So school started up again and I thought I'd post a few things that I have been working on. So I'll start with some of my unfinished shtuff.
Ever forced to draw a model who stays in the same pose every time and just changes into different costumes? I was. I got sick of it. So after I memorized his face, I had a little fun with it.
I went on a walk with my pup at the park and I sat down and drew this until mosquitoes made it unbearable. I can't wait till they all die.
So I HAVE been doing some finished work. I was just saving it for last. I have been doing some commission work. This week, in particular, they were all fun. I am going to keep names out of it for now, but I wanted to post the work I did even before they actually go on skin. You guess right! Been workin on tattoo designs. These two will go on two buddies of mine.
I am really proud of both of them. They are very different and not the typical tattoos you see! Anyone interested, I do not charge too much. In between 25 and 50 bucks usually. Hit me up! I like money!
Here is the back patch I was paid to design for Delco's Newest Drinking/Motorcycle gang! The Apes of Spades
This, many of you have most likely seen but this one is in better quality, so here. I wanted to draw a lady. I realized I just draw gross stuff all of the time. I guess I combined the two. I got a new Cintiq and this is how I broke it in!
I found a motivator to keep this blog active every week! I have a new weekly comic strip called CROCS. I'll post it on here and facebook every week. I am going to make a facebook page soon.
Here are the first 3 strips to get you started on it ahhaha. From now on, one a week!
I have started writing stuff. Short stories. Read this dark piece of mine that reminds me of Beavis and Butthead but... on crack in a trip. Its the first draft so there may be some changes. Here is the story if you care to read it.
The Dead Gang
William’s nickname was Carcass. Nick was Deadmeat. Thomas was Corpse. And Robert became Wormbait. They were fourteen and thought dying would rule.
Carcass was the leader. He could spit a lougie nuke from the broken window of the Pussy Lair and hit an old lady in the eye. Pussy Lair. That’s the name that Deadmeat came up with for the basement that the gang hung out in. There was some arguing in between the name Dicknest and Pussylair. But when Deadmeat called Carcass a fag for picking a name with dicks in it, Carcass announced that he was not a gay fag and said “alright”. So it was from then on the Pussylair, a dim wet hole which they brought absolutely no pussy back to. It might be because they didn’t talk to any pussy. It might be because they called all the girls bitches. Or it might be because Corpse threw up in the dryer and turned it on so the room always smelled like puke. The only reason that you couldn’t smell the puke would be that it would be drowned out by smoke. The smoke was from the carton of cigarettes that Wormbait stole from his mother, which they lit up like a ginger’s crotch, day and night.
They drank a lot too. Carcass would bring the beer, which his dad bought with food-stamps, originally. His mom stopped trying to stop him, busy with 4 small children. The Son-of-a-bitch was in a half conscious state at all times. He would wake up, notice half of his beers were gone, shout, bang on Carcasses bolted door and smash a lamp. After this routine he would use his brain, the function of which had been reduced to counting beers, to trick himself into thinking he drank it all himself. After that he would recede back into the indent in his lazyboy.
Carcass had more pimples than face and more braces than teeth. He looked like a grease fryer had spilt all over a shaved blond monkey. Saturday morning was hot as fuck and his house didn’t have any fans or anything. He sat in the dim Pussy Lair jacking off into his dad’s sock looking at some naked chick on a poster on the opposite wall. He had to find something to do because they had kicked the TV in. Deadmeat came tumbling down the stairs as if he had run too quickly or didn’t have a shoe. The fact of the matter was, he ran too fast and also only had one shoe on. Carcass quickly returned his member into his ripped jean shorts.
“Holy shit, how about knocking, pussy!”
Deadmeat, rocking his bumped head in his hands, got up and replied, “You don’t even have a door up there, you scumrat. I had to get here in a hurry.”
“What for,” said Carcass.
“I’ll tell you when the others get here. I got something sick for us to try.”
Deadmeat got a running start and slammed into a chair next to Carcass. The chair that smelled like cat piss, mothballs, and alcohol, creaked under the force of the impact. The foundation had turned to soggy meat and Deadmeat’s butt just made it squelch. Deadmeat grabbed a plastic bag and sprayed some blue spray-paint in it. Carcass looked at him, slightly annoyed but pressed a button on a boombox. The boombox was the only unbroken thing in the room. They needed the metal music to make their necks hurt from headbanging. A thrashy throaty sounding band came on and Carcass rocked back and forth on the sofa with his tongue out. Deathmeat huffed at the paper bag and joined in. He started swinging about his hair in a windmill motion. It was like a stink fan. Carcass would have told him to wash his hair if his hair wasn’t molded into stiff spikes from the grease of his own scalp.
By the time Wormbait and Corpse heavily stomped down the stairs, Deathmeat has bitten his tongue and was bleeding onto his shirt, though he had not stopped the head spasms. Carcass was throwing up. He got up to move towards the two new entries but fell down because he was dizzy. He laughed shrilly, little vomit chunks spraying from his lips. Corpse kicked him in the head while he was on the ground, which made the laughter cease. They began to brawl as the others laughed, parking themselves on available seats. Wormbait picked up a beer bottle that was on its side, its contents soaked into the rug. There was still some in it and he salvaged what he could of the liquid.
Wormbait was the largest out of the bunch. Carcass always called him a lard-ass and Wormbait always gave Carcass a black eye. Wormbait, in some early elementary school class, was known for denting the wall with a teacher’s head. That is how brutal he was, and the others, besides joking about his weight, revered him for his sheer dumb strength.
So Wormbate and Carcass punched each other on the ground until they were done.
“Now your neck AND your face hurts,” chuckled Wormbait.
“I hit you a few times too, you gonad.”
“Yeah your little boney chicken knuckles cut my eyebrow.”
