In the bustling town of Qazvin, where wrestlers proudly wore tattoos like badges of honor, a man walked into a bathhouse one day, pretending to be one of them. He wasn’t a wrestler—never lifted a weight heavier than a teacup—but he wanted the world to think otherwise.
“I want a tattoo of a lion,” he declared boldly to the tattoo artist. “Make it fierce and mighty. My zodiac sign is Leo, so use your darkest ink. It should roar strength!”
The artist nodded, prepared his tools, and began his work. But as soon as the needle touched skin, the man flinched and cried out, “Wait—what part are you doing?”
“The tail,” said the artist calmly.
“Leave the tail. Start somewhere else,” the man demanded, clutching his arm.
The artist sighed and moved on. A few piercings later, the man screamed again. “What are you working on now?”
“The ear,” said the artist, visibly annoyed.
“Forget the ear. Do another part!”
By now, the artist’s patience was hanging by a thread. Still, he tried once more. But when the needle touched again, the man howled like a child.
“Which part now?”
“The belly,” the artist muttered.
“No, no! Leave the belly! Why does a lion even need a belly?”
That was the final straw. The tattoo artist threw down his tools in fury. “Enough! How can I make a lion without a tail, an ear, or a belly? Even God didn’t make such a creature!”
And with that, he dragged the man by his collar and threw him out into the cold, half-inked and fully humiliated.

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