Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Mike Wazowski tattoo on a lower leg
Neo-trad · Calf · Colour · Photo
A large colour tattoo of the green, one-eyed character Mike Wazowski, shown with a wide toothy grin, a single horn and a large round eye. The linework is bold, with smooth blended shading across the green body and soft highlights on the eye and teeth. The design sits on a dark blue-black shaded background that frames the figure against the leg.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
You have been practising your grin in the cracked washbasin of the Ferrule Street bathhouse for three weeks, because the Kingdom of Bramblewick holds its Fright Fair on Saturday, and the Chamberlain has promised a golden thimble to whichever monster can make the baker's daughter scream. Your horn is crooked, a little further left each winter, and your single eye has taken on the bloodshot look of a boiled egg. You squint at your reflection and decide the crookedness is character. Character is what the Chamberlain always asks for.
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Your nephew Dumbwick, a bog-toad with theatrical ambitions, bursts in with a bucket of lamp oil and news that Ottilie the baker's daughter has been practising too. She has been practising on the town guard. Apparently she grinned at Sergeant Hobb so wide that his moustache fell off.
"We are doomed," Dumbwick says, delighted.
"We are professionals," you say, and show him your teeth. Fourteen of them, sharp as sugar tongs, each one polished with vinegar on a rag.
On Saturday the fairground smells of toffee and wet hay. You stalk the Hall of Mirrors, the Tunnel of Groans and the Coop of Unfortunate Hens. Ottilie waits at the end of the pier with flour on her cheeks and a grin so enormous you feel it in your knees. She bares a gap where a front tooth should be, saved for the occasion. You both hold it. The crowd holds its breath. Then Dumbwick falls into the pickle barrel, and you both laugh until the Chamberlain has to wipe his spectacles.
The thimble goes to Ottilie. You don't mind. On the walk home she slips it onto your horn, where it stays, glinting, as crooked as ever.
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