**Despite the many canine interuptions, I was still able to get this chapter finished with the help of my favorite muse. My very own Sebastian.**

I saw Claude at nearly every convention I worked but after that first weekend, we would never be forced to share a booth again. The truly unfortunate thing was the more time I spent with the other artists, too many of whom had lives similar to my own, the more I grew to admire Claude. He was rarely without his black suit though he removed the jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to work. Unlike a lot of his contemporaries, his ink was kept neatly under his clothes in the traditional Japanese style, the one aesthetic we both shared. He was always prepared and professional and his work was annoyingly consistent.

Eventually, I swallowed enough of my pride to have him do a little work on me, adding a warrior to contend with the demon on my back. It was the last night of a convention in Toronto when the crowd was down to the final dregs and I could see he was bored. I walked over to his booth and stripped off my shirt, flaunting my perfect body until he conceded to work on me. Drew a little bit of a crowd too. Claude's Japanese artwork was perhaps even better than the Undertaker, partially because he had traveled to Japan to learn under some of the modern masters, and partially because he was a stickler for the rules of the style where the Undertaker was apt to follow his own set of rules. I suspected that Claude himself was at least partially Japanese himself but I never asked.

After I broke the stalemate, he, in turn, asked me to do work on him. Five hours of silence while I drilled away on his thigh only to get a nod when I was done. I suppose if it hadn't been up to his standard he would have never asked in the first place, and he would have been sure to say something negative at the end. Despite our differences and my extreme need to antagonize him, over the years we built what you could almost call a friendship.

My life at that time was a fluctuating mess punctuated by good times, completing an epic sleeve for a favorite customer or getting to work on guys from great bands as they stopped in the city on tour, and also bad times when I felt myself slipping into harmful behaviors. Like most former junkies, I had addictive tendencies that got directed to other behaviors. Sometimes drinking. Most often smoking. And then more recently sex.

I had denied that part of my life long enough that when I found release, I hit it hard and as often as possible. It wasn't a romantic relationship but more of a sexual chess match that took me out of my comfort area and kept me interested.

My release came in the most unlikely package. My new hobby was a glasses-wearing, black suit-clad, straight-laced son of a bitch. Fuck me if he didn't remind me of a Claude every fucking time I saw him. I fought against it like hell and lost. I kept fighting every time my phone went off and he summoned me to Manhattan to fuck him senseless. Somehow he was exactly what I needed and I think I was the same for him.

Right around the time that I felt like my life might level out, that I might find some strange version of happiness, an old friend decided to look me up.

I had been out of prison for more than six years when he strolled through the door of the Crypt. I swear I smelled the fucker before I saw him, the reek of cheap incense and opium was soaked into his clothes and it immediately shot through my memory in the way that scent can. My tattoo gun nearly fell from my hand in my haste to turn around. I thought I was free and clear but here he was. I had been so careful not to say anything, never breathing a word of who I'd worked for or where I'd come from. I had done my time and then detached. Why was he here now?

The Undertaker was there, layers of dusty black clothes and long gray hair blocking my view, but I knew it was Lau.

"What brings you across the bridge, my old friend? Are you here to be measured for a casket?" the Undertaker asked.

"Ah, yes. I remember this place," Lau said, looking around with his heavily lidded eyes. He was accompanied by his female bodyguard, petite, angry-looking, and entirely silent. "It's been too long, I thought I would check in."

"This is a long way to come for a social visit." The Undertaker's tone was oddly serious. Lau largely ignored this as he continued to look around the room, his gaze eventually falling on me. My client, a regular in my chair, sat silent, understanding something was going on but not knowing exactly what.

"You've taken on an employee," Lau said.

"Yes, my first. One of the best artists on the island. Unfortunately, he's kept very busy."

"I can see that."

"You'll have to make an appointment if you want to stay much longer," the Undertaker said.

"No need, no need, old friend. I'll say good bye for now." Lau took his hand out from the pocket of his blue tracksuit and tossed a small plastic bag to me. Reflex kicked in and I stuffed it into my pocket before it could be seen, though everyone in the room had seen exactly what it was. Once the door closed, and the pressure in the room seemed to ease, the Undertaker let out a repressed laugh he must have been holding in.