Carcass chuckled triumphantly and the others came to a consensus that even hurting Wormbait at all was an accomplishment.
They all had blue marks under their noses and crossed eyes. There was just as many snack food wrappers as vomit on the ground and they were throwing darts at a picture of the Pope on the wall when Deadmeat called for the attention of the gang.
“My big brother Tod-“
“Tod rules!” interrupted Corpse
The rest of them nodded in agreement
“Ehem, as I was saying, faggot, my bro, Todd, gave me some new shit that will fuck us up.”
“Good” said Carcass, “cause we are out of that paint I stole.”
Dead meat continued, brandishing 4 cans that look like energy drinks from his pockets. “They each have a needle and a pusher thingy to inject you. You put in your chest and you fucking explode.”
“That’s metal at fuck” said Corpse
They all gave devil horn fingers and initiated another round of headbanging to some Anthrax. Carcass’ tongue was still bleeding profusely.
They passed around the strange can and counted to 3, most likely because that is as high as they could count. Then they jabbed the needling into their chests and pumped the chemical. Their abdominal cavities felt like they were inflated.
Carcass gasped and his eyeballs and testicles swapped, dragging the meat between behind them. His meat scrambled all around and he could feel his head cave in and his teeth tear through his lips.
Deadmeat felt his bones breaking as the world bent. His organs frothed and his fingertips melted.
Wormbait felt his large muscles rip and twist, his brain floating up and smashing on the ceiling.
Corpse’s head spun around, wringing his spine out like a cloth and his pelvis expanded as he gave birth to a writhing duplicate of himself.
They all leaned forward, trembling and white like ghouls, the needle still sticking out of their sternums. Their eyes darted in between each other and their teeth clenched.
“GAHHHHHHH!” they squealed in unison, shaking each other by the shoulders.
“Holy Jesus’ organs in a basket!” cried Carcass. “This is so fucking brutal!”
“I bet I could rip off your arm with my hands!” bellowed Wormbait’s, propelling little specks of flem onto Carcass’s forhead.
“I bet you can’t!” said Carcass, holding out his arm.
Wormbait immediately grabbed the arm and tore it away from Carcass’s body. The tendons and muscles snapped like rubber-bands but he had to twist the bone to make it break off.
Carcass cackled with glee, slapping the wet bloody patch where his arm used to be. The sound of the skin slapping on blood filled his ears with joy.
“Kill me with my own arm, that would RULE!”
Wormbait let out an animal gurgle and he swung the arm down onto Carcass’s face, smashing through his teeth, popping out a loose eyeball. He stood over his friend while shoving the arm down his esophagus. Carcass let out insane muffled gargley laughter as his air passage was clogged up.
Corpse turned on a tape with Slayer on it and jumped on Wormbait’s back, tearing at his neck with a broken bottle. They all laughed wet bloody laughs. Deadmeat threw up in the dryer and climbed in with it. After spinning for 15 minutes during the fight, the smell of burnt flesh filled the room.
They all blinked a wet, bloody blink. As they opened their eyes and strands of goop stretch in between lids, they all smiled widely. They were intact and whole again. Death was so brutal and they could do it over and over and over and over and over.
They ran up the stairs, the other three climbing over Deadmeat, smashing and splitting his jaw on a step. He joined them as they began to dive through all the windows of their house, breaking necks and splintering bones on the concrete outside. Corpse impaled his neck on a spiked fence outside, chortling like a madman as he pulled himself off of the moistened spike, hoisting the boombox over the fence and jumping over. Carcass put on his hockey mask, but the bat that Wormbate swung at his face quickly shattered it.
“That was my good mask you butt-chunk!”
“Come get me dick-chugger,” said Wormbait, hopping onto his mountain bike. It was much too small from him. He stole it from a kid a few grades younger than he.
They all jumped on their bikes, which were lying around in Carcass’s garage. They grabbed tools and weapons as they chased after Wormbait. Deadmeat got his foot caught in the chain of his bike as he took of at top speed. He smashed his face on the handlebars and laughed with his bottom jaw dangling off. Corpse crashed into him, getting his hair tangled in the spokes of his wheel as he flipped forward. His face was reduced to ground beef as he got sucked into the blender that the wheel had turned into. They wooted and hollered at the top of their lungs like wild monkeys, yelling along with the death metal song that was playing on the boombox slumped on Corpse’s right shoulder. The other arm was being used to smash Carcass’ ribs with a crowbar. The last hit made the spike end of the tool wedge into Carcass’s chest and Carcass wore it proudly like a throbbing badge.
They made Apache war-cries and crashed into mailboxes and poles until all of their bikes were ruined and smashed. Corpse dropped Carcass’s boombox and the metal music smashing into the ground and into the air. The sound became an adrenaline-pumped soundtrack to their gore, and the air was thick with blastbeats and distorted squeals. Locked in a perpetual slaughter and lacking the ability to fatigue, as their torn muscles just repaired themselves, the four kids with dead names smashed and gashed eachother till everything went black
William’s nickname was Carcass. Nick was Deadmeat. Thomas was Corpse. And Robert became Wormbait. They were fourteen and thought dying would rule. They lay fixed in the chairs in the wet basement they called the Pussylair with needles sticking out of their chests. Their twitching stopped after 5 minutes and the foam coming out of their mouths began to dry and crust. They turned cold and white. Anthrax was playing on the boom-box.
Yeah I know, its longer. If you read it through, thanks! hahaha
Lastly, I started using my recording mike to record my independent music project, Shedhead. This is me on guitar. Chill stuff. Here are some tracks if you care to listen.
http://soundcloud.com/shedhead-1/gifts-for-ghosts
Anyway, Thanks for reading! Sean Glaze, out!
Currently listening to Tyler the Creator's Goblin Album and all of Graves at Sea's songs
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