Pictured above: Irvin's kiosk, all assembled and ready to go!
Former Circuit City large appliance installer John Irvin has bought an iron-on tattoo franchise and plans to open his first kiosk at Virginia Center Commons by Memorial Day.
“We will offer the high artistic integrity of authentic tattoos with the convenience of temporary ones,” he reports, rather gleefully. “It is a brave new world in tattoo technology.”
Irvin demonstrated the new process by rolling up his pants, and pressing a transfer of the battleship USS Wisconsin on the inside of his thigh after he wet it with a moist towlette. “We don’t need to shave the area, only clean and wet it.” He reports after plugging in a common household iron and turning it to the “linen” setting – the highest temperature.
Once the transfer was in place and the iron had reached optimum temperature, Irvin paused briefly before pressing the scalding hot iron on his inner thigh and holding it there. The iron sizzled horribly against the sensitive goose-flesh of his leg as Irvin’s face turned a scarlet crimson. “You’ll notice . . .” he grunted almost inaudibly through gritted teeth, “it only takes three minutes . . .aaaaagghhh . . .to transfer the image . . .” Irvin’s voice trailed off as his now-dead eyes drifted back in their empty burgundy sockets and his mouth dropped open in what can only be described as an anguished “silent scream”. Thumb-size sweat beads tinged with blood poured pell-mell in streaming rivulets off his trembling forehead, across his pained, quivering lips, soaking his shirt collar in a warm, salty flop-soup of his own making. The sickening stench of burning, smoking meat permeated the air, along with the loud, sickening sizzle of raw human flesh being broiled alive as the tattoo supposedly took shape under the white-hot chrome steel of the Hamilton-Beech steam laundry-style iron.
“We will offer the high artistic integrity of authentic tattoos with the convenience of temporary ones,” he reports, rather gleefully. “It is a brave new world in tattoo technology.”
Irvin demonstrated the new process by rolling up his pants, and pressing a transfer of the battleship USS Wisconsin on the inside of his thigh after he wet it with a moist towlette. “We don’t need to shave the area, only clean and wet it.” He reports after plugging in a common household iron and turning it to the “linen” setting – the highest temperature.
Once the transfer was in place and the iron had reached optimum temperature, Irvin paused briefly before pressing the scalding hot iron on his inner thigh and holding it there. The iron sizzled horribly against the sensitive goose-flesh of his leg as Irvin’s face turned a scarlet crimson. “You’ll notice . . .” he grunted almost inaudibly through gritted teeth, “it only takes three minutes . . .aaaaagghhh . . .to transfer the image . . .” Irvin’s voice trailed off as his now-dead eyes drifted back in their empty burgundy sockets and his mouth dropped open in what can only be described as an anguished “silent scream”. Thumb-size sweat beads tinged with blood poured pell-mell in streaming rivulets off his trembling forehead, across his pained, quivering lips, soaking his shirt collar in a warm, salty flop-soup of his own making. The sickening stench of burning, smoking meat permeated the air, along with the loud, sickening sizzle of raw human flesh being broiled alive as the tattoo supposedly took shape under the white-hot chrome steel of the Hamilton-Beech steam laundry-style iron.
After two minutes Irvin loudly vomited a projectile geyser of black, steaming offal into his own lap.
Finally, after three scalding, excruciating minutes Irvin seemed to snap out of his agony-induced coma and abruptly removed the boiling, steaming iron from his thigh, stripping sickening streamers of boiled, dying flesh from his shivering leg, which stuck to the hot iron like wet egg noodles dangling from a sticky fly strip. Imprinted against the raw, skinless striated muscle of his 4th-degree burned thigh was an iron-shaped green and blue blob that hardly resembled anything at all.
“Give me a day or two to work the kinks out,” he gasped as he opened a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a Morton salt shaker, apparently used in tandem to “cure” the new tattoo. “And I hope you’ll stop by.”
Finally, after three scalding, excruciating minutes Irvin seemed to snap out of his agony-induced coma and abruptly removed the boiling, steaming iron from his thigh, stripping sickening streamers of boiled, dying flesh from his shivering leg, which stuck to the hot iron like wet egg noodles dangling from a sticky fly strip. Imprinted against the raw, skinless striated muscle of his 4th-degree burned thigh was an iron-shaped green and blue blob that hardly resembled anything at all.
“Give me a day or two to work the kinks out,” he gasped as he opened a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a Morton salt shaker, apparently used in tandem to “cure” the new tattoo. “And I hope you’ll stop by.”
1 Effusive Praises:
Check Susan's yahoo account for kid's drawings.
Walt
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