Another catch from Rob's Instagram! Deadpool is crying because he's not the coolest character on the block any more!
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg_yxkPB3j3/?hl=en&taken-by=robliefeld
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Sunday, August 19, 2018
FanFiction of the Week: The Pouch Opens Up by J. K. Ceerius
Strapped up, bound tight to the cross beams, The Pouch's head pouch drooped low to rest on his central chest pouch. All hope was lost. This was the end. He would hang here until his slow, drawn out demise. The slightest sound caught his attention, however, and not raising his head at all, but opening his awareness lightly to view the ground before him, The Pouch saw a small bobbin roll up. It raised up, like a snake, on the end of its seemingly living thread and took a look at him, if such could be said for a small metal object that had no eyes. Just as quickly, it rolled itself back along the length of the thread.
Thread? Could it be? Impossible. When he was cast into this tiny pocket dimension that Malek the Maladjusted was using as an oubliette, The Pouch heard him say that only the Key of Klamatto could access this realm. The problem was that The Pouch had been able to pick up and pouch the Key after the portal was already open, but before he was bound by the enchanted ropebeasts and cast through said portal. How could Mary Sew, the only being he knew who utilized a peeping bobbin to run reconnaissance, have gained entry here?
And as he thought of her she appeared!
"Are you okay?" she asked, not getting too close for fear of a similar ropebeast entanglement.
"I am now," said The Pouch.
"Okay, I've got some macrame mites that might be able to handle the ropebeasts. Here we go!" She flung what looked like a small handful of glitter towards The Pouch. He felt the ropebeasts that held him squeeze more tightly upon recognizing the presence of their mortal enemy. The battle raged on for an agonizing series of moments before The Pouch felt the death rattle of the ropebeasts. Unfortunately, their rigor mortis left him still trussed up upon the X of Malek's insidious woodwork.
"I'm pretty sure they're dead... " The Pouch said.
"Great, we can cut them away once we're out of here. Where's the Key of Klamatto?" Mary Sew asked.
"Uh... I... it's been one of those days. I'm hurt real bad. I'm sure I have it, but..."
"You don't know which pouch it's in?" she asked.
"No... you have to... if you could..."
"Don't worry, I'm on it." Mary Sew began with his smallest finger pouches, carefully opening each one, gently exploring it with her impossibly delicate fingers, and then resealing each snap as softly as anything has ever been done. With the ropebeast threat nullified, and the peculiar way that time worked in these pocket dimensions, she did not rush. After finishing the left arm, she progressed through the right. She digitally explored the back pouches, the dead ropebeasts granting some give, before going through the chest pouches. She would pause frequently to look up at him and smile, give his arm a gently squeeze. She began exploring the pouches around his midsection_
"George, hey Georgie Boy, it's me, Silky John! Hey buddy, rise and shine, we gots things to do!" The shouting was accompanied by all of the door poundings. George, or G Masta Man as he liked to be called, lived in the next apartment over. The Pouch had no reason to crime fight him as he was merely a white kid with poor hygiene and delusions of gangster. This silky individual clearly suffered from innumeracy, which is why he so often knocked on the wrong door.
"WRONG DOOR, FOR THE FORTY SECOND TIME, NEXT DOOR DOWN!!!" screamed The Pouch from his futon.
"Oh, my bad, thanks, bro!"
Too often, it seemed, one could not enforce both the law of the land and the law of Darwin. His blood now boiling, The Pouch settled back into repose but sleep would not come, his dream, once interrupted, could never continue on...
Thread? Could it be? Impossible. When he was cast into this tiny pocket dimension that Malek the Maladjusted was using as an oubliette, The Pouch heard him say that only the Key of Klamatto could access this realm. The problem was that The Pouch had been able to pick up and pouch the Key after the portal was already open, but before he was bound by the enchanted ropebeasts and cast through said portal. How could Mary Sew, the only being he knew who utilized a peeping bobbin to run reconnaissance, have gained entry here?
And as he thought of her she appeared!
"Are you okay?" she asked, not getting too close for fear of a similar ropebeast entanglement.
"I am now," said The Pouch.
"Okay, I've got some macrame mites that might be able to handle the ropebeasts. Here we go!" She flung what looked like a small handful of glitter towards The Pouch. He felt the ropebeasts that held him squeeze more tightly upon recognizing the presence of their mortal enemy. The battle raged on for an agonizing series of moments before The Pouch felt the death rattle of the ropebeasts. Unfortunately, their rigor mortis left him still trussed up upon the X of Malek's insidious woodwork.
"I'm pretty sure they're dead... " The Pouch said.
"Great, we can cut them away once we're out of here. Where's the Key of Klamatto?" Mary Sew asked.
