“I done it, bro, I got it,” Harry said.
“What? What’d you do this time?” Dylan asked.
The sun was frowning down upon the two friends, and beach sand was crawling up their scrawny legs as they sat under no umbrella, without having any sunscreen on, and ogled at the pretty girls on the beach.
Harry smiled in the awkward way most teens do. “I got another tattoo, now I have ten, same as you, we’re tat brothers.”
“Sweet, dude, where? Show me.”
Harry ripped his scruffy shirt off over his scruffy head, revealing a large tattoo in the middle of his weak chest, right between his tiny nipples. The tattoo looked like a giant turd.
“It looks like a giant turd,” Dylan cried.
“Exactly, bro. Ain’t it sweet?”
“Yea, sure, it’s rad. So … why’d you get it?”
“As a symbol, bro, a symbol to remind me that I overcame hell.”
“Eh?”
“Come on, bro, don’t you remember? It was like last month when I was constipated for like a week. Was hell, especially the suppositories. Ever had to pop a pill up your bum, bro? Feels like a pea shooter. Well, I got through it, I can poop freely again.” Harry beat a fist against the turd on his chest. “This reminds me that I’m strong, that I can overcome anything.”
“Sweet. That’s like awesome, dude. And to think that our ancestors remembered things, and honoured people, not through tattoos but through journals and songs and poetry and stories. What fools! They could’ve simply–”
Suddenly, Harry and Dylan’s eyes were forced to widen, and their mouths were forced to fall open, and their knees were forced to tremble, by the sight of a young and beautiful lady strolling past them. But their shock and arousal was not caused by the lady’s tanned skin, or red bikini, or poetically blond hair, or ocean curves, or strawberry lips.
“Do you see her, bro?” Harry wheezed.
Dylan swallowed. “No tattoos.”
“Yep. Not one tat. She’s a pure-bred. When last have you seen that?”
“Years ago, dude. It’s so bad-ass, so rebellious, so toxic, so … hot. I’m gonna go talk to her.”
“What? Bro, she’ll never go for you, you’re too … normal. Chicks like her want bad boys, you know, guys who like rebel against tattoos and stuff. Nope, it ain’t gonna happen; she’ll reject you like a virus.”
“She has like no choice, dude. Look around; see any tat-free guys? No, they’re almost non-existent. So her only option is to date one of us.”
Harry’s brain was a hamster running on a wheel, trying to understand Dylan’s deep, philosophical point. Then, after an uncomfortable silence, he said, “You’re bloody right, she has no choice. But why must you flirt with her? I think I should.”
“Tell you what, we’re pals, man, so let’s both talk to her, then, the one she picks wins fair and square. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds—”
Once again, the lady’s presence silenced the two friends as she walked past. This time she wasn’t alone; she was holding hands with a tattoo-free, pure-bred, rebellious guy, and both her and her man were giggling, with tear-filled eyes, while pointing at the turd on Harry’s chest.