The Ursine Semen Of Benign Bears

The Gears Never Rust

2011-12-20T13:33:00.000-08:00

The Gears Never Rust

Glenn Uncertain had done many great things in his life as an adventuring archeologist. He braved The Tombs of Technokahmen. Faced down an army of tanks made from ancient American Indian bones that fired their malevolent spirits from the tank‘s turret. He even read the illustrated edition of the book written by Grand Visor of Horrible Deaths. None of that phased him. However, there was only one thing in the world that terrified him: The Cog Sphere.

Resting at the top of a tower of brass steam pipes and valves The Cog Sphere’s clockwork gears turned endlessly for an unknown and meaningless purpose in the center of Sprocketburg.

Glenn Uncertain was the man who first discovered it hidden deep beneath the earth. Glenn described it, soon after it’s unearthing, to his dear friend Alexander Uncertain¹
in a letter as, “A birds nest of polished metal that ticked, tocked, writhed, and twisted itself in the dirt with a terrifying vivacity. It’s shape an incomprehensible form that is beyond the conception of the minds of men”.
The Cog Sphere quickly developed a unique fascination by most of those who laid eyes on it and quickly became the jewel of the city. The people decided that it was rare discovery that needed to be displayed proudly. But Glenn soon realized that those who looked upon it’s hypnotic motion for too long soon started to get strange new ideas.

It’s dark influence began to spread throughout the city and “The Madness” set upon the town and things began to change. The most drastic change being that before The Sphere’s arrival the town used to be called Edistown in celebration the man who invented electricity, but after it arrived the people changed Edistown to Sprocketburg. A name that celebrate the old ways of steam and oversized bolts.

Glenn himself was only able to protect himself from The Cog Sphere’s influence by observing the device through a pair of his multicolored science goggles. A pair, as he explained to Alexander, of being “Ingeniously infused with a little magic to reshape the world into something much more logical and less silly ridiculousness. If you were to observe, say, a Zeppelin² (or any other such inflatable dirigible), you would see in it’s place, an Areoplane of a very sensible design.”
When Alexander asked what Glenn saw when observing The Sphere he responded with “It appears as nothing. A black void of empty space. Existing only to take up space in an already crowded world.”

The people of Sprocketburg did not share Glenn’s fear and in fact chastised him for defaming the glorious technological revolution at hand. He had to stop working as an archeologist and was not allowed to leave the city.

During his imprisonment Glenn Uncertain began to document the changes in the people day by day³. On January 23 He describes the strange ornamentation that began to appear on the few priests that remained in town.

They had adorned queer additions of copper and brass gears attached to their newly adopted top hats. The gem encrusted cogs spinning pointlessly and fueled by small and unnaturally efficient steam engines they now all carried on their backs.

When Glenn asked about them he writes the priests responded thusly, “The Sphere gave us inspiration. Showed us how to tap into the diving power that can only be accessed by slightly tarnished tappets and screws.”

Over the next few days he saw more people were joining the priests in their new practice. Soon nearly every man, woman, and child had the mark of the Sphere’s influence. With in three months of the discovery of The Sphere, everyone began wearing jewelers glasses and extraneous vests, scarves, puffy shirts, and brass pocket watch chains. Each person trying desperately to out due the other in order to show their devotion to The Sphere.

Glenn writes solemnly in his journal. “The streets are empty again today. I look out my window and see no one. But I know that in each house there is a family hunched over a workbench desperately trying to find a new way to incorporate a cathode ray tube into their lapels. I fear that if I were able to see past the grease smeared lenses of their goggles I would see the hallow emptiness one would find in the glassy eyes of a clockwork toy.”

Glenn was not wrong. The townsfolk’s need to out done one another grew geometrically and architecturally⁴ over the course of five months. It was then the houses began to undergo their metamorphose. They became inexplicable messes of pipes, gears, and pneumatic tubes. Literally indiscernible from one another. Glenn described them as “The tendrils of The Sphere wrapping around the city, choking the last bit of life an culture out of its dying body”.

Glenn lamented that nobody in the city went on adventures any more. There was no more digging, no more romance, no more great battles of good and evil. There was only the Cog Sphere. It became life and life became purposeless. The human body became merely a means to decorate itself in the pointless machinery of The Sphere, which only served to decorate the human body, which was only a means to decorate itself in the pointless machinery of The Sphere, and so on. In under a year the town of Sprocketburg had become city wide embodiment of The Sphere.

One day Glenn put on his goggles all he saw around him was blackness. A void of usefulness and logic. Glenn described it was like closing your eyes and imagining the dumbest thing you possibly could. We think that it was this that finally drove him insane.

The last journal entry we have from him is as follows: “I can no longer abide by this. These people were once my friends but they aren’t anymore. They are gilded shades of their former selves and tonight I will free them. Perhaps in death they will find freedom from The Sphere⁵."

We know little about what happened next. We do know he left a trail of bodies behind him as he marched towards the tower of The Sphere. We do know that they found his body tattered and scared with severe burns from an explosion. We also know that the Sphere was no where to be found nor was any shrapnel that would have been produced by any explosion. All we have is a slightly singed note in Glenn Uncertain’s handwriting saying:

“--- long now. The burns will kill me soon. Have to tell. It opened for me. Showed me its core. Showed me the complex infrastructure of levers and chain belts that exist between. The terrifying complexity of the clockwork creatures probing the fabric of reality slowly trying to get through. Can‘t stop them. For them, there is no time.
The gears never rust.”

---------------------------------------------------
1. The two weren’t exactly related. At the time immaculate conceptions ran at about the same rate as the spread as agnosticism thus leading to a rather large family of fatherless children from a diety that may or may not exist.
2. A sort of mobile couch used by the fatuous and wealthy to observe, from above, sporting events.
3. See illustration.
4. The previous architecture was one of minimalism with a touch of arcadian-non-linear-refomism.
5. The original documents are a little difficult to read sometimes but most scholars believe that at the end of this foreboding sentence Glenn Uncertain had drawn a cartoon frowny face.

