Planet Express circular logo tattoo in black and red, showing a black spaceship over a red planet, on a lower leg.

Planet Express logo on a calf

Calf · Colour · Photo

A circular logo with bold black lettering reading PLANET EXPRESS around the rim, with a black spaceship and comet trail over a solid red disc. The linework is thick and even, and the red is filled flat with a slight sheen, with no visible shading. The logo fills the frame on the leg, centred on the image.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The parcel for flat fourteen is warm, which is the first odd thing. It hums faintly against your palm in the lift, and the label says Leeds in careful capitals, though the stamp beside it is a red disc ringed with black lettering, the sort of mark a firm uses when it has never quite trusted postcodes. The lift stalls between nine and ten. You press the button twice, mutter at it, then take the stairs, counting landings the way you count minutes on a night shift.

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Mrs Yardley is waiting at her door before you reach the landing, a coat buttoned to the chin and a small suitcase at her feet. "You're late," she says, not unkindly. "They always are, the new ones." She signs your handheld with a pen that writes in green ink, then lifts the lid of the parcel and tips out a single brass key, a tin of shortbread and a folded map of the night sky with three stars circled in biro. "Nobody's asked me to sign for anything since 1979," she says. "I was starting to think they'd forgotten the address."

The roof door is propped open with a fire extinguisher. The wind takes the coat off her shoulders and she laughs, a girl's laugh, and you realise you have never heard the sound from anyone above the third floor. Beyond the aerials and the orange glow of the ring road, the sky is clearer than you've seen it all year. She fits the key into a padlock you hadn't noticed, and under the concrete hatch where the water tank should be sits a small black ship with a comet trail painted down its flank, and a seat cut to fit a person of your size. Your van is still idling four floors down, and you have a round to finish. You climb in anyway, and the last thing you see is the estate shrinking to a red dot below, its lettering turning slowly around it like a clock with no hands.

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