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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">Jameson</span></span>
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</div><br/>​</div>The old electric alarm clock with the neon red numbers screeched violently on the scuffed up bedside table, but no one was there to sleepily smack it into silence. Jameson had already dragged his body from the crumpled sheets on his bed and made his way to the bathroom, staring intently at himself in the mirror as he removed the stubble from his face with a fresh razor. He wasn't expected to be at the shop until one o'clock, plenty of time to get ready, and yet somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that he was moving too slow. De-stubbling completed, lotion applied to his now smooth cheeks, Jameson clothed his naked body in the first clean articles he could snatch from his wardrobe: boxer briefs, a pair of dark denim jeans, and a nondescript black t-shirt. Simple, comfortable, not prone to attracting unwanted attention. All positive qualities as far as Jameson was concerned.<br/><br/>His single-bedroom apartment sat above an old smoke shop on the second floor of an even older building, though just how old Jameson couldn't say. The floor boards creaked when he walked and the place had a consistent musty smell that had managed to seep into all aspects of Jameson's life. His clothes were spared from the scent only due to Jameson's own diligence, keeping dryer sheets on hand in an effort to smell fresh even when he felt anything but. The owners of the smoke shop, a middle-aged couple with a penchant for ordering greasy Chinese food practically every day for lunch while indulging in a variety of colorfully named marijuana strains, smiled and waved to Jameson as he descended the steps and gliding the back of the shop, exiting out a side door. Though the couple was pleasant enough, he never felt much for chitchat and tended to pass through with nothing more than a polite nod.<br/><br/>Resurrection Tattoo was a fifteen minute walk straight down Long Street from his apartment. Still running early, despite however his internal clock decided to nag, Jameson kept up the eager pace. Simply because it was daylight out didn't mean some shady individual wouldn't notice the bright, golden glint wrapped around Jameson's wrist and try to start something. It had happened to men more intimidating-looking than prettyboy Jamie, if the whispers around the shop were anything to go by. The prospect of being mugged didn't bother Jameson all that much, usually. The illegal butterfly knife he carried on his person gave him some comfort as he strolled down the street, past the broken beer bottles littering the sidewalk and the homeless people sleeping underneath sunbleached awnings.<br/><br/>He wasn't surprised to find the shop dark when he arrived. Jameson was often the first to show up, regardless of the hour. He slipped his key into the padlock and pushed up the gate, watching as it rolled up and hid itself somewhere behind the painted shop sign displaying<span style="font-size: 18px">RESURRECTION TATTOO</span>in aggressive, faded lettering. His colleagues had been at Resurrection probably for more years than he had been alive. They had settled into a rhythm Jameson had yet to discover himself, but despite his relatively young age and status as a fresh, new artist just spit out from his apprenticeship, a few old clients had already taken a liking to him.<br/><br/>Bright lights flickered to life as Jameson's fingers flipped numerous switches along the walls, illuminating the clean, professional shop. Though Resurrection catered mostly to criminals, Frank Thompson, the shop's owner, wasn't a man who made a habit of inviting scrutiny. The tattoo parlor was up to code, the artists were licensed from the Oregon Health Licensing Agency, and Frank ensured no shenanigans from his tattooists affected his business.<br/><br/>“One foot outta line, I have no problem kicking your ass out on the street,” Frank told Jameson early on in his apprenticeship. “This is my shop, you do things<i>my</i>way. I don't give a shit how pretty your portfolio is.”<br/><br/>His station was waiting for him just as he had left it, dust-free and shiny. Stainless steel tools and various pieces of tattooing paraphernalia decorated his designated area. Jameson gave a weak smile to himself, placing a thick, padded case onto the counter and opening it to check on his multiple machines. Aside from the solid gold watch Jameson inherited from his father, his tattoo machines were the most expensive and precious things he owned, the only material items he gave a fuck about.<br/><br/>The gold watch read 12:37. Not bad. He didn't have anyone properly scheduled, but the various motorcycle clubs around Long Street tended to keep him pretty busy, and he hoped today would be no different.