My Academic Career

2011-01-26T18:55:00.000-08:00

My day, the short version:

The very long version: (Note: I was going to draw pictures to seperate paragraphs but I am to tired so I'm going to use random pictures I found on the internet today)

I’ve never had a normal semester where everything goes exactly as it should. I don’t believe that actually happens. However it seems that recently I accidentally opened the setting on the universe and switched the difficulty level to extreme and can’t find it again to turn it back down.

Around a year and a half ago, during the summer I was staying at my parents for the summer as I started moving out of the dorms and into my apartment. During this time I began to have a series of panic attacks that only ever hit right before I would go to bed. This became a problem. So I went to the doctor and he put me on some daily anti-depressants. Soon the attacks went away and all was well. Till I moved into my apartment and started school again.

Now I once this happened unbeknownst to me I stopped having panic attacks and my brain chemistry returned to normal. HOWEVER if that happens and you are no longer suffering from anxiety and depression but you keep taking the medication like you are told to, it causes PROBLEMS. Brain refused to think properly, weeks of extended lethargy, and profound lack of focus of any kind. Made doing homework and going to class ummm… difficult. Especially as I had just moved a mile and a half away from campus with out a car.

On top of that it took nearly half the semester for my financial aid to finally go through and for half the semester I wasn’t even certain I would last till the end of the semester. A little after midterm I realized what was happening and I stopped taking the medication and tried to fix as much as I could but it was already too late and the damage was already done.

So I did BAD that semester. Like, REALLY REALLY, bad. Like, 0.00 gpa, bad. Not my proudest moment. Kinda kicks my pride in its massive nuts to even admit to the badness and stupidity on my part. But there it is.

So after that semester I got put on financial probation, basically the withhold the money the state is giving to you. Be that grants and scholarships or straight up loans from a bank.

That semester I did what I could and tried to pull my life back up out of the shit I found it in once I got of the meds. I did pretty well, but not necessarily stellar. I got all 15 hours I attempted and considering 1 of the classes was a 700 level class generally given to grad students I was feeling pretty alright.

After about a month of looking for summer work and stuff my parents got a letter informing them that I was academically dismissed from my school. WATTA TWIST! AMIRITE?

Apparently I had not done good enough and that I had to take a semester off and apply for reinstatement in the spring.

They also heavily suggested I apply to the local community college for a semester. So I did that. Which worked out ok, got a lot of general education requirements out of the way for pretty cheap. Allowed me to take some loan money and do some travlin to hang out with some(an) awesome people. Since all that shit was hella easy I did GREAT. Still not deans list, but still pretty great.

So I started on the arduous task of getting reinstated.

In order to do this, you need to fill out and petition of reinstatement. Which requires you to write what the deal is, why you want to come back, and your grades from schools you’ve attended since AND have your old university advisor to write a letter saying whether or not they thought you should be allowed back in or not. So I had to wait till after my grades were posted (after winter break started). And even though I turned my half in on the 3rd of the new year, literally the first day the offices opened, and event though I gave my adviser her half of the application before the winter break, I was just reinstated YESTERDAY.

GUESS WHAT! YESTERDAY WAS THE DAY TUITION WAS DUE! YAAAAAAY!
Now guess who found out today?

Yeeeeaaah. After I ran around all day today getting signatures from every professor I taking this semester, and getting enrolled and stuff getting taken care of I found out that if I didn’t get nearly $700 by today or $725 by next Wednesday and then $600 by friday I would be dropped and all this would have been for naught.

So off I skipped to the happiest place on earth, known as the financial aid department!

Turns out I’m still on financial aid suspension! And the committee that reviews the application for repealing that wont meet again till may 5th! Sooooooooooooooooo………. Yeeeeaaaaah…. I basically have to find someway to come up with $725 by next Wednesday and $1500 more in installments starting next Friday or get a non-student loan and hope they approve my appeals application so I can pay the loan off in May. So that’s where I’m at the moment. But that being said I am being optimistic.

Best case I get the non-student loan and get it paid off immediately and improve my credit score like a boss and kick ass this semester. Worse case scenario I take a semester off and get a real person job till I can get back in the Fall. Which isn’t the end of the world and would probably let me do even more travel and buy more art supplies.

But that’s the deal. I’ve got at least 4 more years of this bullshit. T___T

Weekend At The Movies

2010-08-15T20:02:00.001-07:00

I am so tired.

Commissions Part 2

2010-08-03T07:36:00.000-07:00

“Be afraid. Be TOO afraid”

The last of my commissions have been at last sent out which means I’m back and ready for more.

How this works:

You donate using the buttons listed below the deal you want then email me at poorklaus@gmail.com and tell me what you want me to be in your painting. I will then work feverously for days on end till my soul ascends to the seventh layer of the holy nega realm and you painting is completed.

So here’s the menu and as usual shipping and handling is included in the listed price unless you live out side the US in which case there is $5 extra shipping charge.

11X14 Paintings For $25

International

11X7 Paintings for $15

International

Postcard Size Paintings for $5

International

Any Sized Digital Paintings/Drawings for $5

Also for sale are

Vibrancy for $25

International

The Creative Process for $20

International

If you don’t see exactly what you want here email me at poorklaus@gmail.com and we can see if we can work something out!

LURVE,
Klaus.

A Summer of MS PAINT

2010-07-25T14:09:00.001-07:00

Its very boring at my parents house. Most of my time is spent blankly staring at my computer screen while listing to podcasts with people far more interesting than me. One day however to maintain my sanity and to keep from making dolls in the shape of my favorite podcasters I decided to start doodling in Paint. The following is the terrifying results of a summer of idleness and frustration.

Temptation

2010-07-25T14:07:00.000-07:00

I write this now to tell of a dark horror and sin that no man should have to bear on his own. Last night I committed a deed so black and dreadful I am not certain I will have the will to finish the narrative with out succumbing to the encroaching madness that is even know scratching at the gateway of my anxious mind.

Solitude is an unholy thing to young men. And during the deep hour of midnight the consumed mind deforms needs until they become twisted desires. Where even the supple brim of a dirty hat can send a normally moral man into decadent fantasias rife with immoral acts with erotic millinery.

