Sym-Bionic Titan, Star Wars: Clone Wars, Samurai Jack and Genndy Tartakovsky's Primal are his most kino of works IMO...
and we arguably are in the worst era of animation, but the presence of Genndy Tartakovsky's works on linear television are always a light of hope, even in this decade, and I can NOT take "Crisis on Infinite Mirths" for granted.
A very belated Happy birthday to @frank-bennedetto/@clyde49! Who’s birthday was last Tuesday!
I decided to do something extra special and draw a majority of the many CN hosts at a little beach party, since she suggested something beach themed! And with this, this was my first time drawing a couple of these block host characters! This is actully inspired by one of the old Cartoon Network music albums they used to make in their beginnings. More specificly, Space Ghost Surf n’ Turf album!
Apoligizes for the huge wait, but I hope you like it! Happy belated birthday and thank you for your support!! ^ ^
His shaking hands gripped the cool granite of the kitchen so tightly that he could feel the microscopic grains of the stone buckle under his touch. He would not break it. That would upset the family. But the strain he felt within his large palms as he gripped the durable stone was almost a comfort.
It could buckle but it wouldn’t break. A parallel to his never ending cycle of a new domestic life. A life that still escaped him. A life he felt he didn’t deserve.
He pulled his eyelids tightly down, his nose wrinkling with the pressure. The pressure to fit in and thrive. The pressure to assimilate. The pressure to hide who he used to be.
Behind closed eyes images began to swarm. Walls of stone. Chains. Forms laying at his feet, unconscious or worse. He never knew. They never told him. He would be pulled away, back towards the dungeons, looking over his shoulder for any sign of life as the crumpled forms were dragged away.
Puddles on the floor. Spatters against the white cloths that covered his hands. Trickles from unseen wounds, ones he wouldn’t feel until the adrenaline of battle waned like the pain in his heart.
Blood.
Red.
His eyes shot open and he shook his head of the intrusive images. Ones he would rather forget. Ones that would haunt him forever.
He swallowed hard, then, with much effort, opened his palms to release the stone beneath. Rapid breaths, his chest rising and falling with the effort. As air moved in and out of his nose he picked up a familiar scent.
He took a few steps forward until he reached the proper cabinet. His shaking fingers fumbled with the door before finally gripping and pulling it open. He took another sniff. Maddie’s tea.
The tension within every muscle lightened ever so slightly. He pulled up the stool that sat just to his right and stepped up. He was too small to reach the upper cabinets without it. His claws reached forward to grab the small ceramic bin that held the bags of leaf water. The ghost of a smile found his lips as he ran a nail over the perfectly organized packets, feeling the paper thrum against his touch.
He stopped once he reached the yellow, packaged toward the back of the small vessel. He closed his fingers around the thin, fragile packet and pulled it away from the others. He sniffed the bag again, jaw unclenching and the familiar scent ran through his nose.
Chamomile.
He finally released the packet from his grip and laid it gently on the counter. He could not make the relaxing leaf tea without hot water. He had watched Maddie do it many times. Any time he felt tense or stressed she would lead him to the kitchen and have him sit while she made the tea. They would sit quietly together with their drink and she would give him support as his body softened. She always seemed to know when he needed it.
He hoped it would help him now.
He took the metal pot, the one she had filled many times before, and let water run into it. He carried the pot to the stove of fire, placing it on one of the open burners. He had learned the hard way the danger of the burners. Though it only glowed red, it held the heat of true fire beneath.
As he placed the kettle on the heating stove his eyes met with the red heat, intensifying as it grew. Fire, heat, burning. Searing pain. Cleansing flames.
Red.
He shook his head and pulled his gaze from the stove. What was the next step? Cups. He needed to get a cup.
Gathering his breath and slowly releasing it through his mouth he turned toward the crevice with the cups of tea. He once again climbed on the stool, his feet pushed in tip toes to reach the glass of choice. A small cup decorated with leaves and painted grapes. It was his favorite.
He brought his shaking hand back down, cup held in his finger tips. He stood and eyed the ceramic cup within his bare hands. The cool surface of the vessel drew him down. His purple eyes scanned the delicate colors, so small and intricate, and soft.
His exhausted gaze naturally flowed to his calloused hands resting around the glass. Scarred and broken. Hands that still caused him pain. Hands that had fought, hands that had hurt.
