It was a dark and stormy night. The kind of night where the moon dipped into the horizon like a bloodshot bruise. Our annual reunion was about to get weird.
We all gathered at the old tattoo parlor, where the walls were adorned with faded memories and the smell of stale cigarette smoke still lingered. Our friend, Bubba, had a new tattoo – a grotesque, sugar skull that glared like a warning sign on a toxic waste dump.
The stories began to flow like cheap whiskey, each one more outlandish than the last. There was the time we all got food poisoning from that sketchy taco stand, the time we tried to start a punk rock band with a trombone player, and the time we thought we could tame a wild bear with a kind word and a firm hand.
As the night wore on, the tales grew taller and the laughter grew louder. It was clear that we had all come to one place for the same reason – to revel in our collective idiocy and bask in the glow of our own, unique, morbid ink.
Want more morbid tales?
Murder Memoirs - where the lines between fact and fiction blur like the edges of a poorly drawn tattoo
Bizarre Beheadings - where our ancestors got a little too creative with their ink
Surgical Scars - where the ink ran deep, but the wounds ran deeper