At the station, my fellow cops know me as the patrolman with the gun—tattoo gun, that is. It’s something I picked up when I was in my late teens. Something about getting beauty out of pain spoke to a young Mace, and I liked watching the blood welling up on their skin as I got away with stabbing people hundreds of times. When they yelped, I grinned. Knowing I own a piece of everyone I’ve inked is a heady thought, too.
WEIRDO