Hands that have killed.
His eyes clenched shut against the thought. He had been young. He had been so very scared. Kill or be killed. Harm or be harmed. There were times where he truly wondered which he would prefer. Stay alive (harm) and live to finish what he people could not, or to be killed and finally join his father again. The fear and anger. His eyes pinched harder against the intrusive feelings causing a flash of electric red behind his lids.
A high pitched crack pulled his eyes back open. It took him a moment to pull his thoughts back to the present in front of him. As the red charge receded from his eyes he looked back to his trembling hands only to find the cup was gone. Shattered within his grasp. Pieces of the cup remained, sharp edges penetrating into the soft areas of his palm.
No pain.
He watched in morbid fascination as the blood bloomed from the cuts, sprouting from his hands as a seedling from dirt, however instead of the beginning of life, it was a slow drip of demise.
“What’s going on?”
A voice registered in his consciousness but the growing numbness left him without response.
“Knuckles! Are you OK? Don’t move!”
He blinked slowly.
Hands gripped him under his arms and he felt himself lifted from the ground, causing his own hands to fall away. He was placed on the cool stone of the kitchen counter, legs dangled over the side from his knees.
His hands came to rest back in his lap. The trickle of blood mixing with the fur on his hands.
Red.
So much Red.
Anger. Fire. Violence. Blood. His fur. His energy. Red.
A soft whistle startled him and his eyes snapped forward, the haze drifting away as if waking from a dream. The kettle. It was screaming.
Foot steps rushed toward the stove, pulling the pot and turning off the heat. The fire receded, the screaming stopped. His anger…fading.
A face swooped into his vision. Eyes soft and confused. Concern and fear painted across each crease around his eyes, lines around his lips. Blue eyes met purple.
“Knuckles. Are you OK? You’re bleeding.”
He just stared back.
Cool water began to flow over his palms. His eyes turned, watching as the fresh blood was carried away by the current moving across his palms. Strong hands cupped his palms, gently removing shards and cleaning the fissures caused by his own dangerous strength.
He finally returned his gaze to Tom as he finished flushing the glass and blood. He swallowed hard, shame filling him, burning him from the inside.
“I broke the cup.” he said softly, his voice foreign in his own ears.
Tom looked towards him, fingers still gently cleaning and massaging his injured hands. He pulled a strained smile across his lips.
“Hey, it’s OK buddy.” Tom replied.
He looked away for a moment to turn off the water then began to gently dry the red and wet away. Knuckles allowed his gaze to drop back to his lap as Tom worked, unable to look at the man who had come to his pathetic rescue.
“Don’t move.” Tom ordered, voice more stern than before. Knuckles flinched.
He heard foot steps rush away. He felt bad about waking his chief. He had not meant to. But, at this moment, he was just happy that the rest of the house still slept.
Tom came back quickly, stepping around the shattered glass that still littered the floor. He once again picked Knuckles up, and Knuckles did not fight it. Tom pulled the boy against his chest and Knuckles could hear reassuring breaths rush through his ear as his head settled on the man’s shoulder.
He was sat gently on one of the kitchen chairs. Tom sat across from him and reached for the gauze he had retrieved moments before. He picked up Knuckles’ hand and gently turned it palm up and began wrapping his palms in the white bandage. White so stark against Red.
“I’m not as good as Maddie,” Tom started, with a soft tug to his lip. “But, hey, I think I can make do.”
Knuckles continued to stare as the bandage material rolled over his palm, secured tightly by strong hands.
A breath escaped the man in front of him as he reached for the echidna’s other hand.
“I am sorry.” he found himself saying, causing Tom to look up.
“What happened, Big Guy?” Tom asked gently.
Knuckles eyes dropped back to his lap. His breathing felt more strained under the weight of such a question. Should he speak with Tom? Honesty was honorable. But for him, honesty was also painful and dangerous. But Tom deserved it.
“I…I am Red.” he answered, causing Tom’s eyes to squint in confusion.
“I…know that, bud.” he answered with a lilt of humor. But Knuckles didn’t smile. He shook his head.
“Blood is on my hands. My whole life has been blood and fire. Chains and fear. I…I do not know how to leave it behind. It is me now. I drown in it. I have hurt so many. I did not want to.”
