Early 1990’s in France, you’re wandering the streets late at night to look for some weekend fun, to which you stumble across a club with blaring music and lights—a neon sign hung at the top that reads: Pandemonium.

This could be fun. Maybe.

Just as you’re about to head in, a man in all black pushes past you, and you shoot him a glare.

“Excuse me.” You snap. “That’s all you have to say to a girl.”

He suddenly stops and turns to face you, scowling a little. “You can see me? You’re not to supposed to be able to see me.”

You give him the same look, then you look at the ink all over his arms and hands and neck.

That many tattoos? Yikes!