Vic Vaughn is Vicious
I take the flier. “Who the hell are you?”
“You tatted me up last semester. Remember? Dragon mouth armpit?”
I almost spit out my coffee. “The dumbest tattoo ever.”
His face goes solemn. “You should’ve stopped me.”
“Dude. Not my job. I’m not your fucking father. Your mistakes are none of my business.”
He points at me. “It was a dick move. I was wasted.”
“You were not wasted. We do not tat up drunk assholes in my shop.”
“I ate like seven edibles before I came in, man.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know you were on edibles?”
He thinks about this, then shrugs. “Fine.” He nods at the flier. “Come down to the art building at noon. You’ll like this exhibit.”
I look down at the paper and read the headline out loud. “‘Tattoos as Art in the New Century.’ Well, fuck.” I look up at him. “How come no one asked me to be in this show?”
He shrugs again. “Take it up with Professor Lancaster. She’s running it.”
“Professor?” I scoff. “That bitch is a professor now? Unbelievable.”
The kid side-eyes me. “You two know each other?”
“Know her? I practically grew up with her. I cannot believe she went all legit and shit. She comes from a biker family. Her father is in prison for armed robbery.”
“Hmm.” The kid looks disturbed at my revelations. But then he shrugs it off. “Well, she’s over in the art building right now setting up. Maybe she’ll make room for you?”
I think about this for a moment, then nod. “Yeah. Maybe she will.” Then I look down at the princess. “You wanna walk over to the art building?”
Princess nods, so amicable this morning.
“Cool.” I give the artsy kid a little salute, then lead my niece over to the light and we cross the street.
The art building is all the way across campus, but it’s a nice morning, still cool from the overnight lows, so Princess and I just take our sweet time. We stop at the student center and I take the full coffee cup off her hands and grab her an orange juice instead. She just smiles at me.
Yep. I like this one. Whichever kid this is, she’s pretty cool.
After we get her a new drink, we continue our stroll. There’s a ton of shit going on at CSU this morning, even though it’s still summer and fall semester won’t even start for another three weeks. Probably getting close to move-in day, which means there will be non-stop parties pretty soon.
By the time we enter the art building, I’ve finished my coffee and I’ve got to piss. “Hey, I’ll be right back. Sit down on that bench and don’t wander.”
She nods and sits, then starts rummaging through her backpack for something.
I hit the bathroom, come back out, and fully expect my niece to be missing. But there she is, acting all obedient and shit, coloring in her sketchbook.
I walk over to her and point at it. “That sketchbook looks familiar. It was your mom’s?”
Princess nods.
And now I’m curious and I want to look at it. “Lemme see it.” She offers it up and I’m reaching for it when from behind me comes a voice.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I turn and find Professor Lucille Lancaster standing in front of me looking like an uptight bitch in a suit, arms crossed over her breasts, severe scowl on her face. “Hey, Luce. How’s it going?” I ask.
“How’s it going?” She scoffs. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not here to see you. Well, I kinda am. Some kid gave me this flier.” I reach into my pocket and flash her the flier. “Tattoo art? And you didn’t invite me? What the actual fuck?”
She glances over at Princess, then back at me. “Nice mouth, Vic.”
“She’s related to me, Lucille. She’s heard the word ‘fuck’ eleventy-billion times by now. And don’t try to change the subject.” I thrust the flier at her. “I’m a local artist who is semi-famous. This”—I shake the flier—“is my thing. And you couldn’t bother to ask me to include a few photographs for this show?”
“It’s for students and alumni,” she sneers.
“I’m an alumnus! I went here for five years!”
“No, Vic. The definition of alumnus is one who actually graduates. You never did.”
“Oh, my God. Really? That’s your excuse?”
She taps the toe of her high-heeled shoe. “What do you want?”
“I want to be included. I have been in the industry magazines hundreds of times. Sick Boyz is a regional treasure! And come on! You put on a show about ink as art and you don’t get any of the most talented locals to exhibit?”
“First of all”—she holds up a finger—“Sick Boyz is an eyesore. I have no idea what kind of extortion gig you’re pulling on the owner of that building to make him rent that space to you, but trust me on this… no one in Fort Collins would be sad if Sick Boyz closed up shop tomorrow. Your family has been terrorizing locals for almost a century.”