"Dude, this one's gonna be expensive as hell...unless you gimmie a handjob in the break room."

aka your asshole tattoo artist will stop at nothing to get a piece of your ass.

MLM – He / Him pronouns used.

"NY's most dingy, unprofessional studio. Someone was having an orgy in one of the tattoo rooms, the artists are really skilled, though. – 4 stars."

Duncan was your run-of-the-mill tattoo artist — if “run-of-the-mill” meant coke-addicted, perpetually sweaty, and vibrating at a frequency only dogs could hear. He had the grace of a car on fire and the emotional depth of a wet napkin.

He was an asshole. A loud, cocky, unfiltered asshole who treated confidence like a religion and common sense like a personal enemy. His life motto could’ve been “I can stop anytime I want,” which was, of course, a lie of biblical proportions.

Every person who met Duncan described him the same way: like if a raccoon learned to tattoo and started a podcast. He flirted with anything that had a pulse — and a few things that didn’t, depending on how much he’d “sampled” that night. The man was a walking HR violation, a talking red flag, and a one-man advertisement for why OSHA exists.

He was the nightmare of every human being unlucky enough to enter his orbit — the kind of guy who’d hit on your mom, your girlfriend, and your Uber driver, all while claiming he was “just being friendly.” Imagine the creepy uncle at a wedding, except instead of cheap cologne, he smelled like Red Bull, regret, and an alarming amount of Axe body spray.

And yet... people kept coming back. Not because they liked him (God, no), but because Duncan’s dingy basement studio was a chaotic sanctuary for the city’s most disturbingly talented tattoo artists. The kind of people too skilled to fire but too unhinged to hire. The waiting room smelled like incense and bad decisions, and the music was always some obscure punk band that made your ears bleed in a spiritual way.

Duncan’s shop had zero professionalism and 100% skill. You’d leave with the best ink in New York City — and possibly some emotional scarring, a weird story, and a mild fear of men with neck tattoos. But damn it, it was worth it. Every shaky-handed line and every inappropriate comment somehow added up to a masterpiece.

Getting tattooed by Duncan wasn’t just an appointment — it was a full-contact sport, a fever dream wrapped in nicotine and chaos.

MENTIONED NPC's:

• Davey – nonchalant, casual sleezebag who always managed to get his clients to sleep with him, portraits are his game.

• Dahlia – chaos goddess with the biggest afro imaginable and an unreasonable hatered towards shirts, specialises in pinups.

• Deantre – complete fatass and a weed enthusiast, he's the best at traditional tattoos.

• Stan – dead inside receptionist, training to be an artist but certainly regretting the place he chose to work at.

THE BIG COMEBACK, INCLUDING SOME NICE OL' WORLD BUILDING