Colour tattoo of a cartoon martial artist in a white gi and red headband, with a raised fist, on the inner forearm.

Cartoon martial artist on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A cartoon martial artist in a white gi with a red belt and red headband, shown mid-action with one fist forward and an open-mouthed shout. The figure is drawn with bold dark outlines and smooth colour fills, against a pale blue background. The tattoo wraps down the forearm toward the wrist, with the raised fist and a red band at the top of the frame.

Neo-trad Forearm Cartoon character Headband Fist

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sports hall at Hollins Community Centre still smelled of the same floor polish it had in 1994, and nobody could agree on who had been best at the kata. Kevin Pryce swore it was him. Kevin had once knocked a tin of beans off the top shelf with a side kick and been banned from the equipment cupboard for a term. I stood by the urn with a paper plate of sausage rolls and waited for the question I had been dreading since the invitation arrived: did I still have the shout?

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Sensei Ward used to say the kiai came from the belly, not the throat, and a proper one could rattle the windows in their frames. Mine never rattled anything. It came out as a squeak, like a dog's toy being sat on, and the lads said I looked like a man who had just been told the bus was late. Above the mats hung a faded poster of a cartoon fighter in a white gi, one fist thrust out and his mouth opened as wide as a letterbox, shouting at a sky the colour of a swimming pool. We all wanted to be him. I used to think he was the bravest thing I had ever seen, mostly because he never once looked embarrassed.

Then Tina Pryce cornered me by the raffle table. "Go on, Dev, do the shout. You owe us that much." The room turned round, and there was nothing to do but plant my feet and think of the poster.

I didn't squeak. The sound came up from somewhere under my ribs, ugly and enormous, and it hit the far wall before I'd finished it. The urn lid rattled. A child by the fire door dropped a sausage roll. Kevin Pryce applauded slowly, and Sensei Ward's old photograph on the noticeboard tilted a fraction to the left, which I have decided to take as approval.