The rooftop terrace of Gaga’s Malibu estate had been transformed
into an open-air tattoo parlor for the evening. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, candles flickered on every surface, and a massive projector screen had been set up against the far wall. Lady Gaga, clad in a flowing kaftan that could have doubled as a parachute, stood before the screen with a remote control in hand, cycling through images with the fervor of a woman possessed.
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Catherine Zeta-Jones lounged on a chaise lounge, a glass of champagne balanced on her stomach. Rihanna sat cross-legged on a velvet cushion, Penelope the rosella dozing on her left shoulder while Gerald the king-parrot kept watch from her right. Both birds looked deeply skeptical of the evening’s proceedings.
“Alright, ladies,” Gaga announced, clicking the remote. “I’ve narrowed it down to seventeen potential designs. I’m leaning toward numbers four, nine, and twelve, but I’m open to feedback. Catherine, you first. What catches your eye?”
The screen flickered to life, displaying a grid of tattoo concepts. Catherine squinted, then pointed with her champagne flute.
“I like this one,” she said.
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Gaga’s face lit up. “Oh yeah? Me punching Mickey Mouse in the
face? I like it too. Very bold. Very anti-establishment. Very—”
“No,” Catherine interrupted. “Not that one. The one below it. You abseiling down a tofu Trump Tower. Good symbolism. Very layered. Environmentalism meets political commentary meets extreme sports.”
Gaga squinted at the screen, then burst out laughing. “Catherine, that’s not a tattoo concept. That’s a photograph. It took us three weeks to build that tower out of tofu. We had to hire a structural engineer. It was a nightmare. The tofu kept crumbling. We ended up using bamboo skewers as rebar.”
Rihanna leaned forward, suddenly interested. “You built a tofu replica of Trump Tower?”
“Seven feet tall,” Gaga said proudly. “It was for a performance art piece called ‘The Crumbling Facade.’ We dropped it off a crane at sunrise. It was beautiful. Very messy. The seagulls had a field day.”
Catherine set down her champagne. “And you’re telling me you didn’t consider getting that tattooed on your body?”
“It’s a photograph, Catherine. I can’t tattoo a photograph. That’s not how tattoos work.”
“Well, why not?” Catherine demanded. “People get portraits all the time. This is just a portrait of you abseiling down a tofu building. It’s art.”
“It’s a document,” Gaga corrected. “There’s a difference. Now, focus. We’re looking at tattoos. Real tattoos. Permanent ink on my very expensive skin.”
The screen changed to a new grid of images. Rihanna’s eyes
immediately gravitated to one in the corner.
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“I like this fern kinda tattoo,” she said, pointing.
Gaga and Catherine exchanged a look. Then, in perfect unison, they announced, “We knew you’d like that one.”
Rihanna’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you knew?”
Gaga grinned. “Catherine and I have been working on this little experiment. We’ve been tracking your reactions to various images for the last hour. You’ve gravitated toward every single fern, leaf, and botanical design. It’s a pattern, Rihanna. A compulsion.”
“It’s not a compulsion,” Rihanna said defensively. “I just appreciate nature. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating nature.”
“The fern you’re pointing at,” Catherine said, leaning forward, “is actually a close-up of a fern that was growing in a pot behind which you were hiding at the Met Gala in 2019. We have photographic evidence.”
Rihanna’s mouth fell open. “You’ve been documenting my plant-related activities?”
“Documenting,” Gaga said, “is a strong word. Observing is more accurate. Cataloging, perhaps. We have a shared folder. Catherine contributed several photos from the Oscars after-party. You were behind a very suspicious monstera for nearly eight minutes.”
“The monstera was providing shade,” Rihanna insisted. “It was hot.”
“The monstera was providing cover,” Gaga corrected. “And it’s okay. We understand. We don’t judge. We just want to give you a tattoo that truly reflects your essence. And your essence, darling, is chlorophyll.”
Rihanna stared at them, her expression unreadable. Penelope the rosella let out a soft, questioning chirp. Gerald the king-parrot shook his head slowly, as if to say, I told you they were onto us.
“Fine,” Rihanna said finally. “I do like the fern. But I’m also interested in the one of a parrot. Is that an option?”
Gaga clicked the remote triumphantly. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve included several bird designs as a tribute to your feathery companions. This one, for example, is a rosella mid-flight. And this one is a king-parrot looking judgmental. Very on-brand.”
Rihanna studied the images, her expression softening. “Those are beautiful. Actually beautiful. Not ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” Gaga said. “I have my moments. Now, Catherine, what about you? Any designs that speak to your soul?”
Catherine considered the screen. “I’m drawn to the one with the vintage microphone. And the one with the Oscar statue. And the one that’s just a very dramatic eyebrow. That one feels personal.”
“That’s your eyebrow,” Gaga said. “I traced it from a screenshot of Chicago. It’s iconic.”
Catherine laughed, genuinely delighted. “You traced my eyebrow? For a tattoo concept?”
“I traced your eyebrow,” Gaga confirmed. “I’m a woman of detail. Also, I was very bored on a private jet. You’d be surprised what I can accomplish with a stylus and a tablet.”
Rihanna stood, the birds adjusting their grip on her shoulders. She walked closer to the screen, studying the fern design with newfound appreciation.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll admit it. I do have a thing for ferns. And I do occasionally use them as cover. But it’s not a problem. It’s a preference. Like how Gaga has a preference for naming her pets after tradespeople.”
“That’s completely different,” Gaga said. “Plumber is a visionary. Plumber has a calling.”
“Plumber is a cat who chews on wrenches,” Rihanna countered.
“He’s practicing,” Gaga insisted.
Catherine raised her hand. “Ladies, can we focus? We’re here to discuss tattoos. Not cats. Not ferns. Not tofu buildings. Tattoos.”
“Right,” Gaga said, clicking the remote. “Back to the options. I’ve also included a design of me riding a giant platypus. Very Australian. Very meaningful.”
“Is that a photograph too?” Catherine asked warily.
“No,” Gaga said. “But it could be. I have a guy. Kevin from Hoboken. He knows a platypus wrangler.”
Rihanna sighed. “Of course he does.”
Penelope the rosella let out a long, musical trill that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Gerald the king-parrot nodded sagely, as if to say, This is exactly the kind of chaos I signed up for.
And somewhere, in a small apartment in Hoboken, Kevin sneezed and wondered why his ears were burning.
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