Black and grey tattoo on a forearm showing a cartoon top-hatted, monocled figure holding a cane beside a banknote with a portrait.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Monopoly banker and banknote on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a cartoon figure in a top hat and monocle, holding a cane and leaning over a banknote with a portrait on it. A partial board game scene with numbered spaces appears at the top, and a building-like shape sits to the right. The work uses smooth greyscale shading with soft highlights across the figure, the bill and the background, and the composition wraps around the forearm.

Forearm Top hat Monocle Banknote Dollar bill Portrait Cartoon character

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Ruddock arrived at the counter of the Harbour Street savings office with a pound note folded into a square the size of a stamp, and she set it down between them as if it might go off. "Mr Hollis," she said, "I want the chandlery's mortgage back, and I want it in writing from someone with a monocle."

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Mr Hollis polished his monocle on his waistcoat, a habit he had kept since 1974 for reasons he no longer remembered. He kept the ledgers the way other men kept greyhounds, with a fondness for their moods and no illusions about their speed. Every quarter he walked the High Street with his cane, tapping the shutters of the shops that owed him, and every quarter the shopkeepers paid him in bad jokes and the odd custard cream. The chandlery was the last debt on the street still open. Its owner, a widow named Ada Fenwick, had sold the boat she loved to cover it, and the boat now lay on its side in the mud behind the quay, waiting for a tide that had stopped coming.

He studied the note, then the ledger, then the grey harbour through the window. He had one rule: nobody left his counter without a number. So he wrote a figure on the back of the banknote, so small it could only be read with a glass, and slid it back across. "Go and buy the boat back," he said. "Ask for it by its old name, and tell them the banker sent you."

Ada returned an hour later with the boat's brass lamp under her arm and a receipt for nothing written on the back of a fish-supper menu. Hollis took the lamp, rubbed the tarnish off with his thumb, and set it on the shelf beside the others he had taken over the years from people who could not pay. He never told her what the number on the note had said. It had been the price of the boat, struck through, and beneath it, in his neat copperplate, the word paid.