The Language of Fear by Del James

Author:Del James [James, Del]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9780440217121
Google: 7JHhPQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0440217121
Publisher: Dell
Published: 1994-12-31T06:00:00+00:00

SKIN DEEP

The red-and-white neon flickered spastically, making a crackling electrical sound, a telltale symptom of a short life expectancy. It seemed as though nothing around this part of town lived very long. The symptoms were visible; debris and infectious corrosion were spreading at a dangerous rate. There was a plague hiding, waiting, and one could smell death rising from the sewer grates. If one cared to look closely, one could see it in the yellowy eyes of the sick and feel it through the heat. It was a condition the local population had learned to ignore since there was no immediate cure.

The tattoo shop was located in one of the seediest neighborhoods in Watts, and after dark, this particular city street was not to be traveled by the innocent. What the small shop lacked in location it made up for in character. It was a throwback to the days of comfortable tattooing when men were men and cars were American. There was nothing Hollywood about this joint. Slap had passed away several years ago but Joe kept the name out of respect to his brother. Besides the alarm system, there was nothing overtly high-tech within the four walls. The tile floor was a sparkling black-and-white pattern, resembling a giant chess board, and was always buffed and polished. Among the many trinkets collected over the years was a human skull with a WW II Nazi dagger sticking out of it. Above the skull there was a cheaply framed sign. It showed a tattoo gun and made the declaration: I USED TO BE WHITE BUT NOW I'M COLORED.

For over twenty years, the shop had survived this ghetto paradise as well as the test of time. Joe had seen the fires, the racial tension, and the violence of the 60s and 90s. Barring the ignorant few who felt this was a "blacks only" neighborhood, almost everyone who lived around the tattoo parlor respected Joe. He was a stern man of sixty-five or so who kept to himself. His body was decorated in nautical tattoos, mermaids, warships, eagles, anchors, and he rather resembled Popeye. Unlike the unethical jaggers of yesteryear, Joe was an honest man making a living.

Then came crack.

During the 70s, heroin was the area's main concern and even at the epidemic proportions with which it affected South Central Los Angeles, heroin had never led to the problems that crack had. Heroin addicts were relatively passive. They panhandled their time away, borrowed bad fortune, and stole from an already poverty-stricken area. But they rarely killed. When they did kill, it was usually themselves, by accident. On the other hand, dealers, gangsters, and baseheads often enjoyed the violence that came with crack. It seemed like hardly a day passed without an act of violence occurring somewhere nearby.

The quarter-mile strip of concrete had eight, twelve-story deteriorating apartment buildings on each side of the street. Coded graffiti declared who roamed these streets at night. To the naked eye the graffiti resembled scribble but to gang members it gave fair warning as to who they might run into.

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