Small black and grey handgun tattoo on the side of the ribs, with a white t-shirt lifted over the torso.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Handgun tattoo on the side ribs

Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A person sits on a grey sofa with a white t-shirt pulled up to show the side of the torso. A small handgun design sits on the side ribs, drawn with dark outlines and grey shading. The background is a plain room with a black bag, and the image is cropped to the torso and jeans.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The starting pistol lived in the potting shed, wrapped in a tea towel between the twine and the tin of slug pellets. Dad had bought it off a retired PE teacher in 1979 for the Hadley Green sports day, and it had outlived the teacher, the sports day and most of the children it was meant to send running. Mum wanted it gone. I wanted it oiled.

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The trouble started with the squirrels. They had got into the runner beans for the third summer running, and Mrs Pargeter from number nine wrote to the parish council, which wrote back to say a pistol was not a horticultural solution. So I took it down to the bottom bed at six in the morning, in my dressing gown and wellingtons, and fired one blank at the hedge. Nothing came out but a cloud of sparrows and a crow with opinions.

Gerald from the bowls club heard the bang from the green and came round with a flask, because he had been waiting thirty years for someone to tell him the thing still worked. We sat on an upturned bucket and argued about whether a blank counted as a shot. He said it did. I said the squirrels had not been told.

By August the beans were under netting and the squirrels had moved on to Mrs Pargeter's bird table, which she insisted was my fault. The pistol went back in its tea towel. Gerald still turns up at seven with the flask, and every so often he asks, quite seriously, whether I've any more blanks. I tell him there's a tin of them under the twine. He looks at the shed door the way other men look at a finish line.

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