Nocturnal Celestial Emissions from The SeaGoose Nebula

Next thing I know I hear a foreign voice rhetorically inquiring, ”What the fuck man?”

A foot catches my ribs as I realize that I had passed out on the floor. I look up, and to my astonishment, a balding, middle-aged, Itallian man in a bath robe is rearing back to send a second kick to my midsection. Just my luck, the guy caught me in the exact same ribs. I grunted at the searing pain and instinctively assumed the fetal position.

“Get the fuck out of my house, you fucking hippy trash!” The man screamed. My mind scrambled to gain control of my body. I looked my  unknown attacker in the face only to notice; This guy had a serious case of the crazy eyes!

I knew that the next kick was coming for my head and I gave my best attempt to make my face into concrete. As I closed my eyes I braced my self for a nice trip to brain-damage world (and in the seeming eternity that followed) I heard the man yell in super-slow-speed, “God… damn… trash…” (I was strangely dissapointed that my life didn’t flash before my eyes) there came a hard thud and a quick exhaling of breath (Almost like the sound you hear when a quarter back gets completely blind-sided in the pocket). My eyes remained shut, my face still balled up in anticipation for his kill-strike, I was ready for my death, but by some miracle a second passed and the foot never came.

I caught a quick flash of said miracle as I opened my eyes. Jim, in the style of Brian Urlacher had sacked the mystery man clear off his feet and sent him through a wooden coffee table.Jim Morningstar had saved me from a facefull of pain. Jim looked up slowly from the man’s unconcious body and met my eyes. He then quickly scanned the room where we had just been with Little Fox. It was different than it had been the night before; there were pictures of people on all the walls and furniture that had been absent from my memories of the ritual insanity of last night; The table that Jim had sent the man careening into deffinitely hadn’t been there and the worn, black-leather, arm-chair (that Jim had gotten inked in) was no where to be seen.  Not wasting another second, we ran out the front door like the cops were after us. We sprinted up West Fifth without saying a  word (Save the occasional gasp of “What the fuck was that?”) until we hit the alley on Union. I caught my breath as I paced back and forth in front of Jim. “What the fuck happened to Little Fox?” I belched out. “What the fuck happened last night? What the fuck was all that about the crazy tattoos and old god’s blood?”

“I mean, Jim- WHAT THE FUCK?”

I was confused and rambling. I thought to myself outloud (as I often do when I’m panicked), “Surely Jim has a better grip on things, he had to know what happened.” I don’t think Jim heard a single word, he just stood next to me, hunched-over and panting, staring at the new foot-long tattoo on his right forearm.

“How long were you up after I blacked out?” “I squeaked, while pressing a finger to my ribs. Still Jim was hypnotized. “JIM!” My yell did the trick, he looked up at me and I noticed that (besides the rush of adrenaline) he wasn’t at all shook up. “Jim -I mean for real- What happened last night? That was seriously the craziest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Jim  simply shook his head and tugged on his hair, meanwhile I started to piece back what I could from the whole strange event. Bits and pieces of Little Fox smiling fiendishly over Jim flashed by my eyes followed by a view from floor-level of Jim under Little Fox’s buzzing steel hand. Then, like a whisper, I remebered the last thing I heard: Hauntingly, Little Fox’s voice filled my head, “Let only your truest and purest of wishes guide my hand.” Then it was pure blackness.

Jim mumbled a few swares and then cracked his neck to the right. “Hey…” Jim said as he smacked me in my shoulder, “Atleast I’m not the only one in the band without a tattoo anymore.” I almost snapped at his humor, but was drawn into the hypnosis that had been afflicting my friend. Jim’s fist was clinched as he presented Little Fox’s masterpiece to me. All the thoughts of the night before were swiftly banished from my mind by the first glimpse of Jim’s arm. The tattoo on his forearm seemed to glow  a reddish-yellow around the smooth black curves of ink. I had never seen or have yet to see ink on anything that gave the appearance that the design was burning; not like the way Jimmy’s tattoo did. The centerpiece was a jagged, shattered star; burning bright as if it was on the verge of going supernova. Crossed like pirates swords below the star were two silver pool sticks with  ice-blue serpents coiled around them, each with a drop of black venom hanging from their tips. At their base lay a lusch bed of crimson roses that gave the impression -when stared at- that they were continuously bleeding on each other. The roses wrapped around the outer reaches of his forearm into a crescent-shaped border reaching up to meet the arched ingraving of (what Jim and I guessed to be) several lines of Cherokee symbols. All of which smoothly bottlenecked upwards; giving the whole scribe the appearance of a spade. It was the most amazing use of pigment I had ever had the privelage of laying my eyes on.

“So what do you think?” I asked Jim blankly.

He looked up at me and flashed a grin. “Let’s go shoot some pool.”

Most of the guys we ran around with back then were in some shape or form an amateur tattoo artist of some kind. It was something that guys shared, fresh ink got the conversation flowing when we weren’t jammin. So with all the freelance art going on and with the way Jim Morningstar could play, it was surprising and abstractly suiting that Jim was twenty two and had never been under the needle. That was until the day we met Little Fox, and Jimmy got his first tattoo.

