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Description

  McGuffin led the way. Then, when he realized that S.I.R Goober was still securely tied to the chair, he went back, untied him, and then led the way. Again.

  “Behold!” exclaimed McGuffin.

  They stood upon a catwalk twenty feet above a bustling factory floor. Below, a small army of over-sized robots with extra over-sized heads was steadily working its way down the assembly line.

  S.I.R Goober coughed as a fine spray mist rose from the powerful jets coating each robot.

  “Careful,” said McGuffin. “That’s stuff is quite toxic.”

  S.I.R Goober shot a nervous look at McGuffin and tried to hold his breath.

  “So, what do you think?” asked McGuffin.

  That was a difficult question to answer. At that particular moment, S.I.R Goober’s mind was focused on three distinctly different trains of thought.

  Why was it that manipulative industrial corporations never secretly conspired to upset the economic status quo using an army of mechanized mutant geese?

  What kind of cake did Gordon serve for his 25th year of loyal secretarial service party?

  And perhaps most importantly, could a person suffer permanent psychological trauma from a prolonged but fruitless search for adequate bathroom facilities?

  But S.I.R Goober seriously doubted that a major business magnate like McGuffin cared about any of these pressing concerns.

  “At a loss for words, I see,” said McGuffin, saving him from having to answer. “I understand. It is quite intimidating.”

  Intimidating was a word for it. So was hair-brained, poorly conceived or even potentially, financially catastrophic. S.I.R Goober recognized the robots that were rolling off the assembly line as the same useless models that were currently collecting dust in heaping piles in every city in the colonized universe.

  Finally realizing that his host was quite possibly a few oxford dictionaries short of 100 piece symphony orchestra, S.I.R Goober decided that tact was perhaps the best option.

  “Are you out of your mind?” said S.I.R Goober, tactfully. “These robots are arguably the worst piece of technology ever invented. A fly-screen on a submarine has more uses than these things. What were you thinking?”

  McGuffin just smiled.

  S.I.R Goober was prepared for a lot of different reactions. Yelling, violence, a red face aneurysm. But a smile was not one of them. It wasn’t even a particularly unhinged one, either. Just a subtle lift of the corner of the mouth that seemed to imply that McGuffin knew something that S.I.R Goober clearly did not. Which, if he thought about it, wasn’t much of stretch. There were in fact a great many things that S.I.R Goober didn’t know. Whole libraries were filled with such things. But this was different.

  “Do you see that spray coating the robots?” asked McGuffin. S.I.R Goober nodded. After inhaling some of the stuff, it was hard to miss. “That spray is a special psychotropic compound derived from the anal pheromone glands of a primitive primate adjacent species called the Mervin. It is virtually undetectable.”

  “Fascinating,” said S.I.R Goober.

  “Indeed. After extensive research we were able to manipulate those glands to produce a substance that had a rather surprising effect on our test subjects. Anything doused in the liquid remained largely unaffected,” said McGuffin.

  “I can’t even imagine the applications for something like that,” said S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin continued, ignoring the color commentary.

  “But the witnesses experienced a profound alteration in their opinion of the effected object. People reported that when an item was doused in the compound, its observed value seemed to drop to useless levels.”

  S.I.R Goober blinked slowly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “It’s quite simple. This liquid, when applied to an object, makes everyone believe that the object is useless, regardless of the quality, value or sophistication of the object,” said McGuffin, with a smug look on his face.

  “Tha- that’s… that’s stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone want to use something like that?”

  “It’s quite simple, really. Currently, I have a growing army of “useless” robots strategically stationed-”

  “Hold on. I’m going to stop you right there,” interrupted S.I.R Goober.

  “I don’t think so. I will admit that you have been a significant thorn in my side, but my plans are too far along. There really isn’t anything you can do to stop me,” said McGuffin confidently.

  “No, no, no. I think there has been some kind of mistake here. I don’t wa-”

  “No, it is you that is mistaken, Mr Goober. I have taken every precaution,” said McGuffin.

