Sarah Unice left Pittsfield, Ohio when she was seventeen. The confused daughter of white people, Sarah struggled her entire life to develop her own style. She knew the second she peeled open her first “Dynamite” magazine.. that “image” was everything (later confirmed by Andre Agassi). Unfortunately for Sarah, she was never taught that being cool was a state of mind. She started believing early in life that conformity was the key to cultivating style and would spend her adolescence poorly mimicking the fashions of other kids. Consequently, everything Sarah touched immediately fell out of style. This made the kids very angry because they would have to throw away clothes, shoes, video game systems, etc. weekly just to stay ahead of her. Cool kids sensed that Sarah was more than the average dork, and although they were capable of being very mean, decided that she was something too evil to confront and they stayed away from her. This did not deter Sarah from pursuing her dreams of ultimate coolness, and after graduating high school and being wait-listed from six community colleges, Sarah decided to continue her fashion-killing spree in New York City.

Sarah stepped off the bus at Penn Station still reeling from “Mannequin II,” Peter Pan’s Eastbound film for 1995. She soon found herself living in Alphabet City, a neighborhood that was becoming an oasis for young people looking to re-invent themselves.

Sarah was determined to make a statement. She’d try harder than she ever had in Ohio. She was up against something bigger however. Alphabet City had a radical reputation guarded vigilantly by bohemians who would do more than ignore you if you threatened their way of life (and Sarah Unice made Rudolph Giulliani look like Iggy Pop).

Sarah began to construct her new urban image by subscribing to every fad that hit the East Village. She wore edgy T-shirts that would say things like “Atari” and “Cheerios.” She cruised up and down Avenue A on a vintage bike with a banana seat (the campiest of the fruit-shaped seats). She formed a girl-band that sucked on purpose! Once again, the harder she tried to be noticed, the more people rejected her. Her every move was the egregious attempt of a small-town girl to stand out. And because everyone in Alphabet City was desperate to stand out, looking at Sarah was like looking in the mirror. The hipsters could not handle the truth, so to defend their eccentricity, they labeled Sarah “anti-substance,” and banned her from the bar 7B. This did not stop her from unleashing lame vibes throughout the neighborhood, and by the end of the century, Sarah Unice became solely responsible for destroying almost every single thing that was cool about being an Alphabet City inhabitant. Everyone knew her and everyone feared her ability to dismantle an entire culture simply by being a part of it.

Until one day, people decided she had to be stopped.

It was official. On July 1, 2002, Sarah Unice was reported by the Village Voice as being the last remaining woman in Alphabet City to not have a tattoo on her lower back. The lower back tattoo had spread like wildfire throughout the lettered streets, and despite the fact that every woman had one, it remained the coolest, sexiest body-augmentation since the belly button ring. Sarah wanted one.

The people declared this an emergency. They knew the implications: if Sarah got her wish, the profound meaning behind all lower back tattoos would be rendered obsolete and the women of Alphabet City would be stuck sporting suns, butterflies and Chinese letters above their butts in complete vain!

The neighborhood was on full alert. Operation “Tattooless Unice” was underway. A neighborhood midriff watch was set up within a two-mile radius of Sarah’s apartment. Random back searches were issued to make sure Sarah was not operating incognito. People falsely befriended her and would implore, “Are you really going to want a lightning bolt on your back when you’re 70 years old? It’s gonna look stupid!” (A squatter operative discovered, by peeking in Sarah’s journal when she went to the restroom at a coffee shop, that a lightning bolt was the design Sarah desired. The significance was yet to be determined. Knowing Sarah, there was none.) Alphabet locals were on edge twenty-four/seven. Something had to give. Soon Sarah would find someone willing to accommodate her even if she had to cross the Williamsburg Bridge.

Considered an ally of Alphabet City, and directly across the river, Williamsburg, Brooklyn was one of the super-powers of hip. But ever since Elian Von Wallace, an Avenue B resident, was caught trying to raft across the East River in search of better sushi, relations between the two neighborhoods had been shaky. And now, special Alphabet agents had reported that Sarah had been seen holding several meetings in Williamsburg with a gentleman who fashioned two full sleeves of bitchin’ dragon tats. Who was this man? Did he have the tools? Would he be willing to instigate a war with the stroke of a needle? Did he dig the White Stripes?

Alphabet City was rumored to be the target of a malicious attack. The man known as “The Dragon” was being carefully watched. The Dragon had several meetings a day with other young hipster wannabes like Sarah (always at different residential locations in Williamsburg) which indicated that he was either plotting an assault or couch surfing. Sarah was still confirmed tattooless but time was running out. Until finally something happened.

It was a frigid February morning and the Dragon stepped into a Chase Bank for his weekly deposit. After exchanging several pleasantries with the teller, the Dragon offered her his business card. In the process of pulling the card from his wallet, another card fell to the ground unnoticed, except by the man in line behind him who happened to be a hired trail. The card was the first of several clues that would lead to the truth about Sarah Unice.

The Dragon’s card read “Independent Broker.” He was a real estate agent, and sure enough, that same morning as the Dragon walked out of the Chase Bank never to be thought of again by the Alphabetians, across the river in Williamsburg Brooklyn, Sarah Unice was spotted in a 20-foot U-Haul truck pulling up to her new apartment on Bedford Ave. It was moving day.

As she packed her last load and dropped the keys off with the super, Sarah smiled because she knew Williamsburg was the place to be. In her mind, she was once again ahead of the game. She was going to be the coolest, hippest chick on Bedford. If Sarah had adjusted the rear view mirror properly on the U-Haul, she would have noticed a joyous parade following her to the bridge as she exited Manhattan.

Two weeks after moving into her new apartment, Sarah was inscribed with a lightning bolt on the small of her back. Brooklyn would never be the same.