An Artist and his Bloodthirsty Muse

“Surely,” I said, dryness in my mouth making it hard to talk. “… you are one of those introspective, post-modern barbarians. Not the killy, murdery, foamy saliva kind?”

Ignoring my words, Thrak Krunga took another step towards me. 

“Like say, Logan nine fingers? Or perhaps plagued by demons, unwilling to face your past self like Elric of—“ 

The barbarian swung his great fork-tongued sword at me. I rolled backwards, to the sound of my attacker laughing. The oaf was laughing at me. ME! Chuck Ludwig Reina. Artist, Comedian, Writer. 

“Listen here you!” I waved my paint brush at him. “I created you, I can erase you!” Which was not true. Besides its magical properties, the sepia ink I used, was most assuredly indelible. 

Thrak Krunga raised his sword to the air, and I made a tres-unmanly squeal as I saw my brief (and artistically unappreciated) life flash before me. But the great blade did not come down to cleave in my head. Instead Trak Krunga assailed me with even more sonorous laughter. 

This had all gone horribly wrong. 

The day started out well enough, but time had just gotten away from me. I was 13 days into this October drawing challenge, and today I hadn’t even an idea for a piece, let alone time to draw something. 

Then I had an Idea. Not a drawing Idea. A better Idea.

It is the poor craftsman who will blame his tools when his talents fails him. But the poor craftsman will also (foolishly) lean on his tools to get him out of a jam. 

Low on time, talent, and inspiration, I rummaged through my art supply cabinet. I knew it was in there, and then Lo! I found it. A bottle of supposedly “magical” Sepia ink. 

I’d purchased the little bottle off a rail-thin man in Cambodia. At the time I thought Sepia Ink was a code word for opium. The seller kept saying “It will make your dreams come true,” and winking at me. In hindsight, I realize he simply had a tick in his eye. 

After the initial disappointment one feels when they realize they’ve purchased bunk drugs, I tried using the ink in my fountain pen, but the syrupy ink never feed.

After returning from Cambodia, I threw the little bottle into the nether regions of my art cabinet, there to languish with all the other art supplies I would never use like gold leaf, liquid frisket, or water soluble charcoal.

And there it languished until today, when I hastily inked this raging barbarian, who—through whatever arcane magic my twitchy Cambodian friend embedded in that ink—jumped off the page and into my studio. And proceeded (apropos of a barbarian) to try to kill me.

“If I survived I am drawing nothing but Cheesecake from this day on!”

Thrak Krunga took another swing, this time with his devilish looking axe. Jumping away, I was now back to the wall. Thrak took an uneasy step.

“I’m glad I drew your legs different lengths you oaf!” And I had. Even da Vinci buggered it up once in a while… probably. 

I’d assumed the barbarian couldn’t understand English. But my insult seemed to offend him, his brow growing even more furrowed, overhanging. He raised both weapons to the sky, let out an enraged bellow.

“Of all the things I could have drawn!”

This is what I got. For years, it was all scantly clad women with impish smiles. Why couldn’t I have drawn one of them? But no, today I thought I’d pull a Frazetta. The truth was, I was no Frazetta. Heck, I wasn’t even a Boris Vallejo. 

With that understatement of the century, Thrak Krunga’s weapons fell.