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 Included

The next Smallest is:

7X11 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

And that's all I can offer for now. If you want something you don't see here just email me at poorklaus@gmail.com and we can try and work something out. And don't forget to email me after you donate to tell me what you want and the more specific the better.

Thanks!

--VKlaus

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

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.