Time is just another method of torment, when you get right down to it.
Liopleurodon Altropos IVIVIVIVIV
Liopleurodon Altropos IVIVIVIVIV
A day had passed; why not a year now? Don counted the hours in how many times his bunk-mate complained about the wads of paper that camped around the feet of their bunk. Bitch’s own fault; he should have let Don have the top bunk. This lower bunk BS was messin’ up his swag flow, and Don wasn’t having any of that. During the first few hours of the human race’s incarceration, Don had sought out a corner for his flow - but with all this concrete, all these human herds, gunking up the air and the imagination, Don just couldn’t think of any outfits to sketch. He spent a solid twenty-four hours (including hours asleep) trying to revive his lost, stylish creativity. Don even tried to fold his failed sketches into papery swans and giraffes, but they all came out looking crushed; and so he added them to the little horde underneath his bed.
Sighing through his nose, Don began to flip through the sketchbook he had managed to snag before the Peacekeepers had shoved him out of his house. He offered himself idle praise as his gaze skimmed over hourglass shaped models with flowing curly manes. A little smile had twinged upon his face by the time he flipped to the middle of his sketchbook. For the first time, the sympathetic face of a man in his early fifties popped into the sketches, mingling with the beautiful slender females that seemed to populate Don’s mind. The stylist blinked; he flipped to a next page, and the next, and the man’s face became more and more prominent. It wasn’t until he ruled the page that Don noticed that the man looked Hospes’s identical twin brother. How odd; Don hadn’t an idea that his most prominent client was a twin. And for that matter, why was Don drawing Hospes’s brother? Don wrinkled his nose in bemused amusement; on the side, he couldn’t help but wonder what Hospes’s twin’s name was. Don guessed Abel; he always thought that Hospes looked more like an Abel than a Hoss, anyhow.
The little sketches of Abel varied from sketched busts to little chibis. Don’s smile blossomed; he thought them all some of his best drawings. Abel’s face was just so distinctive and possessed such a stage (or rather, page) presence; his emotions and anatomy were clear and vibrant. Even the little chibis could stand alone, because of their level of detail and personality. Don’s face began to beam; he giggled as his eyes rolled down to a little chibi in the corner, seated atop a teeny-weeny cinnamon roll that Abel the Chibi happened to be eating. Oh, how cute! How sweet! Another goody, Donny-woody! He noticed some scrawl beneath the chibi’s cinnamon roll; he blinked, and squinted, for the words liked they were written by a chicken with very low blood sugar.
One by one, the smudgy letters came together and cleared themselves, rather like a memory unfolding in a present tense mind. The little note read: “Little Cinnamon Roll Escort, Too Pure For This City.” Don snorted. What? Was Abel an escort too? Hah!
As if struck by lightning, Don’s smile plummeted.
Shaking his head in desperation, he flipped to the next page as if in flight. Only one sketch awaited him: it took up the entire page; Hospes Compleo stood before him in partial profile, one foot lifted in mid-step. His hands were lifted up before his chest, as he was wont to do, and his fingertips embraced together in fidgety comfort. He was chewing on his lip, his face cringed down, despite the little flicker of defiance that darkened his clear eyes. Don stared at the metric ton of detail that went into each line, at the precision and accuracy that had been his forgetful pencil, at the muse that must have flowed within him when he had drawn this sketch - and then must have completely forsaken its existence. Don’s head thrust up as if a truck had slammed into him; his face was pale, his eyes dilated more as if they were filled with ghosts. His gaze rammed back down at the sketch; with a little squawk, he snatched the paper and ripped it out, crumpling it up in his fist before he shoved it into his mouth. He chewed it like a starved man, swallowed it as though it was made out of needles. Groaning, Don leaned over and tossed his sketchbook beneath his bed. By the grace of Snow, his bitch-ass bunk-mate wouldn’t go snooping about.
Don flung his legs over the side of his bed, and hurried to his feet. His brain needed vacuuming; he skittered away from his bunk - he had meant to walk, but only now realized he didn’t have it in him.