  “Look here pal, if you’d just stop interrupting me, I will expl-”

  “There is nothing to explain. This plan is foolproof! Soon, I will be ready to-” said McGuffin. But before he could reveal the climax of his grand scheme, S.I.R Goober swung his still bound fists at McGuffin, and knocked him to the ground.

  “If you would just stop monologuing for ten seconds, I have something to tell you that you really should hear,” said S.I.R Goober, panting.

  “Fine. I doubt it will make any difference anyway. Go on,” said McGuffin, as he slowly picked himself up from the floor.

  S.I.R Goober took a breath. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d been distracted with McGuffin’s rambling ambitions, but he’d finally reached his limit.

  “I’m not trying to stop you,” said S.I.R Goober. “I couldn’t give two shaved Mervins if you want to take over the galaxy, or whatever it is that you trying to do here.”

  McGuffin stopped.

  “My name is Wilford Doreen Goober. I am a Secretary of Intergalactic Retrieval for We’re Coming to Get Ya collections agency. You, Red T. McGuffin purchased a Binford 6100 Retroactive E-model Alarm Clock on January 1, -2.31e7.02, and as of today, you still owe a total of 7 half credits. I am here to repossess the item,” said S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin blinked slowly. Then he blinked again.

  “You’re a…you want a… what?” said McGuffin.

  “I realize that this might come as a shock. I’m sure you didn’t mean to miss your payments. You probably just forgot,” said S.I.R Goober.

  Good customer relations was key to a smooth repossession experience, or at least that was what S.I.R Goober learned at Secretary College. Nobody likes to have their possessions taken away from them, particularly when it was the result of defaulting on a debt. It was humiliating. S.I.R Goober could sympathize.

  “But unfortunately, I really must take possession of the Alarm Clock. If you wish to settle the debt and reclaim the item, I would suggest you contact our Head Secretary, Nugent Sally, down at the agency. I’m sure he can sort something out.”

  S.I.R Goober waited patiently while McGuffin rearranged his understanding of the situation. It took a while.

  “You’re not trying to stop my plan for intergalactic domination?” asked McGuffin with evident disbelief.

  “Nope,” said S.I.R Goober.

  “And you just want me to give you a crappy old alarm clock?” said McGuffin.

  “Not any old alarm clock. Says here, Binford 6100 Retroactive E-model Alarm Clock,” said S.I.R Goober, as he retrieved the paperwork from his Pocket Dimension Storage Unit using bootless foot. “I believe you purchased it at Bargain Brian’s Big Bus of Barely Working E-Boxes.”

  “I remember. There was one of those wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube men out front. I almost didn’t go in,” said McGuffin, clearly still in shock.

  “Look. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. In fact, we might be able to work something out,” said S.I.R Goober. “You still want those Galoshes, right?”

  “Yes,” said McGuffin. “My robot invasion scheme is unstoppable, but, not currently profitable. I require that fortune in Wellington Galoshes to keep my other debtors at bay until the final phase can be implemented.”

  “Well then. How about you take me to that annoying robot and I’ll help you get what you need, and in exchange, you give me the alarm clock? Sound fair?” asked S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin considered the offer. A win/win situation wasn’t his typical way of conducting business but it seemed the most expedient option.

  “Very well. I will take you to the robot, presently,” said McGuffin.

---

Okay, so that was a bit long there... but I was having fun and it just sort of got away from me...
Anyway, this was the big twist for the story. We haven't quite got to the climax yet, don't worry, but there were a few major points in here that I needed to address, so I'm happy with how it turned out.
The picture too. I was afraid that it might be bit boring, particularly because I wrote the story first, liked it, and stressed that the image wouldn't be of a similar level, but I like it.

In the last picture I experimented with a change in process, focusing more on organic line over precision, and it has been very successful change, imho. It feels more natural, it's quicker and I just like it better. For those that might be interested, I use Clip Studio Paint for Inktober, and most other pieces now too, and I have been using the perspective tools quite heavily this year. But in the past couple, I would use the perspective tools for the drawing, then ink them freehand. That is the change I was talking about.

So, like always, I look forward to your thoughts, opinions and general nonsense.
More on the way.

