Mr. Just Has The Tattoo
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I've been with it since I was born.
Whenever I asked my parents what these words on my calf were, they would just say that it was only a birthmark that happened to look like words, and that it was nothing to worry about.
In hindsight, I think they were being considerate in their own way.

I didn't know any more about things back then than I do now, and I certainly had no idea what it was.
Both "weed" and "tattoo" were concepts I didn't have.

Of the two, I only learned what a "tattoo" was when I started going to school. Or more accurately, I was forced to know.

It was during physical examination. The kids in just their underwear, including me, were standing in line.
When that bear-looking teacher found it written on my leg, he looked confused for a moment, then got enraged.

I was beaten up in a dimly lit storage room in the name of education.
Such things were considered acceptable in those days, you know.

When I came home with bruises all over my body, my parents took me to a hospital to "remove the birthmark".

Even as a kid, I could tell that this hospital was completely different from the one you would go to when you caught a cold.
A dark-skinned "doctor" (I now suspect that he didn't even have the proper license for that) stuck the heated needle into the "G" in my calf.

I think I was under some kind of anesthesia, but from that pain, I'm pretty sure it didn't work at all.
The needle was just as ineffective as the anesthesia.

I eventually gave up on getting rid of the birthmark, but my school life was delightful.
It wasn't a big deal that I had to miss every swimming class, or wear long pants even in the summer.

Once I went into society, it rarely bothered me anymore.
When I found out what tattoos actually were, I finally realized that my own one, which I was born with, was weird, but didn't care so much about it.

That day, I was staying at a colleague's house. It was also a rare day that I was wearing shorts.
I was a little drunk and lying in bed, but then he woke me up, glanced at the thing on my calf, and asked, "Hey, are you up? Can you tell me your name?"
To be honest, I was a bit perplexed by this sudden wake-up call and the nonsense he was saying, but I answered his question honestly since it was too bothersome to ask him back.

He then asked me a bunch of other questions, such as about my school days and how I was in love with someone. And when I answered all of them with complete honesty, he clapped his hands like a clockwork monkey, said loudly "Holy Heck! You're oh-so perfectly crafted! I'm out now, you can do whatever you want with what's in this room!", and then left the room.
That was the last time I saw him.

I wanted to eat a Snickers so badly at that time, but as I couldn't find any in his room, I decided to go to a nearby store to buy some.
It was a hot and humid night, and the sweat on my shirt was annoying.
But what was even more annoying was that I was halted by a cop.

The cop asked me about the thing on my calf.
I replied, "At least there's no 'no tattoos' law in this state, right?"
The bastard snickered lightly before saying, "Well yes, but shall we pretend that it exists for now?" and then proceeding to handcuff me.
I resisted him, as was my legitimate right, but couldn't fight back in the slightest. His strength was such that it seemed as if he was dealing with something non-human on a regular basis. My memory is hazy from that point on.

"Well, something like that."

I gave them a brief history of myself. And about my "tattoo".

"Uh, so you don't know anything about the tattoo yourself, correct?"

"Not at all."

"Nor about what it states?"

"I don't even understand what 'Gamers Against Weed' and 'Mr. Just Has The Tattoo' means, and frankly I find it to be fucking stupid even as a tattoo."

I was in the lab of an organization that called itself "Secure Contain Protect".
They were the very image of those ridiculously large organizations seen in films like Men in Black and The Cabin in the Woods.
And the fact that I was being interrogated by such an organization made my heart pound with anxious excitement.

"Alright. Did you ever think about erasing your tattoo, by the way?

"A few times when I was a kid. But it never went away no matter what I attempted."

"I see. Have you ever tried to remove the skin from the tattooed area?"

"No, obviously not."

"Then, how about we do it here at this facility? We won't charge you for it."

I was puzzled.

"Yeah, um, well…"

I became nervous that I might be used as a biological sample.

"No, I just wondered… if that was really necessary… Hahaha…"

"This is not just for you. Please, you have to get your tattoo removed."

The man, apparently a researcher, was polite, but there was unspoken pressure in his words.
I reluctantly agreed.

The surgery is being performed.
With the technology available at a research facility of this scale, it would be easy to disguise the scars of the skin's removal so that they would not be obvious; but that's not the problem at hand.

The anesthesia is slowly taking effect.

My consciousness is slowly fading out.

The guy holding the scalpel says something to me, but there is no room in my head for an answer.

My consciousness is in the tattoo.
No, it seems like only now I've realized that my identity is in it.
I thought about calling off the surgery now, but it is too late for that.

I'm not "Mr. Just Has The Tattoo". I'm the Tattoo.

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