Loving the Succubus

The Raven Girl

"Where the fuck did all this shit with the feathers come from?" Juan asked without preamble.

Picasso didn't hear the shop boy's query at first, engrossed as he was in setting up his tattoo machines, until Juan gestured to the canvasses leaning against the wall.

"What? Oh, those? Raven Girl decided to wish me happy birthday. You like?" Picasso said.

"Wait, that's Raven Girl's shit? For real? And you haven't tracked her down and fucked her brains out?" he asked, incredulous.

Everyone knew of Raven Girl. Ever since Picasso had gotten exposure doing Ink Master, a mysterious fan had sent artwork from a Los Angeles address, both mixed media canvasses festooned with raven feathers laminated into the canvas twice: once on his birthday, once on Christmas.

"I tracked her down, actually," Picasso admitted. "She lives in Los Angeles, not far from the shop. After I'm through with my last client, I'm meeting her up for coffee."

"Is she hot?" Juan asked, eagerly.

Picasso shrugged. "She had a sexy voice. Kinda old-fashioned, like Shakespeare spoken with a lilting accent, like a cross between Greek and Arabic. Name of Marfa."

"She must fantastic in bed. If you don't fuck her, can I have her number?" Juan asked, eagerly.

"Why do you always have to bring into the conversation that I haven't had sex in three years?" Picasso demanded.

Juan shrugged. "Someone has to light a fire up your ass, dude. Here's your appointment. See ya."

Picasso flipped off the shop boy's retreating back.