"Another ghost from the past, eh?" he asked aloud slapping the glass that covered the mummy, Apophis. If he said anything back, I didn't hear it, though the old man continued to laugh. I changed my gloves and went back to work letting the ice water settled into the pit of my stomach.

Several days later at the end of the evening, the Undertaker and I were alone in the shop. He hadn't mentioned the incident with Lau or anything regarding my connection to Lau in the past but he looked at me now through the fringe of hair that covered his scarred face.

"I've taught you about all I know, I suspect you'll be wanting to head off to find your own crypt soon."

I hadn't said anything, but I knew I had to leave. It was painfully obvious that Lau was making some sort of claim on me and I wouldn't be safe if I stayed at the Crypt or even in the city. Tattooing was the only thing keeping me in New York and I could do that anywhere. I had offers constantly to do guest spots at studios all over the world.

"You're still carrying that packet around with you," the Undertaker said. It wasn't a question, he knew.

"I am."

"You're listening to the demon on your back then."

"Sometimes I think that I am the demon."

The Undertaker laughed his unique cackle. "You always were good at making me laugh."

I would miss the crazy bastard, but as he said, it was time for me to find my own crypt.

Occasionally Bard would send me a text message saying where he was and making sure I was keeping out of trouble. He had moved in with yet another woman, this time a hippy chick up in New England. He was still working in restaurants and DJing. I took advantage of one of his messages to make my plans.

Do you think I could crash with you for a few weeks? I got a job offer I think I'd like to pursue.

Yeah.

Yeah? That was easy. I replied.

The woman is gone on a yoga retreat. Come on up. You have to share a room with Byron though.

Who the fuck is Byron? I asked.

An image text came through of Bard looking very serious with an equally serious looking brown pitbull on his lap.

Jesus Christ. Is that Scooby-Doo?

Bard texted back. Byron is my son and I love him more than you.

I hate dogs. If he snores as bad as you the deal is off.

That sounds like a you problem. At least he stays out of trouble.

As my hand reached into my pocket and felt the heroin warm and nestled inside the baggie, I acknowledged I was approaching trouble quickly. Ultimately, I did accept a job offer from Claude. Of all people, I decided to work with him. The absolute asshole that he was, he seemed to sincerely want me to work with him. The kicker was that he happened to be in the same city as Bard.

The next problem was to figure out what to do with William. I hated to use a phone to convey anything significant. It seemed to me that anything should be said face-to-face if there was any amount of respect for the person you desired to communicate with. I considered William and I questioned my feelings on that particular matter while I punched out a text message.

I'm leaving New York. I looked at it for a full five minutes, thinking noting in particular until my eyes burned from looking at the tiny screen in the dark of my room. My thumb twitched and I hit send. It took only a moment before the phone buzzed in reply.

When? I looked at the word and sighed.

What did I expect him to say? What did I hope to achieve here? I could have left without saying anything. Why didn't I?

Tomorrow.

I let the incoming call sit for three full rings before I answered.

"What?"

"I want to take you out to dinner," the dry voice on the other end of the phone said.

"That's not really our thing." Which was true. For all the time we spent together, we had not ever shared a meal or done anything vaguely date-like.

"Does it matter?"

Did it matter? It was quite possible that I would never see the man again. I owed him something for the last six months, even if I didn't want to admit it. I would leave New York having had exactly one date. One amazingly horrible date.

Near to three in the morning that night, Bard would rescue me from myself. I was sitting in the worst dive bar I could find in the posh part of Manhattan.

You're still coming tomorrow? He asked.

Yeah. That still cool? I typed back thinking about how it was already tomorrow and that I hadn't slept or sobered up. It was going to be a long drive, but I had a new care and who the fuck cared?

Still cool. Can't wait to see you, man.

I could have just stayed up another few hours, drank another few beers and then left that horrible city behind. But I heard the voice of the Undertaker. "Can't do that and stay above ground and free."

I gotta sleep this off and then I'll be on the road.

Everything, my entire life was packed into the trunk of a '65 Fastback waiting for me. I was ready to leave that shithole forever.