Black block-letter lettering tattoo reading I'M GONNA KILL YOU, RAY ROMANO across the lower back, shown in a close crop on pale skin.

Block capital quote across the lower back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a band of bold, uppercase sans-serif lettering set in two lines across the skin, reading I'M GONNA KILL YOU, RAY ROMANO. The letters are filled in solid black with slightly softer grey edges, and the lines are evenly spaced and centred on the band. The skin is pale and the dark clothing around the edges frames the text against the body.

Lettering Back Text Quote

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Marjorie Pell had worked the back room of a launderette in Grimsby for thirty-one years, and nobody had ever asked her for a whole sentence. Names she could do. Sentences were trouble, because they had to be spelled right and read aloud by someone who would hold you to them. So when Terry Haddow came in on a wet Thursday with a bus ticket folded in his fist and a demand for block capitals, she sighed and reached for the stencil paper.

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"Say it slower," she said, pencil ready. He said it slower, the threat first and then the name, which he had written in biro down the margin of the ticket as though it might rub off. She asked who the name belonged to. A man at the depot, Terry said, who had parked his van across Terry's space every morning since March. "And you want that on you." "I want him to see it. Every time he looks at me, he'll think about it." Marjorie thought it was the saddest reason she'd ever heard and also the most honest, so she drew the letters plain and heavy, no curls, nothing pretty, because a threat in fancy script looks like a joke.

Her machine hummed while the ink went in. Terry didn't flinch, though he talked the whole way through about the van, the foreman, a pension that had never been what they promised. Halfway through the second line he went quiet, and she thought he might be crying, but he was only reading, moving his lips over the words as they took shape.

He came back five weeks later with a sheepish grin and the ticket again. The man in the van had seen the lettering in the staff kitchen, read it twice, and laughed until he had to sit down. They had been best mates since, and now the two of them sang the line at darts on Fridays, every word. Marjorie still kept the original stencil pinned above her bench, its capitals curling at the edges where the damp had got in.