Description

  McGuffin led the way. Then, when he realized that S.I.R Goober was still securely tied to the chair, he went back, untied him, and then led the way. Again.

  “Behold!” exclaimed McGuffin.

  They stood upon a catwalk twenty feet above a bustling factory floor. Below, a small army of over-sized robots with extra over-sized heads was steadily working its way down the assembly line.

  S.I.R Goober coughed as a fine spray mist rose from the powerful jets coating each robot.

  “Careful,” said McGuffin. “That’s stuff is quite toxic.”

  S.I.R Goober shot a nervous look at McGuffin and tried to hold his breath.

  “So, what do you think?” asked McGuffin.

  That was a difficult question to answer. At that particular moment, S.I.R Goober’s mind was focused on three distinctly different trains of thought.

  Why was it that manipulative industrial corporations never secretly conspired to upset the economic status quo using an army of mechanized mutant geese?

  What kind of cake did Gordon serve for his 25th year of loyal secretarial service party?

  And perhaps most importantly, could a person suffer permanent psychological trauma from a prolonged but fruitless search for adequate bathroom facilities?

  But S.I.R Goober seriously doubted that a major business magnate like McGuffin cared about any of these pressing concerns.

  “At a loss for words, I see,” said McGuffin, saving him from having to answer. “I understand. It is quite intimidating.”

  Intimidating was a word for it. So was hair-brained, poorly conceived or even potentially, financially catastrophic. S.I.R Goober recognized the robots that were rolling off the assembly line as the same useless models that were currently collecting dust in heaping piles in every city in the colonized universe.

  Finally realizing that his host was quite possibly a few oxford dictionaries short of 100 piece symphony orchestra, S.I.R Goober decided that tact was perhaps the best option.

  “Are you out of your mind?” said S.I.R Goober, tactfully. “These robots are arguably the worst piece of technology ever invented. A fly-screen on a submarine has more uses than these things. What were you thinking?”

  McGuffin just smiled.

  S.I.R Goober was prepared for a lot of different reactions. Yelling, violence, a red face aneurysm. But a smile was not one of them. It wasn’t even a particularly unhinged one, either. Just a subtle lift of the corner of the mouth that seemed to imply that McGuffin knew something that S.I.R Goober clearly did not. Which, if he thought about it, wasn’t much of stretch. There were in fact a great many things that S.I.R Goober didn’t know. Whole libraries were filled with such things. But this was different.

  “Do you see that spray coating the robots?” asked McGuffin. S.I.R Goober nodded. After inhaling some of the stuff, it was hard to miss. “That spray is a special psychotropic compound derived from the anal pheromone glands of a primitive primate adjacent species called the Mervin. It is virtually undetectable.”

  “Fascinating,” said S.I.R Goober.

  “Indeed. After extensive research we were able to manipulate those glands to produce a substance that had a rather surprising effect on our test subjects. Anything doused in the liquid remained largely unaffected,” said McGuffin.

  “I can’t even imagine the applications for something like that,” said S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin continued, ignoring the color commentary.

  “But the witnesses experienced a profound alteration in their opinion of the effected object. People reported that when an item was doused in the compound, its observed value seemed to drop to useless levels.”

  S.I.R Goober blinked slowly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “It’s quite simple. This liquid, when applied to an object, makes everyone believe that the object is useless, regardless of the quality, value or sophistication of the object,” said McGuffin, with a smug look on his face.

  “Tha- that’s… that’s stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone want to use something like that?”

  “It’s quite simple, really. Currently, I have a growing army of “useless” robots strategically stationed-”

  “Hold on. I’m going to stop you right there,” interrupted S.I.R Goober.

  “I don’t think so. I will admit that you have been a significant thorn in my side, but my plans are too far along. There really isn’t anything you can do to stop me,” said McGuffin confidently.

  “No, no, no. I think there has been some kind of mistake here. I don’t wa-”

  “No, it is you that is mistaken, Mr Goober. I have taken every precaution,” said McGuffin.

