The was a brief pause before the big man gave a short chuckle. "That the polite way to say your shit looks like junk?" He took his hands out of his pockets and opened them to look at the chaos of crudely etched symbols across the back of his hands. "No. I don't think about covering them up. I earned them."<br/><br/>He wasn't about to go into further explanation of how or why he had gotten the work he had. They weren't badges of honor in the way the majority of people perceived honor. They were prison tats and to the knowing and discerning eye, they told the story of his life as part of the fringe community behind bars, the forgotten and swept under the rug miscreants and vile scum of society.<br/><br/>Just when it seemed like that had been his final word on the subject, he spoke again. "You even know the language?" he asked as he slid his hands back into his pockets and for the first time actually looked over to the young artist. His expression was hard but seemingly benign and more like someone who dealt little with the public rather than aggressive or intentionally menacing. His gaze, while sharp, was framed by face that was worn beyond its years with rough living like a seasoned junkyard dog. His eyes seemed to roam over Jamie, taking him all in, seeing through to his thoughts and his secrets and knowing him without knowing him at all.<br/><br/>Another long pause was broken again as he relaxed just a titch and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "What would you do with them?" he asked with a touch of curiosity as his gaze came to rest solid on the artist's eyes.