A lone camper sat in the end of the dirt road, in the far end of the park. It was one of the first homes bought for the park, and the cheapest. Deep red rust battled with light pale gray for the dominant color of the camper. Both doors of the camper were wide open, letting a summer breeze flood in while the sounds of the Nazi punk band Skrewdriver pour outside. More commotion was made as people flew inside and out of the camper as if there was a party going on. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts littered the dry, brown grass. It surely had the makings of a party, but through all the commotion a feeling of secrecy was present. It had something to do with the two men standing outside of the camper, leaning against a navy blue Bentley Arnage R. Both of the men were in finely pressed white suits, while the rest of the people, a mixture of men and women, were in casual clothing. Most of the men were shaved bald and the women were blonde.
Inside of the camper, to the far back was a small bedroom. A twin bed with a large, dark green fleece quilt made over was the bulk of the room. On the left side of the bed sat a yellow lamp with no shade on top of a freshly painted egg white night stand. On the right side was an old, square and small television set turned off on top of a chipped, wooden dresser.
On the bed sat a shirtless teenage boy with black sweat pants and no shoes, who finally turned 15, his dirty blonde hair was cut short in a buzz cut, his hazel eyes looking down at his bare, firm and broad shoulder. Next to him, on a stool once belonging to a drum set, was a thin, sunburnt man in his early 40s, laced with Nazi tattoos from his neck, arms and even knuckles, in a white sleeveless shirt stained with gray paint, blue jeans and a Bass Pro Shop hat covering his graying champagne blonde hair. The man’s name was Jamie Pillman, a once famous tattoo artist who fell from grace when he was in league with renowned hate monger Tom Williams and the mysterious yet influential Organization 28.
Jamie was a true artist, carefully drawing a weary, battle tested face of a one-eyed viking, who was to represent Odin of Norse mythology, on the teenagers’ shoulder. It covered his entire bicep and part of his triceps. The horns on the helmet penetrated just beyond his shoulder to the boys’ collar bone. Jamie carefully traced the final details the helmet and the beard in total silence. The teenager closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting that he’s about to brand his Norwegian heritage on his young flesh.
Finally, he put his blue pen down. The teenager opened his eyes and turned his head to the thin man. Jamie leaned back like an art critic examining a newly discovered masterpiece and nodded, “Brother this is goin’ to be the baddest tattoo I ever done,” he spoke in strong Southern twang. “I really hooked ya up,”
The teen looked down at the carefully drawn design, a small grin formed. Before he could fully conjure up a response, another teenager entered the room. This teenager was slim enough to evade all the others in the front of the camper, like a running back can slide by to evade a team of defensive ends. He was tan, but nowhere near sunburnt, with bleached blonde hair and deep brown eyes. His eyes spotted the art work.
“Uh… Thank ya?”
“We’re all waitin’. Ya done yet, Jamie?” The teenager asked in a strong Southern twang as well.
Jamie looked at the design on the teenager shoulder and back to the teenager at the threshold, and nodded. “Hey Kenny, tell Tom to get back here, I wanna make sure all three y’all like it so Shane can be initiated into The Alliance,”
The teenager named Kenny went to the front of the camper, dodging the bodies that ran back and forth out of the crowded compartments.
“This is gonna be bad ass,” repeated Jamie, nodding with pride. He picked up a beer can from the floor and took the last swig. After he sucked the last of the liquid out, he crushed it with one hand and threw it out of the open door beside him.
Shane rotated his shoulder, “That took longer than I thought,”
“Ya can’t rush art. Ya just can’t,”
“Good to have circulation again. You really do have an iron grip,”
“Ah shucks,” gleamed Jamie. “Wait til we start the actual tattoo. Ya better not move or it be ruined!”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,”
Jamie put his pen back into a pen holder, which was just a coffee mug on top of the night stand.
“How did Tom become the leader of The Alliance? He really don’t do much,”
Jamie’s sparkling, baby blue eyes narrowed into a darken blue, something Shane has never seen in Jamie. Before he could say anything, a knock at the opened door broke their concentration. An elder man walked in. The room suddenly was filled with a regal fragrance. This man had raven black hair sleek back in a 1950s sort of way, smoky hazel eyes that scanned the room quickly and dressed in a finely pressed, all white suit and a black tie.
“Hail Tom!” saluted Jamie and Shane in unison.
Tom Williams gave a slight nod and proceeded in towards Shane, taking his arm. Shane looked up at his mentor’s eyes, which inspected his soon to be tattoo. A smile crept into the older mans’ face and gave a loud, approving laugh,
“You did it again, Jamie. This is why we always come to you,” his smile remained, as he looked up to Shane’s face, their eyes meeting. Tom let go of his arm, stepped even closer, to make himself a titan above the young teenager. In a cool voice Tom spoke. “Are you ready to follow in your family footsteps? To be part of the biggest racial movement since the KKK took over Congress in the 1930s?”
Shane nodded, “Yes sir,”
“Are you ready to become a white warrior?”
Shane stood up, just inches shorter than Tom, “Yes sir,” he repeated.
Tom took a step back. He stole a glance at Jamie, who had a new beer in his hand, “You know Jamie did your father’s first tattoo, to bring him into The Alliance. He had a big Celtic cross on his back, if you can remember. I was there with him when he got it. I hope you will be as great as him,”
Shane shook his head, “I won’t be. I will be better,”
Tom raised an eyebrow, “You have confidence. This is good,”
The trio ventured to the front of the camper, causing an outpour to the outside, into the scorching Sun. A few complaints about spilling each other’s beer cans could be heard and Tom was quick to go outside to extinguish the skirmish.
Jamie took a table chair and plugged in his homemade tattoo gun. It wasn’t very fancy, with a bended spoon on an old style tattoo needle gun. Jamie cleans it after every client. Itmight not look pretty but it was safe. Shane took a deep breath and sat on the beach chair that was to replace a couch.
A few eager faces were looking in, watching Jamie start the gun up. The teenager from before emerged from the faces and walked to the bean bag chair beside Shane and just plopped down.
Shane looks over at his best friend, “Thanks for staying,”
Kenny had a large smile, “Ya think I was gonna miss this?”
Shane held still as the needle pricked at his skin.
“Elizabeth and I are together now,” Kenny informed, to distract Shane from the stinging sensation on his shoulder.
“Summer love is always the greatest,” smirked Shane.
“No, this time it’s for real. I love this girl,”
“Summer love,” repeated Shane. He winced slightly as Jamie dug the needle deep.
Kenny chuckled, “Come on, mine didn’t hurt,”
“Weren’t you heavily medicated from the dentist?”
Kenny shrugged as Jamie started to hum to tune of the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” as he continued the flow of the outline.
An hour and a half of burning ink into skin and dabs of paper towels and more ink past. Shane felt the needle leave him for the final. After running a paper towel down it once more, everyone got to see the elaborate tattoo that stuck at his shoulder. The gold of the helmet was faded in with vast age, the red gem in the center on the helmet nearly sparkled in the light and the single baby blue eye of Odin stared at anyone who met its gaze. The bushy beard was long and colored faint grey. Shane was so young, yet he was branded with a wise man.