It was in this haunting condition I found myself nearly thirteen hours before the present. Knowing that I would soon be fraught with the fever that takes all men, I sent to task hiding any and all tantalizing objects from my view and putting out all the lights. But in the devilish moonlight the clock struck 12 and my desperate gaze fell upon the fantastic globes that set at the end of my bed.

Atop the ridged wooden posts that surrounded my bed were large wooden sphere that in my addled mind I took to be the incandescent globes of delight that are the female bosom. I walked towards them sluggishly as if in a drunken stupor. I tried to resist but the foul hour was what controlled my body then. No amount of rational thought would of saved my virtue then.

The illusion was too complete and at half past midnight all ration thought left my body as it landed upon the moonlit wooden orb

What occurs next makes me wish to abandon this shameful memoir, for truly this is the story of my life, and end it all on the hard streets below. But I shall persevere for the sake that some day the description of which will lead to a possible cure for my impending dementia.

Once the evil had left my body I saw the bed post begin to shiver. Fear began to seep into my mind as the once rigid wooden posts began to wilt and shape shift into something more terrifying than I could imagine. Faces of the past and future screamed from the spheres condemning the earth to its irrelevant fate and destruction. The shining wood began to darken and grow in size and without warning burst through the wall that my bed had rest against. Leaving a great hole that let the cold night air rush into my morose room. Chilling to me the bone as I stood there staring in shock in only my socks.

I can still feel the cold air brushing against me as I write this. Even though I had patched up the hole this morning since I have not slept since. The reality and the terror of what I saw last night is still sinking in and I fear that once it finally does my mind will be completely lost. I can only hope this writing will serve to explain why I have gone mad and perhaps my bizarre lack of headwear.

---------------

Prompt by Tekkyh: " , when the night was still, and his company sparse, it occurred to him that his bed posts looked remarkably like breasts."

Sticky Fingers

2010-07-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

Max was walking home from work and so distracted by the prize he was clutching in his hands, he didn’t notice the 3 foot tall Albanian man walking towards him.

The dwarf, falling to the ground to get out of the way, shouted out to Max.

“What fuck’s your problem?”

Max’s problem was “Borrowing things”. From little things, like the little pens at banks, to bigger things, like the expensive string of round white polished stones that he was now carefully turning over in his hands. He thought the stones must have been made of marble or some sort of other high-end stone. He wondered how much they would catch at a pawn shop but quickly dismissed the idea.

Max rarely thought about the value of the things he took. It was about the little bolt of ecstasy that ran through his whole body when ever he would surreptitiously pocketed something. But, in the end Max would always give back what he stole. The thrill, guilt, and the shame of confession, were all apart of a neurotic ritual that he had to do be satisfied. And he had been doing it for years.

Max had been trying to quit. He worked as an electrician, and whenever he got a urge he’d just touch an exposed wire. The resulting heart pounding pain would get him what he need for the day to day. But, today, while he was working on a client’s walk-in-closet light fixtures, he had found the broken, yet beautiful, necklace stuffed into a small red silk box. Max couldn’t resist. He finished with his work and left with a smile a mile wide.

**************

The following week Max became obsessed. After days of lying in bed, he began to deeply inhale the sweet and sterile aroma that surrounded the stone beads. Soon he also began to dream of the bittersweet woman who must have worn the item.

Beauty and grace as she danced while an untouched porcine neck was garnished in luxury. A fiery society girl whose constant application of perfume gave the stones a glamorous oily finish. A wild vixen that left only the broken necklace behind when she broke his heart.

For days Max lived, breathed, and even tasted his most sacred treasure. Dreams of dreams built a strange paradise where he could escape at the end of the day to bathe in the object and its mystery owners serene beauty. But the cycle had to be completed. His pent up guilt and desire would not let him cling to his wild fantasies for any longer.

Max drove his car up the long winding driveway to the rich and prolific house on a the hill. Knocked on the intricately carved and polished wooden doors and offered up to the owner, a small balding man with suspicious eyes, his lost necklace. With a rubicund face, Max apologized for stealing, and asked for forgiveness.

The suspicious man’s eyes widened and through a flustered fit of stammering choked out,

“W-w-what could you… have p-p-possibly… What! Reason would you… “ Then in a whisper, “ would you want my a-a-anal beads for?”

Max, the romantic idiot, spent the next two days in the shower. Shaking.
---------------------------

The original prompt written by ME was: "The problem with kleptomania is that by rule of averages you WILL steal something that has been in a butt"

Ghetto Fabulous

2010-06-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

(HEY GUYZ WHATS GOIN ON IN THIS BLOG)

Proof that no matter how little an artist has to work with he will find some way to make it work.

Art Table:

Do note the clothing. They are what I use to dry my brushes. (if you know what I mean.)

Also note that Art Table is also Drying Space #1

The benefit of working out of my parents house for two weeks means I have access to the finest literature.

Drying Space # 2

And Lastly My Pallet

Dont Copy That Floppy. Seriously. It's ART.

Ectonovel: Chapter One

2010-06-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

PREFACE:

So what the hell is Ectonovel you ask? Well, about a month or two ago I was kicking around in IRC and I got the sudden urge to write a novel. And in keeping with my normal creative process I shouted (caps locked) into chat that I was going to take the next thing some one said and write a whole novel about it. The first one was "a murder mystery with the people in #ectomo" which I think came from corben the second was from Will that was "a party that has gone on forever" or something and so I decided to write about both.

Anyway, Im always open to suggestions and criticism. Bear in mind, this copy is still pretty raw. I haven't checked spelling or anything and it really isn't supposed to be anything but silly so enjoy.

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Chapter 1

I was staring out of the window in my cabin, out across the shifting water, when the reality of what I was about to do hit me. I was going to the bottom of the goddamn ocean. To an eternal party that had been going on since the early 1950’s. An endless celebration constantly being filled with the strangest and craziest folks from around the world. Creative types, scientist, and rouge professional wrestlers, all communally letting loose 24 hours a day for the past 60 years. All that energy mixing with the old and dark magic that exists down there couldn’t be good. Which was why I found myself being sent out to an ocean elevator in the middle of the pacific 900 miles away from civilization.

