[ WP ] One day , everyone in the world wakes up with a tattoo depicting how they will die on them . You do n't have one .

`` I get it, I get it. You're mad. Yeah, yeah. Look, I do n't *feel* as fortunate as you think I do. Your tatt looks like a fishing pole - So you just avoid fishing, right? Live a long happy life. Do you even *like* fishing?'' 
 
 The man glared at me, the gun in his hand shaking a bit more now. 
 
 `` I did n't think so. So, why even do this? ``, I asked calmly. I had nothing to worry about. I dealt with people like this a few times a week. 
 
 `` I-it's not fair. That's why! ``, the man shouted. 
 
 I felt the spittle from his angry words land on my cheek. Ugh, always the spittle-tossers. Maybe there is some sort of genetic predisposition relating to spittle-probability and likelihood of trying to kill me. With a soft sigh I looked around the docks trying to figure out how the next few minutes would play out. 
 
 We were standing at the end of long pier. Fishing boats lashed to the worn wooden poles bobbed like solemn heads agreeing with the unfolding of events. The sun had nearly fallen below the horizon. Already I could see what I imagined was venus, or mars, or something. I took another step back away from the angry stranger. Closer to the edge. 
 
 `` Well, I've got things to do. So, go on... do the thing. ``, I smiled at the man. 
 
 He grimaced in response, mocking me, `` Do the thing? Do the *thing*! Oh, I'll do the thing alright...'' 
 
 It happened quickly, as it always does. And just like every other time, I watched the events unfold as if the world was stuck in one of those fancy slo-mo cameras. 
 
 The man, obviously furious now, took a long step towards me. The old revolver in his hand pointed directly at my face. His leading foot happened to step directly onto some slack rope, apparently an old dock line, and he began to fall. One small splash, the revolver. One larger splash, the man. 
 
 I walked to the side and peered over, expecting him to already be dead somehow. Nope, there he was, splashing around in an undignified manner. I offered him a hand which he promptly ignored. I shrugged and walked away. No threat. 
 
 As my foot touched upon the sand of the shore I heard an awful sound. Ever tore a chicken leg in half to get to the good meat? It sounded like that - just louder. I pursed my lips and turned around. Ah, there it is. Sometimes its delayed. 
 
 Pinned between the dock and an unkempt looking fishing boat was the man. His arms were laying limply on the dock and his rib cage was crushed. I thought I saw his eyes flicker in my direction just as a wave moved the boat away again, letting the body fall silently into the dark water. 
 
 Squinting at the scene one last time, I read the name of the boat to myself, `` Fishful Thinking...'' 
 
 The tattoo-maker has a sense of humor.
