But Polito 2.0 has a bit more arbitrary coldness to attend to, so he clams up as Job pulls into the dusty parking lot. Jim doesn't waste any time before trying out material from The Big Book Of Transitional Sentences Straight Dudes Should Never, Ever Say To Each Other, Volume I with the transitional sentence, "Those are nice tattoos. Mind if I have a look?" I just hope he finds what he's looking for before he has to resort to the even more incendiary readings of "If you ask me, the director's commentary on Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss was even better than the movie itself" and "If you've got a hankering for the man-love, perhaps we could retire to your garage for a spot of the old anal sex." Predictably, Job is just slightly nonplused by this excess attention to his body, so he recoils slightly when Jim keeps pushing (ew, not like that) with the follow-up, "You wouldn't know anyone in town with a serpent tattoo, would you?" Job responds in a way that indicates he's read the chapter about being nice, but not too nice because you don't want to give them the wrong idea, mumbling something about not looking at other people all the time. But Jim wants to know who did Job's tattoos, lying, "I'm thinking of getting one." Job replies that the dude "only works on recommendation," and Jim Prufrock actually deigns to speak the line, "What is he, like, the Morris of tattoo artists?" What? WHAT? "That finicky?" Now, wait just a second. Is he actually talking about Morris the Cat, that finicky feline who just hates all that processed cat food made with tires and nails and horses, but adores the delightful flavor of Nine Lives? There's no way, right? It's just too random to fit all the way inside my brain and rest comfortably. Why would he say it? Why would anyone say it? Job ignores the line, because he's not paid to face down other people's misguided nods to kitschy '80s animal pitchmen and counter by following with twelve zillion of his own, and I am. Job asserts that the tattoo artist in question doesn't like it when people show up for the novelty of getting a tattoo and sober up and get mad, and Jim promises that he's pretty intent on getting one. But Job wants to know why Jim wants to find the man with the serpent on his arm, and the intrepid taxman keeps keeping everything close to the vest except for one tiny element in his mounting case called proprietary information, admitting, "I saw him kill someone." Who? We learn again for the ninetieth time. Job warns Jim, "He only works when he wants to, so you're going to have to roll the dice." Jim's still flirting, for some reason: "He's like the cable guy." But Job's got a better comparison: "No, he's more like Morris. Finicky." That Job. Never forgets. Always follows his nose and always knows. He's like the Toucan Sam of tattoo advising and auto repair. That's who he is. That's just who he is.