This is a story I heard from an acquaintance of mine—let's call him A—who used to be a bit of a wild guy.

About twenty years ago, A went on a trip abroad with five friends who were just as wild as he was.

They were all guys in their early twenties, and the trip was packed with enough excitement to satisfy their young, wild spirits.

The day before they were set to head home, they found a cheap tattoo parlor on the outskirts of town.

Cool sample designs lined the walls, and the listed prices were dirt cheap.

Loving what they saw, they decided to get tattoos as souvenirs of their trip.

Except for A, who hated pain...

The others ribbed him for it, but despite acting tough, A couldn't stand pain and was terrified of even getting shots, so he flatly refused.

A couple in their fifties ran the parlor.

The husband, who was the artist, kept cracking Japanese comedy bits that were trendy at the time, while his wife brought out tea and snacks—they both seemed really nice.

He must have been pretty talented, because the tattoos turned out even cooler than expected.

"We can flex these the second we get back home!"

That's what they all thought.

Truth be told, A was actually pretty jealous.

Later on, however, it was discovered that every single guy who got inked had contracted HIV.