PopRelics

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“Many Fine People” by The Searcher Via Flickr: On Thursday, August 18 2017, President Trump tweeted: “Study what General Pershing of the United States did to terrorists when caught. There was no more Radical Islamic Terror for 35 years!” The story he’s referring to involves General Pershing executing Muslim fighters by dipping bullets in pig’s blood, to “send a message” to the other fighters to knock that shit off. This single twit by Trump perfectly encapsulates everything wrong with the man and his Presidency. 1. The story isn’t true, it’s a myth. And worse, it’s a myth that’s only found on white supremacist sites. 2. They weren’t terrorists. The Muslims in this story were fighting invaders. The invaders were Pershing and the Americans. 3. What he’s describing is a war crime. He’s admiring summary executions of prisoners of war without trial, and executions that disrespects their religious beliefs. So to sum up: it’s a lie, it’s racist, and it’s criminal. Trump’s Presidency in a nutshell.

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Testing.

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The Last Mouse and Cat on Flickr.

The Last Mouse and Cat

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Raptor Moon on Flickr.

Raptor Moon

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My Little Death Dealer on Flickr.

"Hi I'm Twilight Sparkle! What’s your name?" "I am The Death Dealer. My steed was killed in battle. I wish to ride you." "Into battle?" "Yes. It will be glorious." "How about we go make friends instead? Would you like some friends? Here [Bamf!]! I just made your axe thingy magical. Now when you hit people with it you'll make them happy. Some might even sing! It’s always better to make people happy than to hurt them. Right?" "I.. yes? Wait what are… you’re doing something to.. my head." "I’m Twilight Sparkle. What’s your name?" "I’m the Death Dealer." "No. I SAID, what’s your NAME?" "I’m.. The Friend Maker." "Yay! Let’s ride!"

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‘55 Thunderbird, taxi conversion, $2,740,000 firm on Flickr.

100+ years as a mid-galactic pleasure cruiser, this t-bird got a complete refit as an inter-galactic capable taxi, fully rated for wormhole transit, full atmo entry/exit (non-acidic only), two passenger cryo. Complete maintenance/refit logs going back 120 years, she still has twice that ahead of her. Powerplant is dual singularity, half life of 170 million years. Needs new upholstery, wipers have trouble with gas clouds. Price is firm, but will consider discount with percentage of gross if she runs as a cab (Business plan required.)

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An Indifference of Crows on Flickr.

Young Crow: HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY Old Crow: WHAT?! What is it? Young Crow: That kid, the kid threw a rock at me yesterday, that kid, KID KID KID THAT KID HEY KID HEY HEY HEY Old Crow: So what, he's not doing anything now. Just shut up and he'll leave you be. Young Crow: Let's kill him! Let's get a murder together and murder him. MURDER MURDER MURDER KID HEY HEY HEY Old Crow: No, what? No, we don't murder people. We're called a "murder" of crows because back before modern sanitation and law enforcement we would get together and scavenge on the corpses they'd leave lying around. The term came from people knowing a murder had happened when they'd see a bunch of us hanging around, not from us killing anyone. Young Crow: Oh. Young Crow: Can I poo on him? Old Crow: ... Knock yourself out. Young Crow: POO POO POO POO POO POO POO

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Rules of Engagement on Flickr.

I was asked recently why I don’t do more autobiographical art, as if that’s something an artist is required to do. I found this sketch unfinished and since it was pretty close to something that actually happened I decided to complete it. I told my friend this was from the time I, with full intent and malice, burnt down the just finished neighborhood treehouse because the older kids (whose property it was on) wouldn't let the younger kids (who helped build it) play in it. I watched it burn to the ground, then volunteered to help the firefighters put the last embers out with their water cans, to deflect suspicion. I was seven. My friend now understands why I don’t do more autobiographical art.

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Moby Dick vs Life Aquatic on Flickr.

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In the Land of Terrible Dreams on Flickr.