I was once a part of the police force. Spent my afternoons solving petty crimes and catching nameless murderers while my evenings were spent neck deep in history books and blacklisted tomes. For 20 years I managed kept my archaic hobbies to myself. Ever since I was a kid I had a interest in the occult, magic, and mystic beings. All through high school I read tons of campy fantasy books and watched tons horror movies. I still have a box set of “Elvira’s Movie Macabre” on VHS in my apartment. All of which fed my curiosity. As I got older the more information I was able to get a hold of. And as a result I got deeper and deeper into the more realistic side of my hobby. During my free time in the Police Academy in between grooming my perfect copstache and watching old action flicks I studied and memorized every Grimoire I could get my hands on.

From The Greater Key of Solomon to The Lost Text of Nichzlichezllen I learned as many things as I could. Devil summoning, hexes, old Germanic rituals, ghosts, and forgotten gods… I loved it. And for the most part I was able to keep that and my day job from interfering with each other. But, the day those two mixed was the day I was kicked off the force and I became a Klaus, the freelance Occult Detective. Nothing to spectacular to say about that day really.

I had just started being able to pull off little spells. Little illusions and summoning a few little demonic sprites here and there for fun. Nothing too big or complicated just enough to amuse me and a few of my fellow magicians. And one day, I was being reviewed by my boss for a possible promotion. He wanted to see how I would handle a small time drug bust. Simple break down a door and haul in some junkies. But the first house we busted had been fused with a demonic spirit. The stupid thing nearly killed me and my boss. Luckily the guy who bonded it was really dumb and it wasn’t difficult too break the bonding.

Unfortunately I was still learning too and breaking that bond without any precautions let loose all the pent up energy at once and blew the house sky high. I was only blind for a week but the boss lost his legs. Once I got out of the hospital I was delivered a letter informing me of my dishonorable discharge.

As much as I miss the old job, it gave me all the time I wanted to prefect my craft. I went into business for myself and for a while it paid off better than I could of hoped and it was fun.
I mean it was a rare profession and I had experience. Cases would flock to me and each one was just as interesting and crazy as the last and would pay just a little bit more. However, lately I had been living on animal crackers and peanut butter ever since I lost my retainer from the US government. They really didn’t like me after they heard how I solved the final case I worked with them.

So I’ve been taking any case I could find regardless of there being any real magic involved or not. Last week I “magic’d up” a new pilot light for some old ladies broken oven that had been “hexed” by her drunken husband who I think made a pass at me as I walked out of the house. So needless to say when “Timothy” came to my office and offered me a huge up front payment, care of the Coilhouse Collective, a company I had only heard whispers of, I had to say yes. And now I was going over 9000 leagues under the sea to a place I never knew existed and I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

There was a knock on my cabin door and a voice telling me Tim wanted to see me on the observation deck. So, I straightened my back and tried to push my worries into some neglected corner of my brain by lighting up a cigarette and checking out my reflection in the mirror. I’ve always loved looking at me. It calmed me down when ever I was stressed. My freshly polished black combat boot with the two inch heels (say what you will but my ass looks damn fine in heels) and my pristine white tie went well with my finely pressed black dress pants and shirt. Overtop of all that I wore a slimming duster that I accidentally turned dark purple while trying to make a spell that would keep my beard at that perfect level of handsomely grizzled. (I still haven’t figured that one out but I’d be damned if I will ever give up).

I would still rather be wearing my police uniform but I admit my current uniform had a certain charm. I mean, I sort of looked like a douche, but what is a Occult Detective supposed to look like? Besides, I thought to my self, Tim certainly seemed to like my style.

With that, I smiled and headed out the door. I met up with Captain Beeal on the stairwell to the observation deck who told me were nearing our destination. Together we approached Tim who was resting in a reclined deck chair puffing on a wooden pipe in one hand while swirling a half empty glass of brandy in his other hand.

“Ah, Detective…. So nice of you to come so… promptly” he said with a smile pulling at his mouth revealing his large white teeth. I nodded and he continued,

“I’m sure the captain has informed you that we are getting very close to our destination. You can see it, just a bit, now that the sun has set a little bit”

I looked out to where he pointed with his pipe. There was a fairly large rectangle at the center of a circular platform only about a mile or two away. I couldn’t make much else out because even though the sun was setting the thing was reflecting glare like a son of a bitch. I walked over to the chair next to Tim and turned it towards him. As I sat down I lit up another cigarette and said,

“Well Tim, looks like its about time for you to tell me what exactly I’m going to be investigating. I‘ve been patient this long but payment upfront can only carry you so far.”

“Quite right, Detective” he replied, “To put it succinctly there has been a murder. I would call the police but you must understand the party must not be interrupted.”

“Hey, listen, it’s putting food on the table. I’m not going to complain. Do you think magical things are involved?”

“Yes we do. It has to do with some strange things about the body when it was examined. One of the doctors that lived down there managed to come down off of his ecstasy high for long enough to do a autopsy. Exactly one inch beneath the flesh the insides had been replaced with paper with no marks on the outside that would indicate it was surgically implanted.”

“Paper? What kind of pa- wait, Paper!?”

“Yes paper. It was that thin bible paper. Wrapped and folded tightly together so that only the outer layers got wet and damaged. Once the doctor started to cut into it he found that every inch of every page the doctor was able to unravel was covered in runes and strange symbols. We could only identify a few letters as coming from the latin alphabet but beyond that we have no clue.”

I took a moment to think and I looked towards the sun.

“Do you think it could possibly be Russian?” I asked.

Tim just shrugged.

“Despite Collectives expansive libraries and resources even we haven’t found anything written in Russian since it sank and disappeared 953 years ago”

I rubbed my hands together. I was excited now. Russia had always been an interesting place for me. A modern day Atlantis. But unlike Atlantis we knew for certain that it existed. There were even recorded wars with it and everything but then suddenly in 1057 it sunk and disappeared under the sea. So much land and culture suddenly gone. Over the years following its sinking, artifacts and from Russia began to slowly disappear or were destroyed and after a couple centuries no one even knew what a Russia looked like any or how they spoke or spell or anything. For along time it was there then suddenly it wasn’t. It was the one of the few things I couldn’t learn in seconds by using the internet or searching my books and I wanted to learn about it bad.

