Two realistic colour portraits tattooed side by side on a lower leg, one showing a man with a beard pointing a pistol, the other a bald man with glasses and a beard, against a cloudy sky background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two realism portraits of men on a lower leg

Realism · Calf · Colour · Photo

The image shows two large portrait tattoos placed side by side on a leg. The left portrait depicts a bearded man in a plaid shirt pointing a handgun towards the viewer, and the right depicts a bald, bespectacled bearded man in a dark jacket. The shading is smooth and highly detailed, with soft blended tones on the faces and a cloudy blue and peach sky behind the left figure.

Realism Calf Portrait Man Beard Glasses Pistol Gun Cloud Sky

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dennis Hollis did not want the money. He wanted the ticket, the carbon slip with the date printed on it, and he kept asking for it the way other men ask for a second opinion. Marcus Vale turned the pistol over on the glass counter, checked the magazine was empty, and slid it back across. "Nobody pawns a gun for a receipt," he said. "Nobody pawns a gun at all, Dennis, not in this town."

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"I'm not pawning it." Dennis pushed his brass-framed spectacles up his nose with one knuckle, the way he did when he had been mending clocks all morning and his eyes had gone soft at the edges. Two doors down he kept a workshop full of pendulums and cracked dials, with a card in the window that said Repairs While You Wait. "Lad from the estate left it in the lost property box at the baths. Wrapped in a carrier bag from the chippy, if you can credit it. I'm trying to get it off the street before somebody's mum finds it."

Marcus lifted the gun again and weighed it the way he weighed everything, by feel and by temper. He had seen the boy once, thin and quick, staring up through the window of the bus shelter as if the sky owed him money. Neither of them had any right to take the thing off him. Between them they had two shops, a Bakelite radio and no rights at all, so they agreed on what they could manage. Marcus wrote the ticket. Dennis paid him a pound he did not have to spare.

They walked out to the canal together without saying much. Above the water the cloud was going from peach to a bruised blue, and for once neither man said anything clever about it. Dennis folded the ticket twice and tucked it inside the case of the mantel clock he was carrying home to mend, then shut the little glass door on it.