I am so tired.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Commissions Part 2
“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.
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.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A Summer of MS PAINT
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
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."
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
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"
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"
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Ghetto Fabulous
(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.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Ectonovel: Chapter One
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
New Commissions Now Available
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 IncludedThursday, April 1, 2010
Encrusted
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
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
COMMISSIONS
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!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Cartoon Science
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.
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.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Things They Carried Part II or Why Short Fiction Professor Doesn't Like Me Much
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Sqollstown Suppliments
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.
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.
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