Burning would be my bag, baby.
You, with your moles and your freckles and your skin covered in dark abrasions would come to me looking for help. Fed up with having to be one of those people without pure un-marred skin, you would come to my office (which would be out of the back of my mini-van) and hand me the cash as fast as you possible could. I would pull out my steaming, crackling metal devices, approach that freckle that looks like Antarctica on your forearm and get down to business.
You would call me The Freckle Lancer and it would all make sense.