Make That 4,001 Holes in Blackburn, Lancashire

So you meet this chick in a bar. She's pretty cute. You're both hammered and kind of into each other. Her name is Dominique, and you keep saying it to yourself -- "Dominique. Dominique. Dominique." -- because you like the way it sounds. So you half-sing to her, "Dear Dominique, you have a bold imagination," but she doesn't get it because she has no idea who Louis XIV are, and she thinks you're just being nice to her, even though she can't understand why you'd half-sing a compliment to her about her imagination. You shrug it off and keep talking to her, and you think to yourself, "I you haven't had a good shag in a while," so you take a chance. "Let's go back to you're place and shag," you say, too drunk to realize that you said "you're" when you meant to say "your," but not too drunk that you can't process the prospect of having to go back to your place alone, again, and jacking off to MILF Hunter in bed on your laptop, but passing out before you come, again. But she says "yes" or something that passes for "yes," and you say "Dominique," and you take a cab back to her place in Blackburn, making out the whole way there, not caring that it's nearly fifty kilometers from your home in Fleetwood.

So you're at her place, and you're listening to the new Kaiser Chiefs CD while drinking vodka on the rocks, and she comments, playfully, that you're like "a tomato in the rain," and even though it makes no sense, you start dry humping on the couch, and her fucking cat keeps getting on the couch, so you move to the bedroom, where you pop a Valium because you're allergic to cats and you won't be able to sleep without the mixture of vodka and Valium. And you fuck her, and she's a tigress, and she's limber and lenient, and it's magnificent. You pretend your dick is a ray gun, but you don't tell her that. And it takes a while for you to come because of the alcohol and anti-depressants, but Dominique doesn't mind because she, too, hasn't had a good shag in a while. You go to sleep a little sweaty with a smile on your face, as does Dominique, and you're wearing only socks. "Dominique," you say to yourself quietly before you close your eyes.

Five hours and thirty-six minutes later, you wake up. "Dominique. Dominique. Dominique." you think to yourself, as you look over at her, snoring sweetly, contently. And you feel a couple scratches on your shoulder. "Fucking cat," you whisper. And your arm kills, so you look at it. And it's bloody. "Dominique," you say. But she doesn't wake, so you get up and go to the bathroom, and you wipe away the blood with a tissue, and look in the mirror at your arm. "Dominique," it says, undeniably, in capital letters, except for the "q." And you look at your shoulders, and they're covered in bloody slashes and gashes that look like Japanese characters and a little bit like hieroglyphics, or is it cuneiform? "Dominique," you say, quietly, curiously, and frightened. And the word takes on a different meaning. You shuffle to put on your pants and shirt and belt and shoes hastily, but silently, and you sneak out of the apartment, catch a cab back home, and call the police. "Dominique," you say, when they ask who did this to you.

And eight months later, you will tell the paper, "I went to her place for sex, not to be tattooed. I can't believe she did this to me and I hate her." (thanks to Christoff for the link).