Snoops's Art - Another Way to Entertain Yourself!

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Inspiration

By Snoops

update 11-07-05 (11:11 A.M. EST)

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned on this site about my trip to the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale, but it was really a life changing experiance. I met a lot of great friends and met a TON of great artist and learned something from each of them. I've been fiddling with my technique non-stop since then, and this is but one of the results... for some reason, I'm on an angel kick... oh well. I know the damn feet are fscked up.... so don't tell me.... there is a reason I never draw feet... I've more to show you all, so expect another update in the near future.. I think I'll leave Mach's story up for now.

Who is This Story About?

This story has absolutely no resemblance to the things which have happened in my life, or in the life of anybody that I know. Any resemblance to your life is probably a good indication that you need to see a shrink sometime fairly soon. If this story sounds anything like the life of one of your friend, that’s probably a good sign that you need to start hanging out with a new set of people. I will be telling it in chapters that are about one or two pages long. I don’t have the time or the work ethic to do much else.

Chapter 1

Gimp was not a particularly well adjusted person in the morning. Actually, he wasn’t very well adjusted ever. But mornings were especially bad, and this one was no exception. Having regained consciousness in his truck for the nth time that year, Gimp was growing a little tired of the setting to which he had awoken to every morning for the past nine months, the small, cramped interior of the truck, cold as a tundra in the winter, slightly warmer than a subdivision of hell in the summer. The seats, the dashboard, the floors, all stained with 10 years worth of accumulated fluids and detritus, there, the blood stains from the various bar fights and accidents, there, the spot he had been using as an ashtray for as long as he could remember, and here, the only evidence that was left from his first, and only, meaningful excursion with a woman. The car reeked all the accumulated memories, of stale sex and cigarettes smoked to the butt. The exterior was just as much an extension of this, the outside of the truck remembering the wrongs that had been committed against it, showing its age and decrepitude without shame, and without pride. Dents from various accidents, use, and simple neglect pitted its frame, in a quiet testament to all that had happened to it.

Gimp’s body served much the same purpose that his truck did. He was a memorial to his own existence. His body, laced with scars, blackened, dirty lungs, struggling to remind themselves what the just-extinguished cigarette had felt like, the brain inside Gimp’s head, a scarred mass of gray and deteriorated flesh, striving to hold on to the things that it had seen the day before, and in doing so, failing to acknowledge anything that happened to it today. The face that was attached to his head served little purpose except as a receptacle for liquor and a convenient means of expressing contempt for the world in general. The nose above the mouth, bent, so as to remember the time it was broken, the eyes, bloodshot and staring, in remembrance of the amount of sleep Gimp had gotten the night before, the hair, now thinning and flecked with gray, commemorating his 40 years of survival.

Gimp opened up his mouth, exposing the graying, decaying maw in what could have been a yawn on a less hideously disfigured person. “SQURRRglllllllrrrrr…” His stomach spoke in the tongues of a Pentecostal church, but the message was clear. Gimp groaned slightly, rolling over as best he could in the small amount of room provided in his living space, discovered for the umpteenth day in a row that this was impossible, swore, opened the door to see where the hell he was, and wonder what the hell he was doing there.

Gimp had issues to attend to. He was in need of money. Gimp was about as good with his money as he was with his memory. Both memory and money would stick with him until he got to the nearest bar and paid for his drinks. Soon thereafter, his money exhausted, his memory, nowhere to be found, and his blood alcohol levels soaring to near inhuman levels, Gimp would wander the town, staggering through suburbia, or the ghettos, past the parks and banks, always winding up unconscious in his truck. Upon his awakening, he would inevitably go through the same motions he had gone through the day before: open the eyes, attempt to roll over, swear, and commemorate the fact that he had survived yet another day in the service of the Voice by placing a new scar in the steering wheel of his truck, using the knife that was the only object in his life that did not somehow serve as a reminder of some event by virtue of its existence.

Gimp was now awake. He opened the door to his truck, and stepped out into the brisk morning air, an exceedingly dangerous endeavor for one so recently inebriated. The feet, in their ragged leather coverings, cautiously sought purchase on the decaying pavement, questing, probing, somehow managing to establish contact, and even an uncertain stability for the legs to which they were connected. Slowly, carefully, one of the feet ventured forward, relieving itself of the burden of the body to which it was attached, in doing so, transferring its load to the other foot. The other foot did not complain, and soon, the first foot had once again discovered the pleasure of being connected with the cracked, weather-blasted pavement. The other foot, almost immediately began to pine for the close presence of the first foot, and would so attempt to move itself closer to its partner. However, the sheer momentum of this drive forward made the second foot far overshoot the first one, so the first foot once again repositioned itself to speak with its partner, only to meet with the same result. And so, Gimp propelled himself towards his job, his feet always close, but never close enough for comfort, forcing themselves to keep moving until they could settle down and find a place where they could cast off their pitiful leather clothes and speak freely with one another.

Gimp was not the only person feeling like crap on that particular morning. On the other side of the planet, a guy in Japan had woken up and found out that the girl he had been sleeping with last night was, in fact, a man. The two of them spent that morning staring malevolently at one another from across the continental breakfast of the hotel that they had been staying at. At about the same time, a photographer in NYC was taking pictures of a radioactive spider, when it decided to endow him with ludicrous quantities of venom. After a several hour long hallucination, he was heard to mutter the words “I am spider man,” and that was the last anybody ever heard of him. A woman in England was giving birth to a baby girl. Tragically though, the woman died shortly after her daughter was born. Her last words were “at least I got to see my daughter.” Five minutes later, the head nurse fumbled and dropped the girl to the floor. The child died of a concussion. The woman’s husband continued to watch the game on the TV in the lobby, blissfully unaware of what was happening in the maternity ward. He was waiting for the nurse to come in and announce that his wife’s delivery had gone successfully. When the nurse came in and announced that his wife was dead, the first words out of the husband’s mouth were “At least I have my child to remind me of what a wonderful woman my wife was…” The nurse could only sit and wonder if maybe she’d managed to piss off god at some point in her life.

On the other side of the planet, the two men in Japan had discovered that they had syphilis, Peter Parker’s corpse was being laid out for its funeral, and somewhere, out there, Gimp was trying to scrape together enough cash for the night ahead.

E-mail Mach here, his button is refusing to load properly, but Elite Shinobi and Dew have chosen to remain, uh, in peace...

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