So this guy tells me I can make a hundred and fifty bucks just by having a corporate logo tattooed across my forehead. He has a nice Italian suit and a crocodile skin briefcase. He says I don’t have to fill out an employment application, no need for a reference check, I don’t have to be bonded or write an I.Q. test or be related to anybody in management. All I have to do is follow him to the tattoo parlour across the street. All I have to do is give up this little piece of skin.
At first I’m worried that this is some kind of a trick. Why me? But then I start to think of all the things I could buy with a hun and a half. New Nike basketball shoes, or Dylan tickets, or the complete second season of Friends on DVD. The temptation is too great, so I follow him into the storefront. Half an hour later I walk out with the name and insignia of a chain of discount military surplus stores cut into my skin just above my eyebrows.
That night, I hook up with some friends at a noodle bar on Robson. We get wasted on Tanqueray and head to Le Chateau for half-price tank tops, and then to Future Shop and Virgin Mega Store. I spend the last of the tattoo money on the new Vin Diesel flick at the Cineplex. But my buddy Todd made four hundred yesterday for selling his kidney to an outfit in the States, so he treats me to mojitos at The Cactus Club.
I wake up with an evil hangover the next morning, and I realize with a feeling of panic that the rent is due. Fortunately the adverstising dude is standing right outside my door. I sign up for an insurance company across the bridge of my nose, a tobacco manufacturer on my chin, laser surgery clinics up and down my arms, designer blinds and hotel chains and car rental agencies all over my chest, an erectile dysfunction cure on my balls. Pretty soon, every square centimetre of me is covered with advertising.
Back in my loft, I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror. All of a sudden it hits me that I look like some kind of a freak. I’m horrified that I could have sold myself this way. I Want to to throw up. I don’t want anyone to see me like this, so I pull on my new Ironhead hoodie, my Parasuco painters, my Kangol wool cap. I watch a documentary about some old hippie band on MuchMusic, then head out on the town to find some action.
