On Route 66, in a town where the wind outnumbers the people and “peace and quiet” isn’t just a saying, there’s a storefront that hums with something ancient and electric. It’s not the buzz of traffic—it’s the low, steady rhythm of a tattoo machine. And inside Crimson Spade Tattoo, you’ll find a lot more than ink.
The shop is run by Eric Peña and Brandy Ramos, a couple whose love story is as steady as their work ethic. “We’ve been together three years,” Brandy said, laughing as they both hesitated to say it out loud. “At work and at home—it’s 24/7.” That’s business partners in the front, ride-ordie at the back.
But this isn’t just a tattoo shop. This is the only licensed tattoo parlor in all of Beckham County. And Eric didn’t land here by accident.
FROM GRAFFITI TO THE STOCKYARDS Eric’s tattoo career started when he was twelve—twelve. A man fresh out of prison handed him a tattoo machine in exchange for inking his old lady’s name. What followed was a life steeped in art, grit, and transformation.
Eric went from graffiti tags in East Dallas to bouncing through Round Rock, Austin, and eventually Grand Prairie. He honed his skills in some of the busiest shops in Texas—including 360 Blues & Tattoos in Arlington, a fast-paced shop with eight artists and three piercers that felt more like a nightclub than a parlor.
Eventually, he opened Crimson Spade in the world-famous Fort Worth Stockyards. “Back then it was still the real Stockyards,” he said. “No renovations, no mural alley, just locals and loud nights.” His shop shared a backyard with Cadillac’s, and the tattoo chair never sat cold for long.
But somewhere between the bustle of big-city ink and the quiet ache for something else, Eric and Brandy found their way to Sayre.
FINDING PEACE IN WESTERN OKLAHOMA The first time they visited western Oklahoma, it was Christmas. They stayed in an Airbnb in Elk City.
“I just remember the silence,” Eric said. “No traffic, no sirens. Just peace. I’d never felt anything like it.” Brandy, originally from the area, still had family ties nearby. Sayre, they decided, might just be the place.
They didn’t land in Sayre by accident. After years in the Metroplex and the pressure that came with it, they were drawn here by something quieter—something that felt like it had been waiting for them.
When they arrived, things just started to fall into place. The right space. The right timing. The kind of quiet grace that makes you feel like you’re meant to be somewhere. It was about alignment. And in a world that rarely slows down long enough for those moments to happen, they knew this one mattered.
Since opening their doors, Sayre has responded with something rare: full-hearted acceptance. “Before we even opened, people were knocking,” Brandy said. “We posted online, and the community showed up before the paint was dry.”
ART, MEMORY, AND THE WEIGHT OF INK
Ask Eric about his most memorable piece, and his voice slows. “The elephant,” he says quietly. A massive back piece, drawn and shaded over 17 hours. “I didn’t know if I could pull it off. It was just one big solid image—I had to get it right.”
But it’s not just the technical challenge. Every tattoo carries a story. “Some folks come in with their baby’s footprints, or the EKG line of a son who didn’t make it,” he said. “It’s more than ink. It’s therapy. It’s memory.”
Brandy nodded. “There’s real emotion in that chair. And Eric feels it—every time.”
She handles the logistics—consent forms, bills, scheduling. “I try to take all the stress off him,” she said. “So he can focus on the client.”
The emotional toll adds up. “Every time someone walks out, they’re taking a piece of him with them,” Brandy said. “That’s a lot to carry.”
SKYDIVING, APPRENTICESHIP, AND CIVIC DUTY Last October, Eric and his son went skydiving together. “He invited me, said he wanted to do this with me before shipping out,” Eric said. His son will soon be stationed in Arizona with the United States Air Force.
Eric’s legacy may go far beyond family. He’s been flooded with requests for apprenticeships. “I’ve got someone in mind,” he said. “He’s serious. He was driving to Oklahoma City to learn—but no one there wanted to teach him.”
For Eric, it’s not about gatekeeping. “I’m not gonna be here forever. I want the craft to keep going. But you’ve got to earn it. You start by cleaning the shop. That’s old school. That’s how I started.”
And his shop isn’t just building artists— it’s building community. Crimson Spade offers 15% discounts for military and first responders. They’re planning a toy drive, blanket collections, and even a “get-whatyou- get” gumball machine for kids filled with fun, temporary tattoo designs.
They’ve hosted Easter egg hunts and plan to be a fixture at local events like the Wild Plum Festival. “We want to be part of the community, not just a business sitting in it,” Brandy said.
A NEW KIND OF ARTIST IN AN OLD KIND OF TOWN Tattooing has changed. Once reserved for sailors, bikers, and bar fights, it’s now a family affair. “We’ve even had up to five generations walk through our doors— grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, and more,” Brandy said.
Even in a conservative town, the stigma has faded. “We thought we’d get pushback,” Eric said. “Instead, we got support.”
The art has changed too. “Back then, you picked from a board,” Eric said. “Now it’s Pinterest and custom designs. People walk in with phone screenshots and deep stories.”
And even the small ones matter. “Behind- the-ear butterfly? If it means something to you, it means something to me.”
Eric’s calendar is full, his phone rings nonstop, and his work speaks louder than any ad campaign. He doesn’t just see clients— he sees people.
FINAL INK
They may not have come to Sayre to build an empire, but they’re building something more lasting: trust, memory, and meaning.
No charity. No confusion. Just clean, poetic alignment with what this story is really about.
If there’s one thing this reporter keeps hearing in western Oklahoma—from tattoo artists to bull breeders—it’s red dirt, community, neighbors, and peace. The kind of peace that comes from battling the wind, the grit, the distance… and still calling it home.