“Sounds promising enough. Who was it that was murdered?” I said, trying to keep my voice from squeaking from excitement.

Tim reached down and grabbed a suitcase that had been sitting next to him and handed it over to me.

“Inside is a bunch of files and dossiers on various people who live down there. Don’t put too much faith in them. We haven’t been down there to update them in 15 years. And things change so quickly down there…“

I opened the case and started going through its contents.

“Which one of these is the victim?” I asked again.

“Oh yes of course. The one who was murdered goes by the name Jonathan Brownlee. His file is the red one there… Yes there you go. He was a delightful man, gave me this pipe for my birthday. He was also the person who started the party in the 50‘s. At the impetuous of the Coilhouse Collective, of course.”

“He must have been pretty old”

“Oh dear yes. But as we’ve discovered, living down there you can live much longer than you normally could. If you look there and find the file of the man named Ross you’ll see his age listed as 148. And that’s no lie. My father delivered him himself.”

I knew that was coming. I knew it. The oceans are old and if you spend to much time where the oldest things live your spirit and theirs start to meld. It’s not a terrible thing, really, hell if you wanted to party the old spirits know how its done. But that wild influence does tend to do nasty things to a persons mind. I reclined back on my chair and took a long drag on my cigarette. I started to read Brownlee’s file and I heard Tim take a sip of his brandy and we sat there in silence until the boat slowed to a stop.

We arrived at the platform just as the sun had almost completely disappeared behind the horizon. I was finally able to look closely at the elevator this time, it was an well polished and intricately detailed brass elevator. Every inch was decorated in beautiful leafing and etched designs all intertwining within each other seamlessly. There was a single golden button next to the doors that had the word “down” written in three different languages above it. I looked back at the boat that was already beginning to turn around and start its long trip back to its home in the safe ports of New Hampshire.

Tim’s parting words had been short rehearsed and off I went. I pressed the button and the shinning doors slid open to reveal the rich blue velvet that lined the elevator. I looked back and waved to the captain as I stepped in. The doors slid shut and I thought about how crazy this all was. But it doesn‘t matter how crazy a case is, when Tim Curry walks into your office and offers you a job, you don’t say no. I sighed and smiled again as I watched my decent out of the one window on the back end of the elevator.

New Commissions Now Available

2010-04-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

So! I am now offing to paint on commission aren't you lucky! I do a mix between water colors, acrylic, ink, and charcoal on what ever type of canvas I have available. If this sort of art is something you may be interested in buying, here is what you need to do. Check below for sizes and prices. Click the donate button beneath the one you want then email me at poorklaus@gmail.com the details you want in your painting.

The biggest and most expensive I can offer at this moment in times is:

10X14 Full Color Painting for $25 Shipping and Handling Included7X11 Full Color Painting for $15 Shipping and Handling Included The next after that is the cheapest

4X6 Full Color Painting or in B&W Ink which ever you prefer for $8.00 Shipping and Handling Included

Encrusted

2010-04-01T12:28:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had real dirt on your face? I don't mean dust or mud tossed up by a passing car. I mean real dirt. The kind that you get from working all day in a field hand picking weeds. Sweat mingling with the dirt making a thin layer of mud. The sun drying the mud making a thin layer of caked on filth. Every time you blink or close your eyes you can feel every crease and crack of your eyelids dirt breaks off. Its a dreadful feeling and it makes me glad everyday that I am neither a farmer or a sparkly glitter raver.

Image via HERE

COMMISSIONS

2010-03-31T11:48:00.000-07:00

So I am now offering cheap commissions. Five bucks for a postcard sized sketch or painting Donate below and email me any details you want in your image to poorklaus@gmail.com . Shipping is all included and THANKS! YOU ARE SUPER COOL!

Cartoon Science

2010-03-24T23:35:00.000-07:00

Writing this is the hardest thing to do.

A year ago, I was staring down the wrong side of double barrel shotgun. I thought, at that moment, that this was going to be the end. The elderly face with the dark green eyes that were peering down the sights at me belonged to Loony Larry. A grocery store clerk and serial killer. He said to me,

“These are your final moments, tell me what you are thinking.”

I could hear the wood creak as his grip tighten on the stock of the gun but I was strangely relaxed. A calm had washed over me. I raised my hand making the peace sign,

“I have always seen this in cartoons" I said, as I shoved my index and middle finger into each barrel of the shotgun," and I’ve always wondered if it would work.”

I smiled. He fired.

The Things They Carried Part II or Why Short Fiction Professor Doesn't Like Me Much

2010-03-19T13:56:00.000-07:00

So in my short fiction class we on occasion have to write responses to the stories we read. Some times they are analytical some times they are creative. Usually you have a choice. So, of course, when given the option, I usually pick the creative option as analyzing the shit we read is akin to having a your scrotum torn off by a thorn bush. The problem arises when my professor, who has a PHD in Creative Writing, hates all genre writing.
It drives me insane. So when ever I can, I try to subvert the assignments and writing something balls weird with a little bit of sci-fi. In this instance we had to write a continuation of the story "The Things They Carried". Supposed to write about how the main character is after the war and what its like after he meets up with his girlfriend and how that pans out. So this is what I wrote. If you'd like to have a little more context you can read the spark notes here.

THE THINGS THEY CARRIED PART II

It has been only a month since Jimmy came home. The past few days he had been too tired to move. He was in the hospital and still trying to come to terms with what he had seen in the war, and what he is seeing now in this strange clean and safe world. He shook with stress at what he was attempting to do within his own head. Trying to cope with the death of his whole squad on the way back home. Trying to cope with the loss of his arm. Trying to cope with what had taken it’s place.

He sighed, and shifted his legs over the bed side. He gripped the railing on the wall with his left hand, and with shaking legs, tried not to look as he reached for the bathroom doorknob with the right. When he caught sight of the slender wrist and long manicured finger nails, he threw himself into the bathroom and vomited.

