[Times photo: Douglas R. Clifford]
Jimmie Keene of Tampa is treated Tuesday by Anna DeGraff at the Cosmetic Laser Center in Clearwater. She uses a laser on Keene's neck, which ruptures the skin pigment, allowing the body's immune system to break up the ink.

They run from his ankles to his ears, inside his mouth, across his chest, down his arms. They include Chinese symbols, bluebirds and demonic faces and words like Destiny, Fate and Rage.

He started getting them at 15.

"I just didn't care," says Keene, a geotechnical engineering major at Hillsborough Community College. "I had all of these by the time I was 19."

But now he does care. He spent four years in the Army and wants to re-enlist.

"When I was in service before, it didn't matter. They are stricter now," he says. "And even when I get out, I want to be able to interview for jobs."

So he visits DeGraff every three weeks to chip away at the artwork on his stomach, wrists, leg, behind his ear and on the back of his neck.

Getting only some of them off costs more than getting all of them on -- about $6,000 for Keene's treatment.

He's not alone. The tattoo removal business is booming.

"It's a huge market," says DeGraff, who has been on the job six years. "I've removed thousands."

The number of tattoo parlors nationwide jumped from about 300 in the late 1970s to more than 4,000 by 1999, according to the American Academy of Dermatology.

With the flood of tattoos comes an inevitable collection of people with second thoughts, like Keene.

For his cash and time, he gets another round of pain.

DeGraff empties two syringes, putting shots of anesthesia in Keene's neck, which makes even his tongue numb. She cranks up the bulky laser machine, and the two slide on green-lensed goggles.

"You ready, buddy?" she asks.

"Sure," he says.

"Is that good?" she asks, aiming her light saber at his skin and firing short bursts that illuminate the small room.

"Not really," he says, wincing. He squeezes a small sand-filled balloon until his knuckles turn white.

The room smells slightly of burnt flesh.

Who ever said tattoos are forever?

* * *

There are no stereotypes. Doctors, dancers, ministers, attorneys, police officers, college students, 80-year-old retirees -- they all come.

The reasons vary -- that nagging reminder of an old boyfriend, disapproving glances at job interviews, kids who start questioning that dragon on dad's back, or simply a change in lifestyle.

"People grow up, I guess," DeGraff said. "What they thought was cool at 20 isn't cool anymore at 30."

No matter the reason, they come in droves. DeGraff estimates that 30 to 60 patients visit her Clearwater office each week.

Most tattoo artists realize that some of their customers will wind up visiting DeGraff and others like her. That's why they issue warnings.

"I discourage anyone from doing an impulse buy. I don't want that on my conscience," said James "Dr. Dan" Daniel, a tattoo artist at Body Accessories in Land O'Lakes. "And I strongly discourage people from getting name tattoos. That's the biggest jinx."

One reason to reconsider getting a tattoo you might later remove: it isn't cheap.

Sessions with DeGraff start at about $150, with an average of seven sessions to remove a tattoo. That's comes to roughly $1,000 per tattoo.

* * *

With the money comes a guarantee that the tattoo will at worst fade significantly, at best disappear without a trace.

Today, almost all tattoos are removed with lasers, a method less excruciating than the alternatives.

Only a few years ago, the only options for tattoo removal were dermabrasion, a process of sanding away the skin; salibration, in which salt is grinded into the skin; and excision, in which the tattooed skin is cut away, either all at once or in portions.

Lasers arrived in the mid 1980s, and the first were relatively primitive, burning off not only the tattoo but also surrounding tissue. They got rid of the color but usually left a scar the shape of the tattoo.

As technology improved, so did the ability to safely erase imperfections on the skin, everything from small birthmarks to port wine stains.

DeGraff uses a model called the RD-1200 Q-switched Ruby laser, which emits a short burst of red light that ruptures the skin pigment, then relies on the body's immune system to break up the ink, causing the tattoo to fade with each treatment.

Some patients say each laser blast, which sears a pencil eraser-sized spot on the skin, feels like a rubber band snapping against the skin.

The treatment has practical uses beyond improving cosmetic appearance.

Various nonprofit organizations, many of them in California, offer free removals to people eager to cut ties to gangs or racists groups, which often brand their members with tattoos.

For much the same reason, the Army will foot the bill to remove soldiers' tattoos that "do not comply" with department policy.

* * *

Bob Hines, 52, revels in watching the skulls and names on his arms fade away. The Largo man works in management now, and the whims of 25 years ago don't look classy in business meetings.

"Your priorities in life change, and the (removal) process is so simple, it's a no-brainer," Hines says. "I've got three grandsons now, and I prefer they see me taking them off instead of putting any new ones on."

Michael Schertz, a 24-year-old commercial real estate worker in Clearwater, sings the same tune. That fire-breathing dragon on his left arm doesn't seem as studly as it did at 17.

"I was young. I did it on a whim. It was a big mistake," Schertz says. "I don't want to be 75 with a tattoo that's all wrinkled."

Back at DeGraff's office, Keene's treatment for the day wraps up. DeGraff applies a local anesthetic and bandages to his neck and sends him on his way until the next visit, only weeks away.

Keene climbs into his black Jeep and disappears down U.S. 19, a little less decorated than before.

-- Times researcher Kitty Bennett contributed to this report.

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