Black and grey photograph of a small revolver tattoo on the upper chest, seen through the neckline of a loose grey tank top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Revolver tattoo on the chest

Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A small revolver is tattooed on the upper chest, shown in profile with the barrel pointing right. The image is black and white, with fine shading on the grip and cylinder and soft grey tones on the skin. The subject is framed from the chest down, with the loose grey tank top and deep neckline surrounding the tattoo against a plain grey backdrop.

Chest Revolver Gun Pistol

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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

Sit down, sit down, and mind the dog, he thinks every stranger is a debt collector. You want the story of the Keller brothers' gun? Right. Start with the heat, because the heat was the only honest thing on that road to Tonopah. Nothing grew out there but sage and bad temper.

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Ruth Calloway kept the petrol station at the bend, two pumps and a tin roof that sang when the wind came off the flats. Her husband had carried a Colt Peacemaker his whole life and never once fired it at a man. He fired it at bottles, at coyotes, at the moon one New Year's Eve, and then he died in his sleep with the thing still hanging from the bedpost. Ruth took it down the morning after and found a single cartridge rolled into the cylinder, unspent, polished bright by his thumb.

The Keller boys came through in a dust-coloured Ford wanting fuel and an argument. The eldest had a hand that wouldn't stop trembling, and he eyed Ruth's revolver the way a dog eyes a bone it has been told to leave alone. She didn't reach for it. She filled the tank herself, slow and careful, and told him the petrol was on the house if he could say his father's name out loud. He couldn't. Nobody had ever told him.

They drove off without a word. Ruth kept the revolver on the counter all that summer, barrel pointing east, the way her husband used to lay it, and nobody ever again asked her to shoot anything.