Chapter 40 — Terry's New Tattoo & The Handling of the Firearms
"Holy hell! If he finds out I tattooed him, he'll kill me!
Bro, come on—please spare me! I'm just a tattoo artist!
I don't want to die!"
The tattooist nearly sobbed after hearing William's description of what he wanted done.
Seeing the man push the thousand-dollar roll back toward him, William chuckled.
"Where did you get the idea that Terry would kill you—
but I wouldn't?"
He pulled a gun out from behind his waist and slapped it onto the table.
The tattooist froze.
At first, he hadn't taken William seriously.
But then it clicked—this guy had somehow dragged Terry here.
Whether through ambush or a fair fight didn't matter.
What did matter was that Terry's men hadn't followed him.
And William wasn't sweating. Not even a little.
That meant one thing:
This man was dangerous—at least as dangerous as Terry.
But Terry was a demon everyone in the South Side knew.
William… was a newer face.
Possibly a passing monster—possibly someone they couldn't afford to offend.
People living at the bottom weren't geniuses.
But when it came to survival instincts and reading the rules of the gutter,
no one was sharper.
The tattooist weighed the two devils in his mental scale.
And right now, William was the one in the room pointing a gun at him.
"Listen, man… tattoo guns are simple.
See? Press this and it's black ink.
This dial switches the color.
You press the trigger, ink comes out.
It's really just like shooting a gun."
His voice trembled.
"Bro, please don't make me do this…"
William stared at him.
The guy clearly wasn't going to cooperate.
He exhaled in annoyance.
"Fine. At least give him a shot of anesthetic.
I don't want him waking up screaming while I'm tattooing him."
Hearing that, the tattooist instantly lit up with relief.
"Oh thank God—yeah, yeah, I can do that! Great idea!"
He hurried behind the counter and pulled out a metal case.
Inside were needles, syringes, and several mysterious bottles.
William didn't care what those bottles contained.
This was America—moral decay was practically the national sport.
Before long, the anesthetic was injected.
Given Terry's ox-like physique,
even a heavy dose wouldn't kill him.
And if it did?
Well… that would just be a bonus.
William slapped Terry hard across the face.
After confirming he wasn't waking up, William picked up the tattoo gun from the table.
He tested it on Terry's cheek first.
Nice.
William figured he had pretty much mastered the "tattoo artist" skill already.
And so—
thirty minutes later…
The tattooist stood off to the side, staring at Terry's new facial tattoo with a feeling he couldn't even describe.
Even though he hadn't done it himself, he still felt like if he didn't move out of the South Side within 24 hours, the Milkovich family would carve him open.
"Nice."
William admired his masterpiece with satisfaction.
"Oh right—boss, what's your name? Might need you again next time."
The tattooist trembled.
In his heart he was screaming:
"Brother, PLEASE, have mercy! I never want to see you again!"
But under William's pressure, he reluctantly answered.
"My name's Oak…
And please—get him out of here before he wakes up.
If the Milkovich family kills me, there won't be a next time."
He had a very valid point.
William slung Terry over his shoulder again, carried him out, and drove him back to his house.
Thud!
Terry landed on the curb like a dead dog.
As for whether the bastard would freeze to death in the cold?
William doubted it.
Terry was built like a bull—he'd survive.
---
A while later…
"Ugh… motherf—… shit…"
A burning pain on his face jolted Terry awake.
"Where the hell am I…?"
The lingering anesthesia was worse than a hangover.
Terry's memory was a scrambled mess.
He spotted the familiar front door of his house.
Didn't bother thinking.
He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
Halfway down the hallway, he passed Mickey's bedroom.
Inside—
Mickey and Ian were both naked under a blanket.
Two pairs of terrified eyes stared at Terry.
Half fear of being caught.
Half horror at whatever was on Terry's face.
"Put some clothes on. You two look like a pair of little queers,"
Terry muttered casually before staggering away.
Ian and Mickey both exhaled in relief.
"Fuck—dude… your dad's face…"
Ian stared at Mickey in disbelief.
"Don't look at me like that—I have no idea what happened,"
Mickey snapped.
Just as he finished speaking—
A roar came from the bathroom.
"FUUUUCK! WHAT THE HELL—MY FACE!!"
Terry screamed at the mirror.
Reflected in the glass—
Across his forehead, in large bold letters, was tattooed:
"I'm a Niggxr Lover."
---
[Ding! Mission Complete: Teach Terry an Unforgettable Lesson.
Reward: U.S. Military Standard Firearms for 10 people.]
---
Gallagher House – Fiona's Bedroom
William slowly woke up.
Seeing the system message, he checked his storage space.
Sure enough—
a whole new stockpile of military-grade weapons had appeared.
"I need to find a way to unload this stuff…
or my storage space is going to overflow."
He frowned, thinking.
At that moment, Fiona also woke up.
She rolled over, staring at William's bare upper body.
"What are you doing?" she mumbled sleepily.
William glanced at her.
Nice A-cups—
unimpressive, but workable.
With Disease Transference and the Self-Healing Factor, he no longer feared anything.
Once he bagged Mandy and gained Poison Immunity, he'd basically be untouchable.
HIV, HPV, whatever—none would matter.
"I'm going to school," William said. "Oh, and remind Lip to follow up on his college application.
It'd be a shame if he didn't go to college."
Concern for Lip?
No.
To break someone like Lip—
arrogant, manic, smugly intelligent—
you must first lift him high.
Then smash him.
"William… thank you."
Fiona thought he was genuinely caring about Lip and felt deeply moved.
She sat up and gave him a soft kiss.
William patted her back.
They both got dressed.
Downstairs, Ian was gone.
Lip, Carl, and Liam were in the living room.
"Where are Debbie and Ian?"
Fiona asked curiously.