His voice cracked and he felt moisture build below his eyes. He took a few breaths. “How can I be in this family? If you only knew what I have done…to survive. I am dangerous. You should fear me! Why…how…can you want me here?” The truth spilled from his mouth like water through a broken dam.
A silence fell between the two. Knuckles kept his eyes downcast, afraid to meet the eyes of his chief. He could not bare the disgust and fear. Not from someone he had grown to respect. He was ready to be cast out. He deserved it.
A long breath came from his chief. He felt the man’s hands tighten on his bandaged ones, could sense the tension wafting from the man in front of him.
Tom was shocked. Tom was scared. Tom was going to cast him away. There was no place for a murderer in their tribe.
A long silence stretched between them. Knuckles hand still rested within the palms of his chief. Then another deep breath escaped the man, lightening the tension in his grip.
”It sounds like you had no choice.” He said, but Knuckles thought the words were more for the man than they were for him. Knuckles shook his head.
”But I did.” He replied, voice barely above a whisper. “I could have chosen death.”
A hand reached for his face, a contact so unexpected he bristled against it, but this did not deter the touch. A gentle pressure pulled his head up, causing his pained amethyst to meet soft blue. Tears pooled at the bottom of his eyes. A shameful thing for a warrior, but he did not have the strength to push them aside.
Tom looked at him. He really looked at him. Knuckles felt his chest clench. What did he see?
“You are Red.” Tom spoke, voice slicing through the thick silence.
Knuckles head drooped as he nodded slowly, but the hand under his chin refused to let him sink. His eyes were brought back up to gaze at the man in front of top him.
“I know your life was lonely and scary. You were…are…so young. Impossibly young to have faced what I fear you did.” Knuckles eye closed at his words. But they snapped back open quickly as the man continued.
“But you know what else is Red?” He commanded Knuckles’ attention. “Courage is Red. And you are one of the bravest I have ever met.
Red is inner strength. The strength to survive insurmountable odds. The strength to finish what you started and to do what is right.”
Knuckles swallowed hard, pushing down the forming lump in his throat. His lips parted, but Tom had not finished.
“And most of all, Red is love. Love for your tribe. Love for your family.” Tom squeezed his injured hand gently. “And Red is the love I have for this family. The love I have for you.” Tom took a breath. “And I am so relieved you chose life. I’m so happy you are here with us.”
“You are Red.” Tom stated. “And we love you for it.”
Knuckles’ throat began to burn and the gathering tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He felt Tom’s hand move to the back of his head and tilt him forward until their foreheads were touching. Knuckles’ breaths continued to spasm and stutter against the overwhelming relief. He felt Tom’s fingers gently rub the fur behind his head, the gentle touches causing the tension to slowly flutter away.
“Thank you.” he whispered through tears and sniffles.
“You’re my son.” Tom answered back. “You can tell me anything. Even if it’s scary. Even if you think it will hurt. Buddy, we…this family…we are here for you.”
Knuckles relaxed further toward the man at his words. It felt strange to feel so light after carrying so much on his shoulders.
“I…I will clean the mess.” he whispered. Tom’s chuckle rumbled in his ear.
“I’ve got it buddy.” he answered. “And if I’m not mistaken, that was your favorite cup. The one with the grapes?”
Knuckles nodded against the man’s chest.
“I am sorry.”
“We’ll need to get you another.” Tom answered, overlooking his continued apologies. A deep breath from the chief. “Do you want me to finish your tea?”
Knuckles weakly shook his head, his eyelids drooping. The continued massage of the man’s fingers through his fur and the weight of his pain drifting away was causing his exhaustion to return.
He vaguely registered being picked up again, only for a moment, then situated next to his chief’s warm body.
As his eyes closed there was no blood. No violence. No anger. There was only love.
He was Red. And he could find a way to live with that.
This was made for the 2005 Comic Con Tarot Card gifts. There were only ever six cards, so it was never a real full set. I would have loved to have done that, though.
I ended up liking the cards, and we incorporated them into the new end title sequence we did that year.
Like, legitimately BACK back. In fact, we got new bumpers that were released this week!
To be fair, they only brought it back just to air Dexter's Laboratory again because of the long-awaited Season 3 premiere of Genndy Tartakovsky's other show Primal. This Sunday at 11:30pm!
(unfortunately, still not a single bumper related to Cow and Chicken yet)
