Lotta folks ask Nudibranch Frank questions about nudibranchs and to be honest he does not have the answers. He has a lot of t-shirts and tattoos of nudibranchs, he thinks, but he’s never been quite sure what the precise definition of a nudibranch is. He just goes in and asks for a new tattoo and the tattoo artists figure it out, and after awhile his friends and family and, hell, coworkers, they all start buying him nudibranch pins and posters and whatnot and so from that he’s patched together a vague understanding of what they are. Some kind of aquatic worm? That comes in a bunch of shapes and colors? That’s about as far as he’s gotten.

It did spiral out of hand, yes, but he somehow hooked onto a group of drunk marine biologists during a convention and when they all decided to get tattoos it was too late to back out. Or it seemed like a good idea at the time. They’d picked out that first nudibranch for him, and one of them might have actually given him the tattoo, now that he thinks about it? He has a vague memory of needles and ballpoint pens and zippo lighters, and somewhere high on his back is a stick and poke done in an amateur hand.

They’re pretty things, anyway. Lotta colors. He likes how colorful he is with his clothes off, it’s like being a human skittle. He keeps in touch with the scientists, and every time there’s a convention somewhere nearby they’ll meet up again.