He looked into the bathroom mirror dabbing away the remaining detritus from the corner of his mouth. He saw a shaken and weakened man. His face told it all and he could remember it like yesterday. The jungle and the terrors that lurked there, the day he got the news that he and his boys could come home. The joy of getting off the plane and seeing his Martha waiting nervously waiting for him. Followed by the explosion and a half mad and rash decision.

An air born plane had a engine failure, and plummeted out of the sky right into the plane Jimmy had just walked off. The resulting crash killed his squad mates who were still on the plane and took his right arm clean off. He was rushed to the hospital. He remembered the lights, the noise, and the hot sticky memories of the jungle. They had all flooded his mind. He remembered the fear. The fear of loss and death, and when the doctors offered him a chance to give him back his arm, in a fit of pain, fear, and desperation, Jimmy had agreed.

At the hard return of the memory, Jimmy, looks away from his reflection in the hospital mirror and down at his feminine arm. The thing was soft, gentle, and thin, but was patchy and grotesque where the donated arm stopped and he began. Apparently experimental surgery involves a lot of stitches and patch work. He sighed and gritted his teeth, he had to do what he need to do. His legs were feeling steadier but his spirit was still shaking. But he was still a solider, he thought, he could still do this, he had to make his peace. He changed out of the hospital gown and into his regular cloths and half hobbled down the hallway trying not to look too suspicious.

He was wearing a long sleeve sweatshirt so no one could really notice his one girlish arm. He approached the door labeled “coma ward”, breathed in deep, and pushed open the door. He walked down the long dark room that was filled with beds and the rhythmic beeping of unconscious hearts. Finally he came to Martha’s her eyes closed and sleeping mind dreaming. He gulped as his eyes fell from her peaceful face down to the stump where her right arm used to be.

Martha had been hit by the explosion except it didn’t kill her. She was badly hurt and had taken some shrapnel to the head. Apparently before they took it out she heard me screaming down the hall about my missing arm and probably in similar mad fit of pain and fear herself, offered her arm to me. At least that’s what the doctors told him. Jimmy guessed, that if she had come out of that operation room conscious, the thought of the experimental procedure would not have been entertained for a second. Jimmy then looked back up at Martha’s face and said,

“Hey Martha, I know you probably cant hear me right now but” he pauses “but I wanted to… to thank you, for what you’ve done for me. And not just the arm, I mean for everything. You kept me going out there in the war for a long time… I’m- I’m sorry I burnt your letters, I guess… you really did love me.” He chuckled as he wiped away a tear “ Musta been love at first sight I guess, I mean we didn’t really even …” he trailed off.

He still never understood why Martha would make the sacrifice she did for him, he supposed he never would. He did understand that, whatever the reason, he loved her for it. Jimmy bent down and kiss Martha on the forehead before saying good bye.

He walked back to his room with a heavy heart and a head full of memories and pain. Walked back through the harrowing hospital halls carrying nothing with him but his fear, his hope, and his new love letter from Martha. Maybe this time, he thought, he wouldn’t have to burn this one.

Sqollstown Suppliments

2010-01-01T15:22:00.000-08:00

The following is the collection of final words from people Mr. Skullburg Dregingstone had “fucked up” in the fall of 1997. First recorded by Wesley Mortenden then later finished by Adam Flochet and finally entered into public record here by Victor Klamity. The Mr.Dregingstone thought it would be a good idea to have a professional stenographer to follow him around and take down any last wishes. There are no last wishes recorded.

David Moninissy [Murdered with a sick of butter] 9:34 AM 7-25-97
“OH CHRIST NO WHY MY EYES?! AAGHHGHSS”

Vald “Dracular” Fishbone [Murdered with a fork and a bagel] 12:12 PM 7-30-97
“Im not afraid of you ass shit”
[laughs]
“what are you going to do with that buddy? You hungry?”
[…]
“FUCK ME GOD NO PLEASE I NEVER MEANT TO GLUHHKKKHUK”

Anibus Florenteen [murdered with a hammer and a David Bowie cassette tape] 8:34 PM 8-13-97
“YOU STAY WAY NO-NO-NO”
[audibly shitting his pants]

*Wesley Mortenden [Blugoned to death with own typewriter] 8:40 PM 8-13-97
“Man this is fucked up, Im done. YOU HEAR ME, IM THROUGH. What‘re you doing with my typewriter?”

Frank Letzowitz 9:12 PM [Shot 23 times in the chest] 8/24/97
“Hey whos that little guy with the tape recorder doing?”
**Sqollstown: “Hes here to record last requests”
“Last requests?”
[Shots fired]

Tomas Greenfield 4:29 PM [Stabbed to death with a baseball bat] 9/4/97
“He slugger hows it hangin’? OFOGGH”

Wallace “Cyber Prophet” Mackenzie 2:15 AM [Strangled to death by modem cable] 9/9/97
“With [gasping] my last breath [gasping continues] I curse… ZOIDBURG…”

Jak Greaspaint 11:22 [Run over by Blue La Baron] 9/19/97
“HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!”
[audible thud]

Adam Flochet [unknown time] [Shot in the head] 9/21/97
“--just turn this on. Twenty first of October, and I guess Im fired.”
[gunshot and silence for the remainder of the tape]
*This entry was recorded by Adam Flochet on the obtaining of Wesley Mortendens previous records and audio tapes.
**This is the only time Sqollstown’s voice is known to be recorded. However due to his particular vocal quality, the quoted text is not official. Other experts who have listened to the recorded evidence contend that he actually said “Just another shit like you” and that Adam edited for his own sake. However the original stenographer must be deferred to in this particular instance.

Klaus, The Occult Detective. Beta Testing.

2009-10-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

It was a bright and shiny day. Not the kind of days I’m used to working on. The street was empty save for the containment crew milling about a Large metal container. There were sensors unholy inscriptions plastered all around the steel box. This was definitely not a normal case. So I walk over to John Baraptice to find out what was up.

“What have we got John?”

“Looks like some amateur tried to open up a gate to hell.”

“So what went wrong?”

“We aren’t sure, but it looks like he got his symbols upside down.”

“Hmm, anything come out yet?”

“Klaus, it’s a door to heaven, no one would want to leave.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“The doorway is letting out light. Pure Holy light. No one who has looked at it exists in this world anymore”

“Up or down?”

