I Was Once Possibly, Maybe, Perhaps a Cowboy King (Danny Warsnop story)

Sunday morning is never sunday morning unless I go to this little diner on the corner of my block in the UK. It's small, a hole in the wall sort of place that you wouldn't give a second thought to unless you were reccommended to go there, or found it when you were piss drunk and couldn't get laid.

It's small and cozy, clean white tiles with little chips and cracks from all the stress it goes through from its years. The seats are a red leather material and all the tables are booths with the exception of the chairs lined up by the bar. The walls are painted an off white color that was obviously worn and stained in some places. The right wall however, is what I'm prided in and why I go there so often.

It's a secret project of mine, one that all the people who get tattoo's done by me know of, but not where it's located. I'm working on an art piece on the wall, filled with random sayings and pictures that fit everything that floats through my mind, but fits what the owner wants as well.

He's not paying me, and I'm not paying him, it's just an understanding. It'll bring him more business when I post the location on my page, and it'll get me recognized by a couple more people. A win-win, if you please.

So, it's a regular Sunday morning for the two of us, as well as the elderly couple who are regulars just like I am. We all know each other by name and they don't judge me for all of my tattoo's or the fact that I'm an American on British soil. They don't insult me and I don't insult them.

I'm painting the wall and they're eating their biscuts and drinking their tea because Junabee's makes the best tea I've had during my stay in England. I would be surprised to hear they put cocain in their tea because it's the most addicting thing about this little place.

"So Camaro, how has business been down at your shop? Any more awkwardly placed pieces?" John Junabee, the owner of this adorable little cafe asks me in his elderly British voice.

"Someone wanted a piercing on their penis the other day, and a girl asked me to tattoo a mans legs around her nipple." The old man laughed, patting my head slightly as I twisted my paint brush against the wall lightly.

Yes, Camaro is my real name. My mother was the only one present in the room and she's been obsessed with Camaro's since she was little. She was doped up on whatever medicine they gave her to reduce the pain and she named me after her favorite car. Cool story, yeah?

"I don't know how you do it." He refilled my glass of tea and I grinned up at him, shrugging.

"Whatever puts the money in your register for this tea." He winked down at me as I took a sip of said tea, and the doorbell rung out as the door opened and in walked a group of men who looked like they were sporting some pretty bad hangovers.

The other four people in the cafe, Mr. Junabee, Mr. and Mrs. Cauldwell, and myself, looked at them oddly. The others because of their piercings and tattoos, but me because everything is routine for me, and this is not routine. That bell is not supposed to ring until 10:30, when the Cauldwell's leave our little cafe.

"Hello boys, welcome to Junabee's!" Mr. Junabee smiles warmly at these messy guys and I go back to my painting, clamming up in my shell the second that things dont go the way they're supposed to. Thank you sanity, for blessing me with your worst.

"Ello sir." One of them says, but I'm not sure which one because I'm not looking, I've engrossed myself into this little bubble of mine that's filled with the four people that should be here and my painting.

"What can I get the lot of you?" They move to sit at the booth next to where I'm painting, probably to watch me work. It makes me uncomfortable, but I will not leave until eleven, just in time to set up for the tattoo appointment that I have at eleven thirty.

"Biscuts and tea please. Any kind for us all, it doesn't matter." Mr. Junabee nods and disppears into the back to bake his deliscious biscuits and brew up some tea. I continue painting, lost in my own little world full of color, sketching, and solitude.

The five of them hang around long after the Cauldwell's say their goodbye, watching me paint and noisily eating their food while I paint the elegant cup it's classy blue and white shades slowly and effortlessly.

"You're really good love. You an artist?" I look back at the one with short hair and a cute face. I look back down at my hands and nod slowly, before looking back up and watching them while they watch me.

"I'm a tattoo artist." They nod their heads, watching still even as I turn to finish painting in the cup.

"What's your name love?" The one next to him asks, and I smile slightly as I always do when someone asks me, preparing for the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow.

"Camaro McCarthy."

"You own McCarthy's tattoo's, yeah?" The previous speaker asked, and I nod my head slowly. "I have an appointment with a Camaro McCarthy at eleven-thirty to fill in the ink on my chest!"

I look up and furrow my brows. "Ben... Bruce, was it?"

"The one and only!" He grinned back at me. "These are my mates, Danny, Sam, James, and Cam." I wave timidly at them all.

"Well, at least I know it'll be a good tattoo!" He grinned at me and I smiled back, nodding my head before I turned to my work.

This is not how it should be. My customers are not supposed to come to my relaxing place, they are supposed to come to my shop, get their tattoos. and leave. Possibly return if they want more, which usually happens.

This has just thrown my day entirely out of order.

Little do I know, these boys are about to throw my whole life out of order.