The ink was thirty years old, faded into my weathered skin, but the bold design was still unmistakable: a bald eagle perched on a steel I-beam, holding a heavy wrench, with the proud lettering of Ironworkers Local 444 wrapped tightly around it. Below the eagle, a single, authoritative word was stamped in heavy black font: PRESIDENT.
The fake officer glanced at the tattoo, his lip curling into a dismissive, arrogant smirk. "What is that supposed to be? Some kind of local gang stamp? You think a rusty tattoo on a senior citizen scares me?"