The Hacked Tattoo

“Does this tattoo parlor give the new high-tech tattoos?”

“Sure. We give several kinds. What did you have in mind?”

“I heard there was a type of tattoo which could transport me to a vacation spot, like a Bermuda.”

“We have a few for vacation spots. The one for a Bermuda beach is the best developed. It takes about five minutes to travel back and forth. You go to a pristine beach with a good surf and plenty of sunshine. You also get put into swim trunks and you get a towel, and some spending money for food and drinks.”

“That’s what I’d like. I haven’t taken a proper vacation in years. Bermuda would be great.”

“Would you like a tattoo of the sun on your arm?”

“Yes, I’d like a sun with a smiling face, just above my right wrist.”

It took him a little over two hours to do the tattoo. It looked like a regular tattoo procedure, but it was done in layers. It was a good-looking tattoo, something I’d want to show off. He told me that to travel back and forth from the Bermuda vacation, I should hold my left hand over the tattoo, covering it completely, for about five minutes.

The following weekend, I spent most of my time on the Bermuda beach. It seemed to good to be true. Maybe it was too good to be true. The following week, the tattoo was hacked.

I put my hand over my tattoo with eyes closed, ready to experience the warm sun and the salted sea air, when instead I smelled urine, feces, and body odor. The smells became stronger and stronger. Then someone with a hard shoe kicked me in the waist. I yelped in pain and in the shock of my senses.

“No lying down on the floor. Get onto your bunk.”

I opened my eyes, and a man in a guard’s uniform was standing over me. He took his night stick and whacked me on the arm.

“Get up. Now!”

I scrambled to get up and saw a lot of men milling around the stinky, stuffy, crowded room. Most of them, including me, had drab, grey, dirty garments. There were bars in place of a wall on one side of the room. I was in jail. I got on top of one of the many bunks. One of the other inmates pulled me off the bunk and I fell to the ground again.

“That’s my bunk. Get your own.”

I stood back up, and the man who pulled me off the bunk punched me in the stomach and then on the nose. I gasped for air and wiped my bleeding nose with my arm. I tried to get back home by putting my hand over the tattoo, but instead of being transported home, I felt a shock go through my body.

***

I’d been sweating and hadn’t taken a shower in a week. I was wearing the same drab grey prison issue clothes, which were filthy. The toilets were overflowing. I hadn’t eaten, and drank as little of the water as I could get by on. The tap wasn’t clean, either.

Finally, I was summoned to a room for questioning, or I was told I’d be questioned. I was taken to a room with a table between two chairs. A well-groomed bearded man in a business suit and shiny shoes came in and sat across from me.

“How’s your vacation been?” he asked.

“Not what I planned.”

He laughed and said, “There is one way to get out of here. You have to make a promise.”

“What kind of promise? Do I sell my soul?

“I’d have thought you’d be too sophisticated to concern yourself with having a soul. What you have to do when you get back is pick up a package at Pier 83 and take it to Long Island City.”

“What is the package? Explosives? Am I going to be responsible for a bomb going off?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Just cocaine. And if you agree to do it, you better go through with it. More of your experience here would be just the beginning of your troubles if you don’t do as you’re told. My associate will be in to give you the details of how you are to go about your duties as a messenger. He will also see that you are returned home.”

I was in no position to argue. I was finally back in my apartment a week after I had left, meaning I had missed work and probably didn’t have a job anymore. It was a relief to be back. I was told to groom myself well for my mission, which meant I had time to take a shower and shave. I would do what I had to do.

At the pier, I found the man I was looking for, a street vendor selling prints of paintings.

I approached him and said, “I heard you had some files you wanted to be put into storage.

He handed me a box the size and weight of a carton of paper. It smelled like coffee. I hailed a cab and took the box to a storage facility in Long Island City. I had memorized the storage door number and the combination to the lock. I made sure nobody else was on the floor of the storage facility. I was relieved when I opened the door to an empty space. Sometimes my memory fails me. I put the box in and locked the door.

From Long Island City, I took a cab directly back to the tattoo parlor. I saw Jim, who had given me the high-tech tattoo.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I got a high-tech tattoo here a couple of weeks ago, but it has been hacked. I had a nightmarish experience, and a run-in with organized crime.”

“Which tattoo was it?”

I showed him the sun with a face. “This one. It was to take me to Bermuda and back any time I wanted. I spent a week in a prison.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry about that. The Bermuda one is the most popular, but several people have had it hacked. The best thing to do is to go to a plastic surgeon and get the tattoo removed.”

“A plastic surgeon?”

“Yes. I know of one who has been really good at getting rid of high-tech tattoos. I’ll get in touch with him for you.”

Jim got out his cell phone and placed the call.

“He can see you in an hour. Is that okay?”

“That soon?”

“He understands it is an emergency. You don’t want to be manipulated by the hackers, do you? With a hacked tattoo, you can be traced, and they may find ways to transport you when and where they choose.”

“I’ll be there.”

Jim gave me the address for the plastic surgeon. He even refunded the payment for the tattoo.

“I’m really sorry you had a bad trip.”

That was Thursday. I maxed out my credit card to pay the plastic surgeon. It took about the same amount of time to remove the tattoo as it took took to get the tattoo in the first place. The tattoo had been dark, and there were traces left behind.

“Can the traces be hacked?” I asked.

“No. That is just regular tattoo ink. The tech part of the tattoo is completely gone.”

I went back home. I was glad to lie down in my own bed. I slept through most of the weekend. I didn’t have any dreams I remember. On Sunday, I woke up. I couldn’t stop drinking water. I quickly ran out of bottled water, and then drank tap water, glass after glass. I was never so appreciative of the luxury of a clean, private bathroom. I called out for a delivery of Chinese food. Then I called for a delivery of pizza. Finally, I ordered a big Reuben sandwich from a near-by deli. Feeling full, I went back to sleep for the night.

I had missed a week of work, and I hadn’t called in at all. I thought I most likely had lost my job, but it was an interesting job, with good pay and generous benefits. I decided to try to explain my absence to my boss, to see if she would have me back.

“I’m sorry I missed work without calling in, but I had one of those new high-tech tattoos, and it got hacked. I was lost in a nightmare. I couldn’t call or anything.”

“A high-tech tattoo? Could I see it?”

I showed her my arm. “Only traces are left. I had it surgically removed because it became dangerous.”

“Yeah, I can see where it was. I have several tattoos and had heard that those high-tech tattoos were really great. Which one was it, and what happened?”

“It was the Bermuda beach one. The first few times I tapped the tattoo’s power, I had wonderful trips to Bermuda’s beaches, but last week I tried it again, and was in a filthy, stinky, crowded prison. I got beaten up a few times, but learned to keep a low profile and stay out of the way. I was there for almost a week.”

“I’m glad you told me about that. I wouldn’t have thought those high-tech tattoos could be hacked. In fact, I was thinking of getting one this weekend. It would have probably been the Bermuda one, too. That sounds terrible. How do you feel now?”

“I think I’ve pretty much recovered. It’s good to be back.”

It has since been a year. I still have my job. The tattoo removal worked. I have nightmares about what happened, but I wake up at home in my apartment. I also haven’t had any more brushes with organized crime.