“Couldn’t say. We wont know, until we shut the door and can study the symbols.”

I sighed.

“Alright, I think I got a plan. Go fetch me some welders goggles. Then I want you to soak them in 1000 year old demon blood that’s been mixed with some of the oil used to burn Rasputin death. Then get on cursing them with every anti holy spell you can muster up. I’m going in.”

I waited on John to get my supplies ready, silently kicking myself for what I was about to do. I wasn’t going to like it, but I had no other choice. May the lord forgive me.

I stepped atop the tall metal case, my custom welders goggles all but vacuumed sealed to my head, facing the other direction waiting for the men to cut open an entry way. As soon as I heard the clag of the thick steel hit the floor beneath I shut my eyes hard as I jumped down into the room.

It felt warm, soft and comfortable. It was all the will I had to not open my eyes. I tried not to move, not that I really wanted to, but more because I didn’t know where the door was. I didn’t want to go to heaven, at least not yet, there was still evil afoot. Evil only I could fight. So with that I took a deep breath, unzipped my trousers and began to masturbate furiously while shouting terribly profane and awful things into the air.

At last the seed hit the ground and at that all the warmth dropped from the room and the light was gone. I had successfully tainted the room, making it no longer pure and thus shutting the door to heaven. I tore off my goggles and zipped up and took one last look around the room.

From floor to ceiling books about the occult, magic, and demon worship were stacked, and the markings on the wall were exactly as it should be for opening a gate to hell, except the poor soul had his pentagram the wrong side up.

I scrambled out of the hole the crew had cut for me and looked over at john who was standing near by smiling.

“So, Klaus the great occult detective, How did you manage this one?”

“I’d rather not talk about John. Just maybe when you go in to check things out, maybe you otta bring a mop.”

THE END.

Im really tired of typing the words "Monster Noir"

2009-07-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

God writing is so hard to do when you have only had 4 hours of hot restless sleep on a leather couch in the last 50 hours (now 7 hours of sleep in about 63) so I will brief. I’m typing this just to get some more information of what I’ve been spending my internet less summer of unemployment doing.

Monster Noir started with a silly idea that popped into my head late at night. When this happens I am of the mindset to try and remember it and if it turns out to be dumb I just forget it. When Monster Noir happened I decided then and there to go with it even if it was stupid in the morning. It was something I thought would be cool, and be dammed if I was the only person who enjoyed it. This may have been because I was feeling confident in my art skills after the success of my J.R Goldberg/Eliza Double Homage Painting.

So for better or worse I started out just doing an simple acrylic painting of a squid faced monster man lighting a cigarette with his tentacle that people familiar with my glorious face may recognize it as an homage to my beard..

Sadly the quality was not up to the level I wanted and felt rather under pleased. Bugged by this I dived into a new fit of watching old detective and noir movies. Thus acquiring once again a fond affection of the way stories were told and loving the character archetypes. So two and two make four I decided to do a comic that follows a very classic pulp noir feel but with hideous beasts. So I doodled some more and created a awesome world that facilitated what I needed to tell a noir story but still held all the things I would need to keep me from getting board of drawing the same thing over and over again. Which is why I haven’t done any before. As I am just a budding artist there are limits to my ability. Things like exact renderings of the same thing over and over again are out side of my skill. Realistic landscapes and perspective are a pain and laborious endeavor and I don’t enjoy it. So don’t expect such things out of this comic. I’m a surrealist because realism is boring and stupid. Anyway I sort of lost where I was.

Right anyway like I said I’m still developing as an artist and art quality can change from panel to panel as you can see from these two pages below. The art isn’t great. But I would like to see some support in this endeavor of mine. I’m still doing it for me but knowing that I have an audience will really help me in getting off my lazy ass and do more pages in faster manner, and put some pressure on me to keep improving my art.

So I guess the whole purpose of this now very long blog post is for me to ask you all to comment on it. Criticize, compliment, or whatever.

Mega Shark VS Giant Octopus VS Tycho Brahe

2009-06-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

Recently I have found that it has become an developing inclination amongst the world-weary theatergoers to partake in the ripe pleasures of “The so bad its good” genre of film. Many times laughs are shared, tears shed, and virginal blood spilled at the hands of these movies. I like to count myself among these pseudosadomasochistic enthusiast of abysmal cinema. So it should come as no surprise to find that when I initially heard of “Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus” I found myself drenched in anticipatory leakage.

SCIENCE!

However, upon actually watching MS Vs. GO I found much to be desired. Even within the confines of the bad movie genre I was utterly disappointed. The primary thrust in every movie should be the intent of the film makers. Be it the desire to make a drama, comedy, romance or what have you. The eclicitory nature is irrelevant when a movie fails because when they do it is roundly enjoyable. The issue with this particular motion picture is that it feels as if they were meaningfully trying to make something so dumb it is funny. It felt forced and duplicitous. In that way it fails. It fails miserably. In other ways it has a shark biting the golden gate bridge in half.

Imma SHAAAAARK!

SHOW EM YOUR "OH" FACE

2009-05-11T09:20:00.000-07:00

Frank Frazetta appreantly a man who does fantasy art work is amusing. One wonders if he does not wish to draw muscles and tits all day but then one remebers: Thats a fucking barbarian murdering some shit.

You can buy some of his shit

Thanks, ME!

Quote Of Yesterday.

2009-05-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

"honey You know I love you, but I need your teeth so I can finish my prettier,and sexier franken-girlfriend"- probably from somthing but I dont remember, if not Im a genious.

The dangers of sexually aroused mental patients.

2009-05-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

(my paper for my psychology class)

I sat down this evening looking for the most amusing article on Psychology today to write about and what I found was that the whole publication is immensely hilarious. Possible more at the headlines than the actual substance of the article but still its amusing. One caught my attention by the title of “Best Whorehouse” (http://bit.ly/whorehouse ). Of course me, being a connoisseur of sorts, found this to be interesting as apposed to funny. I have visited many brothels when I lived in Nevada and the thought of a psychological look at what would make the best whorehouse interested me greatly. However what I found was even more interesting. In Maastricht which is in the Netherlands there is a Psycho-Medical Center that was going to start having its patients visit brothels. As a way to keep their patients happy. I only half agree with this for these reasons. Firstly, sex can cause even more de-balancing. Secondly, the company that keeps in brothels are not always conducive to mental health. Finally, normal customer safety.

