Did some thumbnails for the self-portrait challenge on New Master’s Academy. Going to develop that second one.

This year I decided to try something different for Inktober. I had an old story from college knocking about on the hard drive, a bit of a hard-boiled noir-ish thing, and it seemed pretty well suited for ink! So here is the first part of, "On the Clock."

Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18

Part 3: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/vP93/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-19-end

----------- ON THE CLOCK---------

A horrible acoustic cover of “Comfortably Numb” blasted from the speakers, doing violence not only to my eardrums but to good music everywhere. It was interrupted by the occasional incomprehensible radio chatter. I shifted in the backseat, unable to fight off the soft, six-stringed assault.

“Hey, can you turn it down a bit?” I asked the driver.

“Why don’t you turn yourself down a bit, sweetheart,” said his bald partner from the passenger’s seat. The man was all wit. “I happen to like this one.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” I muttered, sliding down in the seat until my knees were resting on the cage in front of me. The singer/songwriter went on and I felt my testosterone levels drop with every sensitively drawn-out word.

“Tell ya what, sweetheart, why don’t ya sing along? You seem to know this.”

“Nah, that’s OK. I don’t want it to be used against me in a court of law,” I said, shifting again. You’d think they’d make these damned things more comfortable. I guess the powers-that-be had a different agenda. Whatever it was, putting air-fresheners in the back of police vehicles to do something about the reek of vomit didn’t seem to be on it.

“You guys bust a lot of cheerleaders?” I inquired in search of a possible cause of the olfactory offense.

“What’s that?” said Sgt. Cueball.

“Nevermind, just grasping at straws over here,” I said and turned to look out the window. 

It was getting dark. The clouds had come in an hour ago and with them came the rain. It was pouring now. Outside of the cruiser the city had acquired that transparent grey quality as it often does when the rain washes away all traces of color, except the red of the taillights.

My head felt like it was about to explode. I wasn’t sure whether the lack of coffee, the rain, the shitty Pink Floyd cover (which was now replaced by an even worse rendition of Marley’s “Natural Mystic”), or some combination of the three, was to blame. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them, but that didn’t help much. My ex-wife used to rub her temples whenever she had one of her migraines. I considered doing the same, but the officers were nice enough to take preventative measures and cuff me behind the back. At least my ex’s headaches weren’t caused by her spouse. Most of mine were. The current throbbing pain was an unwelcome exception.

“Hey, Sergeant, you have any Aspirin up there?” I finally asked.

“No.” Charming fellow.

“Ibuprofen?”

“Look, McGloin, why don’t you shut your trap, eh?”

“Because my head hurts, Sarge.”

“Well, your whining is giving me a headache, suspect.” I was wrong about this guy – he had more wit than hair.

“Oh, please, call me David,” I said.

“Whatever, wise-ass. Now shut up, we’re almost there. Soon you can talk the dicks’ ears off.”

“Whatever, David,” I corrected him. “No need to ignore my offer of friendship, Sergeant.”

He turned so his hairless pate was replaced by his equally plain face and glared at me with that hard look that cops perfect early in their careers.

“Let’s get something straight, McGloin. I want nothing to do with you. It will be a happy time in my life when I get rid of you and let the poor bastards at the precinct deal with your annoying ass. A happy moment, McGloin. The clouds will part and the sun will come out. You understand what I’m saying?”

“You know, you say that, but those gruff words belie the compassion of your true feelings. ‘The sun will come out,’ that’s very romantic, Sarge, and the sun may not be the only thing. I can see it in your eyes--”

“You can’t see shit, McGloin! I have no compassion for assholes like you,” he said glaring at me even harder, his brows making a distinct ‘V’ in the middle of his round face. He looked like a cartoon. A bald, pockmarked cartoon with big, protruding ears and a five o’clock shadow.

“There you go again with your tough-love and looking at me all sweet like that. I bet you’re a real lady-killer, Sarge.”

He seemed to be concentrating on ignoring me.

“No?” I continued. “Maybe Rogaine then—”

“Shut up, McGloin,” said the driver wearily.

“Ah! It speaks,” I said and went back to staring out the window. The rain poured on.

I spent the rest of the uneventful car ride trying my best to ignore the radio and the dull sense of failure that was gnawing on my gut, while the cruiser sped through the de-saturated world.

Continued in

Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18