quick as I could. I was almost at the door when I got pulled back and shoved onto my bed. My head smacked the wall pretty good.

"What's that?"

"Oh, shit." Shit, shit, shit!

Dad just pointed and blinked at the tattoo on my arm. "Well?"

"It's an eagle." I could feel tears welling up in my eyes from smacking the wall so hard and I rubbed my head.

"You goddamned sonofabitch. You went and got a goddamned tattoo?" My father spat when he talked and some of it hit me in the face.

"Yeah, I got a goddamned tattoo. And I ain't no goddamned sonofabitch! I paid for it. It ain't your problem."

"You're a hood. You're just a fucking hood.

Usually Dad would cuss me out some for a while then walk off and sleep it off. Tonight it was different.

I felt myself lifted up by the collar of my shirt. I was face-to-face with him. Before I even knew what to do, I felt my dad punch me in the gut. And goddamnit, it hurt. This time I didn't stop myself, I just let the tears fall.

"Get out."

Dad dropped me on my feet and I wiped my eyes. "I hate you, you bastard."

I grabbed my rucksack and ran away to the Curtis place. When I got there, it was probably midnight and Mrs. Curtis answered in her nightgown. She let me sleep on the couch and fixed me something to eat. She's an all right lady.

I didn't come home until a week later when Mr. Curtis finally pulled me aside and suggested that it was probably okay to go home. When I did, my father was there with fifteen dollars in his hand.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I love you."

I went into my room and locked the door. My copy of Come Fly With Me was gone and the cover sleeve was ripped down the middle where Frank's face usually would have grinned up.

It's been like this for a while now. Dad and I will fight and he'll tell me to get out. The next day I've got $5 or $10. Rarely though, does he tell me "I love you." Maybe it's better that way, though. It's just a phrase after a while.