Aaron liked the old school art and he seemed to linger longer at each one he came across rather than the newer, more modern designs. Tribal had come and gone, but he still saw a variety of the barbed wire weaving designs displayed throughout the room. He didn't answer for what seemed to be a long time as he wandered, and when he did, he didn't take his eyes off the designs.<br/><br/>"Yep." His voice was every bit as low and rich as one would expect from a man of his stature. "Bitches get left on the ground floor."<br/><br/>He didn't elaborate any further on the efficiently spoken comment but moved to look through the large picture window at the front of the shop. At first his eyes and fingers roamed over the painted designs on the window that advertised the shop and artists' names. As he ran his fingers along the lines the bluish black thick irregular lines of worn, poorly done tattoos could be seen on each digit. The muscle was no where near old enough for it to be regular aging of a regular tattoo and that could only mean one thing; they were done by a basement artist, a 'scratcher', or more likely, judging by the simplistic designs of playing cards and symbols, prison tattoos etched in with some kind of wire and a pen tube. Soon he was turning his attention to the world outside through the window, just looking out at the uninspiring scenery of Long St.