Victor’s tattoo defines him. At least to me. Everytime I think of the crazy bastard I get the image of an elderly woman impaling herself with a rusty trident, slapped on the forearm of a six foot three chainsmoker who is anything but inconspicuous. He gives me chills.

Victor is not even his real name. Truth is, I don’t know what the fuck his real name is. I’ve never had a reason to ask. All I know is when the bartender at a dive called Disappearing People puts your tooth through your lip and looks to do the same to the other twenty-six of his friends and the only thing stopping him is a barstool and a guy who introduces himself as Victor, you don’t ask questions. There is only one thing I know about Victor is that Victor isn’t his real name. Motherfucker isn’t even Mexican.

"I could use a tan," Victor tells me.

"You want to go tanning?"

"No, but I could use a tan," Vic examines his arms for a second with that squinted look of frustration, "I think I need one."

"So you want to go tanning?"

"No," He shakes his head before he turns to me, baffled that I don’t understand what he is telling me.

"Well Buck ol Vic, being as it is winter, and colder than a freezer in a woman’s heart, I don’t see any other option for your pasty dilemma."

"I could cut my brain out and the brain of someone who is naturally tan. Then you could place my brain in the other’s body and throw that poor son-of-a-bitch’s brain in a dumpster," Victor explains to me calmly as he wanders his eyes in every direction but mine.

"True Vic, we could do that."

"But save this body," Victor summarizes, "I always liked this body."