"Uh... I... it's been one of those days. I'm hurt real bad. I'm sure I have it, but..."
"You don't know which pouch it's in?" she asked.
"No... you have to... if you could..."
"Don't worry, I'm on it." Mary Sew began with his smallest finger pouches, carefully opening each one, gently exploring it with her impossibly delicate fingers, and then resealing each snap as softly as anything has ever been done. With the ropebeast threat nullified, and the peculiar way that time worked in these pocket dimensions, she did not rush. After finishing the left arm, she progressed through the right. She digitally explored the back pouches, the dead ropebeasts granting some give, before going through the chest pouches. She would pause frequently to look up at him and smile, give his arm a gently squeeze. She began exploring the pouches around his midsection_
"George, hey Georgie Boy, it's me, Silky John! Hey buddy, rise and shine, we gots things to do!" The shouting was accompanied by all of the door poundings. George, or G Masta Man as he liked to be called, lived in the next apartment over. The Pouch had no reason to crime fight him as he was merely a white kid with poor hygiene and delusions of gangster. This silky individual clearly suffered from innumeracy, which is why he so often knocked on the wrong door.
"WRONG DOOR, FOR THE FORTY SECOND TIME, NEXT DOOR DOWN!!!" screamed The Pouch from his futon.
"Oh, my bad, thanks, bro!"
Too often, it seemed, one could not enforce both the law of the land and the law of Darwin. His blood now boiling, The Pouch settled back into repose but sleep would not come, his dream, once interrupted, could never continue on...
Pouch Spotting!: Issue 3
Is this the first appearance of The Pouch?
Rob put this up on his Instagram a while back. Looks like a sketchbook special (see the book crease?).
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg6f80-B4jD/?hl=en&taken-by=robliefeld
Saturday, August 11, 2018
FanFiction of the Week: Unpacking by Lin Schnitzel
Darkness... all darkness... before light... too much light, reflecting off every white surface, enough light to split the soul... and then the vomiting.
One benefit of sleeping on the bathroom floor, The Pouch realized that Sunday morning, was the close proximity to the toilet that the practice provided the newly awake. It was a short way to where he could open his mouth pouch and unleash a torrent of hot and steamy horror, the water logged and yet desiccated artifacts of the previous evening, its realities lost beyond the veil of time, and, judging by the fumes, tequila. There had to be tequila, lots of it. Captain MexiCanada was flying around so there was likely some whiskey, too. The Captain's two fisted super punch was too much reflected in his drinking practices. Such thoughts were rudely interrupted by a second torrent of regurgitation that tore it's way out of Our Hero, every pouch contracting with the effort.
Finally free from expulsive spasm, The Pouch leaned back against the cool tile of his bathroom wall and began his initial attempts at piecing together the events of the night before. The tightening of his many pouches, which accompanied his technicolor yawn, revealed to him, if only vaguely, that he had deposited a great many items in himself the night before. On the upside, it seemed as though the majority, perhaps the totality, of his investigation into what had transpired the night before could take place here, on his bathroom floor.
Bravely digging his left hand into his right palm pouch, The Pouch braced for the worst. There he saw, in the unkind glare of what morning light was able to sneak between his ready-to-be-replaced blinds, a token from the bar that indicated that he had been "backed up" on drinks and could receive a free drink upon redemption of this token. As it was clear to him that he would never be drinking again, The Pouch placed the small plastic circle safely in the drawer that held the matches he would light after a particularly foul defecation. There was, perhaps, a slight sound that might have indicated that the token had come into contact with a twin as it fell into the drawer, but the higher facilities of The Pouch completely ignored any such sense data. This first clue told The Pouch only that this morning could have been worse.
Turning his attention to his left bicep pouch, another spot in which he'd detected some level of occupancy, The Pouch took a deep breath before looking within. There he found five disposable plastic lighters. He had been, apparently that guy last night. He didn't smoke, which made this second clue feel somehow less informative, that it put him further from his investigative end, not closer.
The next investigated pouch was a short way away, his left triceps pouch, only on the other side of his arm. Inside was a rubber ball, nine aluminum jacks (one short of a modern set), and several pieces of chalk. The Pouch could recall yesterday's events up until a fairly late hour; it seemed most likely that some children had abandoned these items on the sidewalk somewhere between the bar and his apartment. He was a hero before all other things; there was no chance that he had taken the playthings from children directly. It was most likely that he had simply taken the items into protective custody until such a time as he could safely return them to their rightful owners. Clearly that was the thought process that had led to the presence of these things in his pouch. Surely the momentary flash he envisioned of laying on the sidewalk, insisting that what few pedestrians passed by at that late hour outline him in different colors of chalk to form a rainbow outline, not so much to denote his passing but more so the cessation of his hopes and dreams, was but an odd thought and not a memory at all.