We had breakfast at the corner cafe and were going to head to the movies to watch Enter The Dragon. We had finished our Irish coffees and were sitting at the bar when this giant biker walks in. This guy looked like something straight out of the WWF: Leather chaps, black cut off shirt and full sleeves of simply hypnotizing animal tattoos. He even had one of those feather ear rings like Mr. T wears. Sure enough the road warrior made a b-line straight to the bar and sat down in the empty stool between Jim and I. Jim smerked in a way so that the beast couldn’t see him and I sat in awe of this true freak of the highway (and I say freak in the most honorable way). So this guy says, out of nowhere, “You boys wouldn’t happen to be drinkin? Would ya?” Jim and I looked straight at each other and as we started to grin, Jim replied for the both of us, “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Three pints and four shots past our movie, Jim and I had struck up quite the conversation with our new drinking partner.This living legend was none other than: John Little Fox Cross of the Cherokee Nation. Born and raised on the reservation and reborn on the highway, Little Fox -as we called him- was a lover of whiskey, women, Black Sabbath, and tattoos. We said plenty about the first four things, but the most interesting of Little Fox’s passions were his managerie of tattoos. The man explained his tattoos as sacred, not just to him, but to the great spirit. He said that the spirits that fill his arms were always their, he just filled them with ink. He went through and named each in his native tongue, and at the end whispered a prayer to us.

At this point Jimmy looks at me as if someone has his nuts in a twist. We can’t figure out if this guy is real; if he’s just drunk or real drunk or what? But we take another shot, and to lighten the mood, I show him my measley tattoos. He simply nods and asks me what my name is? I tell him and he says that he’s glad to meet me. He looks to Jim and, (grinning like he had before) he said, “James Morningstar… Esquire.” Little Fox froze for a moment and then smiled a wide smile.

” My father’s brother was a shaman, a true traveler of the waves, he was known as (something in Cherokee), but he was also known as Jim Morningstar to the white man. With such a proud name, you surely must have some great mark upon you?”

“You mean do I have any tattoos?” Jim asked.”No. I haven’t felt it’s been a special enough occasion.”

Fox froze again and once more the smile ran across his tanned-leather face. “Jim Morningstar, ” He bellowed, ”is the most chance day of your life, not a special enough occasion?”

Following another shot of whiskey: Jim, myself and our new found Indian Guide were stumbling down the West-Fifth as Little Fox sang “Crazy Train” at the top of his lungs. Miraculously after seventeen blocks and all of Ozzy’s catalogue we stumbled into the front door of a shady two story house. The house resembled ginger bread and I remember Fox telling us that he had moon-shine to help us “reach” the night. Not ten minutes after we had arrived, Jimmy was shirtless in a worn black-leather arm chair with Little Fox sitting over his right forearm. Needle in one hand, and moon-shine in the other, Little Fox began to chant and howl wildly into space. Harmonically in sync with Fox’s tribal song, the needle-gun began to buzz; and as I listened (drunk and in disbelief), The Cherokee Road Warrior known as John Little Fox Cross spoke to Jim in plain english:

“Morningstar! You have stirred my brave ancestors’ spirits and so I will bestow upon you the gift of my blood-line. In your mark will reside great and  powerful spirits. For the ink is not ink at all, but the blood of the old gods. My family has held it since before the stars fell.”

“ In these fallen god’s blood lies the power to fulfill your greatest will and desire. Though, let only your truest and purest of wishes guide my hand.” Jim nodded again, and after taking a draw from the bottle, Little Fox clutched Jim’s arm. “The needle will now trace it’s path.”

Jimmy looked him in the eye and toasted Little Fox. I sat speechless on the couch, wondering (among other things) what if I could will anything to happen to me, what would I choose?” I debated that question for about half an hour, and then I moved onto the thought that my friend, Jim Morningstar, is going to have his deepest desire granted. The time drug by slowly and for the next two hours the only sound was the buzz of the needle against Jim’s skin.

There was this guy who used to play guitar. He went by the name of Jim Morningstar; now I don’t think that was his real name, but hell, it sounded cool and he could fuckin’ wail on the guitar; Jim played guitar like somethin else, but the mans true love was the pool hall.

If he wasn’t playin with the boys in some dive or smoke-filled garage, Jimmy was down at the Bankshot hustlin wanna-be’s for cash. Now the Bankshot was a real hustlers palace- fifteen maybe sixteen tables, good blues music playin low and, best of all, you could smoke, but that wasn’t what made it Jim’s home away from home. I think what kept Jimmy coming back all those years (Hell! Maybe what made him into such a mean pool player to begin with) was the owners daughter.

A complete knockout, I think her name was Delilah, she had legs for days, curves that kept you starin and long black hair; black as coal at midnight in space on a cloudy day. Jim had been watching this girl since he was thirteen years old, now ten years later he still had never really said more than a handfull of words to her, but still, five nights a week he’d play, have some beers and watch the owners daughter work the bar. The best, Jim used to tell, was when she would reach up for the box of chalk on the top shelf and the angel wings she had tattooed on her lower back would peak out from between her shirt and panties. Jimmy had it bad for this girl, and we all knew it.

So, being the reserved guy Jim was, he never really said anything to her and was content with just hustling wanna-be’s, drinking beers and watching Delilah from the comfort of table 13. That is- until the day that Jim got his first tattoo.

(To be continued)