  “Look here pal, if you’d just stop interrupting me, I will expl-”

  “There is nothing to explain. This plan is foolproof! Soon, I will be ready to-” said McGuffin. But before he could reveal the climax of his grand scheme, S.I.R Goober swung his still bound fists at McGuffin, and knocked him to the ground.

  “If you would just stop monologuing for ten seconds, I have something to tell you that you really should hear,” said S.I.R Goober, panting.

  “Fine. I doubt it will make any difference anyway. Go on,” said McGuffin, as he slowly picked himself up from the floor.

  S.I.R Goober took a breath. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d been distracted with McGuffin’s rambling ambitions, but he’d finally reached his limit.

  “I’m not trying to stop you,” said S.I.R Goober. “I couldn’t give two shaved Mervins if you want to take over the galaxy, or whatever it is that you trying to do here.”

  McGuffin stopped.

  “My name is Wilford Doreen Goober. I am a Secretary of Intergalactic Retrieval for We’re Coming to Get Ya collections agency. You, Red T. McGuffin purchased a Binford 6100 Retroactive E-model Alarm Clock on January 1, -2.31e7.02, and as of today, you still owe a total of 7 half credits. I am here to repossess the item,” said S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin blinked slowly. Then he blinked again.

  “You’re a…you want a… what?” said McGuffin.

  “I realize that this might come as a shock. I’m sure you didn’t mean to miss your payments. You probably just forgot,” said S.I.R Goober.

  Good customer relations was key to a smooth repossession experience, or at least that was what S.I.R Goober learned at Secretary College. Nobody likes to have their possessions taken away from them, particularly when it was the result of defaulting on a debt. It was humiliating. S.I.R Goober could sympathize.

  “But unfortunately, I really must take possession of the Alarm Clock. If you wish to settle the debt and reclaim the item, I would suggest you contact our Head Secretary, Nugent Sally, down at the agency. I’m sure he can sort something out.”

  S.I.R Goober waited patiently while McGuffin rearranged his understanding of the situation. It took a while.

  “You’re not trying to stop my plan for intergalactic domination?” asked McGuffin with evident disbelief.

  “Nope,” said S.I.R Goober.

  “And you just want me to give you a crappy old alarm clock?” said McGuffin.

  “Not any old alarm clock. Says here, Binford 6100 Retroactive E-model Alarm Clock,” said S.I.R Goober, as he retrieved the paperwork from his Pocket Dimension Storage Unit using bootless foot. “I believe you purchased it at Bargain Brian’s Big Bus of Barely Working E-Boxes.”

  “I remember. There was one of those wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube men out front. I almost didn’t go in,” said McGuffin, clearly still in shock.

  “Look. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. In fact, we might be able to work something out,” said S.I.R Goober. “You still want those Galoshes, right?”

  “Yes,” said McGuffin. “My robot invasion scheme is unstoppable, but, not currently profitable. I require that fortune in Wellington Galoshes to keep my other debtors at bay until the final phase can be implemented.”

  “Well then. How about you take me to that annoying robot and I’ll help you get what you need, and in exchange, you give me the alarm clock? Sound fair?” asked S.I.R Goober.

  McGuffin considered the offer. A win/win situation wasn’t his typical way of conducting business but it seemed the most expedient option.

  “Very well. I will take you to the robot, presently,” said McGuffin.

---

Okay, so that was a bit long there... but I was having fun and it just sort of got away from me...
Anyway, this was the big twist for the story. We haven't quite got to the climax yet, don't worry, but there were a few major points in here that I needed to address, so I'm happy with how it turned out.
The picture too. I was afraid that it might be bit boring, particularly because I wrote the story first, liked it, and stressed that the image wouldn't be of a similar level, but I like it.

In the last picture I experimented with a change in process, focusing more on organic line over precision, and it has been very successful change, imho. It feels more natural, it's quicker and I just like it better. For those that might be interested, I use Clip Studio Paint for Inktober, and most other pieces now too, and I have been using the perspective tools quite heavily this year. But in the past couple, I would use the perspective tools for the drawing, then ink them freehand. That is the change I was talking about.

So, like always, I look forward to your thoughts, opinions and general nonsense.
More on the way.