His left pectoral pouch reported only something slight. Inside was a small cord which he drew out into the light. One end terminated in the familiar, dependable USB shape that would find a comfortable fit in any computer manufactured since... at least in the last decade or so, for sure. At the other end, the cord split seven ways, each sub-cord ending in a differently shaped connector. Our Hero wasn't much of a gadget guy or tech-savvy in any way, but still, there seemed to be something a bit off about these other connectors. He didn't recognize any of them as belonging to a device he'd ever owned or operated. None appeared to be the smaller USB ends. A few of them made his head spin when he looked too closely, as though their geometry was non-Euclidean. One of them seemed to be a different shape every time he looked away from it and then looked back. Well, somebody was probably going to miss this, he thought. What it said about last night was... unclear.
In his chest's central pouch, he found the saddest thing: a completely deflated, long and stringy balloon. Its many knots spoke of an expertly crafted design, some sort of beast had been rendered by the hands of a master. And now it was little more than a fossil, its living form recoverable only by computer modelling and great expertise. As feelings may or may not be facts, this provided no leads.
In his right side pouch he found a set of silverware. Upon closer inspection, these dining implements proved atypical. The fork was recognizable as a spork, the product of a fork's union with a spoon. The knife was unfamiliar, but further inspection revealed some of spoon in its DNA. Perhaps it was intended that the user would sip from the side that was not sharp. More perplexing was the spoon. Being the product of a spoon and another spoon, it contained two chambers of different sizes. The smaller was accessible via the tip, the larger from the side. It was hard to think about food at a time like this and also, no meaningful clues here.
His left hip pouch held what was actually the saddest thing: a chipped and cracked mug with "world's worst dad" written on it. This investigation was going nowhere.
The most central pouch of his right thigh held a disturbing mass of remains. Here were an assortment of bones, not appearing to be human, not appearing to have been prepared for presentation or storage. The light scoring visible in places on them might have come from the spork and spife he had previously excavated from himself. The Pouch spent some time attempting to order them, to see if perhaps the set reflected a complete appendage. His hazy brain tired of the exertion after what he felt was an eternity, though little more than fifteen minutes had passed. He reflected back to the many unclassified constituents of his throw-up and felt that it was entirely possible he'd stopped, in a moment of drunken munchies, for some street meat. It seemed extremely unlikely that he'd received some cooked portion of an animal from a UFO or the back of lab van that had to get rid of some experiments gone wrong. There was nothing conclusive here.
His right shin was full of jangles, those being a handful of change from no country he could identify. Also there was some lint and a tube resembling chapstick but festooned with indecipherable symbols. Only more questions were raised.
The last evidence bearing pouch, the smallest component of his left foot, held nothing more than a small charm on a chain. Drawing it forth, The Pouch saw that the charm was actually two charms, of the that type of locket where its separate but interlocking parts are held by two individuals. These were of different matching pairs but were held together, crudely, by a thin nail, having been pounded through one and then bent into a U shape before being pounded through the next and bent again to form a sort of staple. Nothing to see here.
The Pouch, stroking his chin, appropriate in moments of deep consideration, chose to merely accept these disparate items without trying to force a narrative upon them. After all, he had really enjoyed watching the TV program 'Lost' and regretted none of his invested time, even after it became clear that the show was a pointless shaggy-dog story. The joy was often in the journey, after all, and things didn't have to make sense, ultimately. Also his mind had cleared up enough in this interim to possibly guide the rest of him to a coupla cheeseburgers and maybe a little hair of the dog.
One benefit of sleeping on the bathroom floor, The Pouch realized that Sunday morning, was the close proximity to the toilet that the practice provided the newly awake. It was a short way to where he could open his mouth pouch and unleash a torrent of hot and steamy horror, the water logged and yet desiccated artifacts of the previous evening, its realities lost beyond the veil of time, and, judging by the fumes, tequila. There had to be tequila, lots of it. Captain MexiCanada was flying around so there was likely some whiskey, too. The Captain's two fisted super punch was too much reflected in his drinking practices. Such thoughts were rudely interrupted by a second torrent of regurgitation that tore it's way out of Our Hero, every pouch contracting with the effort.
Finally free from expulsive spasm, The Pouch leaned back against the cool tile of his bathroom wall and began his initial attempts at piecing together the events of the night before. The tightening of his many pouches, which accompanied his technicolor yawn, revealed to him, if only vaguely, that he had deposited a great many items in himself the night before. On the upside, it seemed as though the majority, perhaps the totality, of his investigation into what had transpired the night before could take place here, on his bathroom floor.