Nemo had a dreadful sense that this dream was different. Instead of a gently surreal journey to Slumberland, he saw something he feared was of his own future, and it frightened him terribly. He encountered a seascape of adventure to be sure, but also great destruction, tragedy and death. Then he awoke, as he always did. But this time there would be no consoling him, no escape from the haunting visions. Nemo refused to sleep after that night, throwing his mother and father into a panic, sending for this doctor and that. After many days of decline, they feared he would perish of this mysterious affliction. They may have been right, except for that first fateful pre-dawn day of Autumn, when the knock at the door came. And the only person awake in the house to answer, was Nemo.

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The Last of Them on Flickr.

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When Sharks Fly: Ol' Bess on Flickr.

Heck of a thing, Ol’ Bess just showed up one day, hovering low by the barn. She was tired, hungry. Didn’t eat solid food like the other sharks, wasn’t built for it. Eugene strapped Gus’ old saddle on her, gingerly climbed on, and led her out across the pasture. She took to the bridle right off, barely needed a tug to move her around. Some industrial pig farms were just over the road, their waste ponds always covered in skeeters and other bugs. Before long she figured out how to scoop ‘em up right out of the air, and after a few trips she could find the ponds herself, had all she could eat when she needed. Eugene figured that’d be the end of it, she’d be off, no more Bess. But as the months passed she kept on, happy to go on long rides or just float around with the goats. Heck of a thing.

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Former Pig Farmer on Flickr.

The hardest part was directional motivation. Some guys could afford real lifters. Silas heard they had a pack of elephants at the McCallister ranch, a whole pack. Over at the Triple T they rolled with ostrich and zebras, and there was a rancher Silas saw fly over once, maybe from the next county over, had himself a hippo. With a whole hippo Silas could fly all day, so high people would just be ants. Silas couldn’t afford all them fancy animals, but that didn’t stop him. Little creativity, lot of zip ties, and he could go just as high as the rest. Higher sometimes, with the right directional motivation.

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Double Feature: The Omen vs Jaws on Flickr.

"You’re going to need a bigger kid,” the Amity sheriff said, watching Damien play with the deputy’s german shepherd. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” the Pentagon suit replied. “You may want to keep him away from the dog, though.” “So what are you going to do,” the sheriff asked. “We don’t even know how to find this shark.” “We just drop him in the water,” the suit replied. “He takes care of it.” “Just like that?” “Yep. Worked for Syria, “ the suit said, a tremble catching in his voice. “Ok Damien, you’re up. Get your water wings on, you’re going swimming.” The suit guided him to the helicopter, noticeably staying out of reach. Damien smiled. Back on the dock, the deputy searched for his dog.

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Little Red Riding Hoodie on Flickr.

The Wolf circled slowly around her, secret plans whirling behind his eyes. Red stood her ground, unafraid. “What lovely skin you have,” the Wolf said, licking its lips. “Yeah I kind of need a coat, maybe something with a hood. I like your red fur.” “What tiny hands you have.” the Wolf continued, sounding a bit confused. “Oh I know! My hands are so small I had to get this dagger specially made.” “What, uh, what green eyes you h-” “Look, can we just get on with this? I’m freezing my ass off out here and Gramma’s wolf stew isn’t going to make itself.”

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That Yellow Bartkira on Flickr.

Here's the complete five page set of my unofficial attempt at the Bartkira Project. Tons of fun, but man I'm not cut out for sequential art, it's exhausting. Since I was already mashing stuff up, I tossed in some Sin City yellow for the pop-manga-comic-cartoon hat trick. You're gonna want to view this at a larger size to see it all.

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Airlock Discipline on Flickr.

Living on the generational ship required discipline. Discipline with maintenance and especially discipline with safety. Hull breaches were constant, something not unforeseen on a ship constructed thousands of Earth-years ago. When a bulkhead gave out, the siren sounded, and it would be up to whomever could reach the airlock first to close it, no matter who was left behind. To wait for a loved one would only condemn others to die. More to the point, were you to fail, someone else would just be at the next airlock to sacrifice you instead. It was the tragic reality of the hard life of deep space. That being said, once Abigail ejected her third brother into space, her parents began to suspect she wasn’t all that sorry about it.