Sex among the mentally ill, by many people is regarded as a bad idea. It changes the chemical make up of the brain by releasing hormones and chemicals that could very well be the thing that tips the fragile balance of manageable psychosis and complete lunacy over. It also becomes a concern that if the mentally ill get a sub par or otherwise un indulged experience it could lead to even more frustration. The Dutch are famous for their legalization of brothels but as any seasoned globetrotting pleasure seeker will tell you, their brothels are really quite poor. They don’t have the medical coverage and no standards as to sexual technique. Most of the girls there are of a low class who’s misfortunes have earned them a place there. I can personally vouch for this. In fact some of the ones I have the honor of patronizing for an evening could very well take use in being in a center, and this kind of mash up (if you will pardon the pun) could cause for a very dangerous time in and out (and again) of the brothel/center.

This could be compounded by the fact that the people who go there are not very understanding about anything really. They have one thought on their mind and probably would not react well to having anything outside of what is currently brewing in their minds. This kind of environment would only server to agitate any hostile feelings that may be dormant in them. In a brothel there are rules about looking at the other patrons. You don’t talk to any of them unless you need to. If you do then you might get hit or threatened and, once again, the unstable are not well adjusted and most cant handle that sort of pressure.

Lastly, normal customers and the girls are in at the very least a good amount of danger should one of the patients have an episode at the house. Unlike the ones in Nevada there are minimal security. The only people who are paid to restore order are more or less bouncers and are without any experience.
Things can get out of control quickly. It is as it is said, “danger to themselves and others.” you need only to append a location, and in this case “in a whorehouse.”.

Overall I don’t think it’s a terrible idea, just not a really good one. If they regulate who goes and who doesn’t, or send extra security and find a decent house for them to go to things should be fine. But they do need to think of the possibilities and complications it presents. If addressed I do encourge this but other wise they need to put a stop to this once. If not for the name of psychiatric patients then for the name of Brothels around the world.

Shit is for real now.

2009-05-10T16:15:00.003-07:00

CAUSE THIS BLOG NOW HAS TWO PAGES COUNT'EM TWO PAGES!

How to check on the economy:

2009-05-10T16:06:00.000-07:00

Glue a penny on the inner lip of a toilet, count days till penny is removed. If less than a day, we are fucked.

Quote Of The Day

2009-05-08T14:07:00.001-07:00

Better stuff to come

2009-05-07T15:08:00.000-07:00

Today was a lack luster day for interneting. I had sentances to diagram and finals are soon, but tommarow should be a great day for amazing shit from the brilliant scholar and master in the cullinary arts, KLAUS.

Life is...

2009-05-07T14:54:00.000-07:00

I give you noise. A violent gathering of most pandemic proportions.

A devastating collection of youth and ice cream. Fear, was my first reaction, but then there happened something in the video that shot a thought into the for front of my mind who is the man 0:22? And why did he not want his face seen? Could he have been in the witness protection program? Perhaps even a pederast? Who knows?

WELL I FUCKING KNOW!

That man at 0:22 is a renowned jewel thief from Arabia, Madebell Shorbenstine. Sent there for exile for crimes he had committed in the Czars Russia. Four men he killed with his disgustingly large hands. The gold ring that he improperly wears upon his thumb he stole from the Aristocrat Mavekeial Stronbonstol’s penis whilst the nobleman slept. AND with out hesitation I accuse him of experiencing the carnal knowledge of my three winged horse Madishire. A knowledge that I only allow my closest of gentlefolk to know. THIS MAN MUST BE KILLED!

Quote Of The Day.

2009-05-07T07:45:00.000-07:00

" Wow processing is really neat"-Ginja

IT REALLY FUCKING IS!

CHRIST ALMIGHTY

2009-05-06T07:27:00.000-07:00

The lights go down. We are all waiting. There are shouts. “JESUS JESUS JESUS” one man meekly cries out “kid rock?” but he is pummeled with the many roving ocelots. Soon the sound of a guitar, Jesus steps out onto the stage. He looks out, raises his pick to the sky,
“ARE YOU READY FOR SOME ROCK AND ROLL BIBLICAL SYLE?” he says.
We all say “yes, a thousand times yes lord.”
“WAIT A MINUET I COULD UNDERSTAND THAT? YOU GUYS ARE NOT DRUNK ENOUGH TO ROCK AND ROLL!… but don’t worry I got ya covered” he says with a wink.

Suddenly the sprinklers kick on and water begins to fall down, Jesus whips with guitar and points it at the audience and says “WATER IN TO WINE BITCHES” and lets out a massive power cord. The water that was soaking our cloths was now vodka getting us drunk.

“oh man vodka my guitar must be out of tune… hang on I have to back home to fix this sorry guys… be back later”

His next show 2000 years later is already sold out.

HEY DID YOU KNOW?

2009-05-05T12:36:00.000-07:00

"I'm sick of all these monkey-fighting bears on this monday-to-friday boat!"

Quote of the day.

2009-05-05T12:12:00.000-07:00

"There is little a man can do when he sees a fat man listening to pop music except for letting him dance away his boner."

A Glorious Egress in Reverse.

2009-05-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

Greetings! I am your esteemed love master and deadly well wisher VKlaus. Some may know me as Klaus, The id, borritobandito, Danny, Octopus-Rex, or even on occasion Doorbellington. I have started this blog so that I have an outlet for all the silly words that build up in my colossally larg and gorgeous head. What’s more it will act as a nice lightning rod for those who don’t feel like hearing my mad ravings in the various IRC, forums, and comment sections on websites.

Now don’t worry I will still troll those places like I always do but they will probably be more appropriate and better executed. So really we all benefit from this…. What do you mean the children? BITCH I TOLD YOU THEM LITTLE BASTARDS AINT MINE! Anyway expect mind blowing orgasms and/or bloody anal discharge cause this shit is gonna be tight.