Bravely digging his left hand into his right palm pouch, The Pouch braced for the worst. There he saw, in the unkind glare of what morning light was able to sneak between his ready-to-be-replaced blinds, a token from the bar that indicated that he had been "backed up" on drinks and could receive a free drink upon redemption of this token. As it was clear to him that he would never be drinking again, The Pouch placed the small plastic circle safely in the drawer that held the matches he would light after a particularly foul defecation. There was, perhaps, a slight sound that might have indicated that the token had come into contact with a twin as it fell into the drawer, but the higher facilities of The Pouch completely ignored any such sense data. This first clue told The Pouch only that this morning could have been worse.
Turning his attention to his left bicep pouch, another spot in which he'd detected some level of occupancy, The Pouch took a deep breath before looking within. There he found five disposable plastic lighters. He had been, apparently that guy last night. He didn't smoke, which made this second clue feel somehow less informative, that it put him further from his investigative end, not closer.
The next investigated pouch was a short way away, his left triceps pouch, only on the other side of his arm. Inside was a rubber ball, nine aluminum jacks (one short of a modern set), and several pieces of chalk. The Pouch could recall yesterday's events up until a fairly late hour; it seemed most likely that some children had abandoned these items on the sidewalk somewhere between the bar and his apartment. He was a hero before all other things; there was no chance that he had taken the playthings from children directly. It was most likely that he had simply taken the items into protective custody until such a time as he could safely return them to their rightful owners. Clearly that was the thought process that had led to the presence of these things in his pouch. Surely the momentary flash he envisioned of laying on the sidewalk, insisting that what few pedestrians passed by at that late hour outline him in different colors of chalk to form a rainbow outline, not so much to denote his passing but more so the cessation of his hopes and dreams, was but an odd thought and not a memory at all.
His left pectoral pouch reported only something slight. Inside was a small cord which he drew out into the light. One end terminated in the familiar, dependable USB shape that would find a comfortable fit in any computer manufactured since... at least in the last decade or so, for sure. At the other end, the cord split seven ways, each sub-cord ending in a differently shaped connector. Our Hero wasn't much of a gadget guy or tech-savvy in any way, but still, there seemed to be something a bit off about these other connectors. He didn't recognize any of them as belonging to a device he'd ever owned or operated. None appeared to be the smaller USB ends. A few of them made his head spin when he looked too closely, as though their geometry was non-Euclidean. One of them seemed to be a different shape every time he looked away from it and then looked back. Well, somebody was probably going to miss this, he thought. What it said about last night was... unclear.
In his chest's central pouch, he found the saddest thing: a completely deflated, long and stringy balloon. Its many knots spoke of an expertly crafted design, some sort of beast had been rendered by the hands of a master. And now it was little more than a fossil, its living form recoverable only by computer modelling and great expertise. As feelings may or may not be facts, this provided no leads.
In his right side pouch he found a set of silverware. Upon closer inspection, these dining implements proved atypical. The fork was recognizable as a spork, the product of a fork's union with a spoon. The knife was unfamiliar, but further inspection revealed some of spoon in its DNA. Perhaps it was intended that the user would sip from the side that was not sharp. More perplexing was the spoon. Being the product of a spoon and another spoon, it contained two chambers of different sizes. The smaller was accessible via the tip, the larger from the side. It was hard to think about food at a time like this and also, no meaningful clues here.
His left hip pouch held what was actually the saddest thing: a chipped and cracked mug with "world's worst dad" written on it. This investigation was going nowhere.
The most central pouch of his right thigh held a disturbing mass of remains. Here were an assortment of bones, not appearing to be human, not appearing to have been prepared for presentation or storage. The light scoring visible in places on them might have come from the spork and spife he had previously excavated from himself. The Pouch spent some time attempting to order them, to see if perhaps the set reflected a complete appendage. His hazy brain tired of the exertion after what he felt was an eternity, though little more than fifteen minutes had passed. He reflected back to the many unclassified constituents of his throw-up and felt that it was entirely possible he'd stopped, in a moment of drunken munchies, for some street meat. It seemed extremely unlikely that he'd received some cooked portion of an animal from a UFO or the back of lab van that had to get rid of some experiments gone wrong. There was nothing conclusive here.
His right shin was full of jangles, those being a handful of change from no country he could identify. Also there was some lint and a tube resembling chapstick but festooned with indecipherable symbols. Only more questions were raised.
The last evidence bearing pouch, the smallest component of his left foot, held nothing more than a small charm on a chain. Drawing it forth, The Pouch saw that the charm was actually two charms, of the that type of locket where its separate but interlocking parts are held by two individuals. These were of different matching pairs but were held together, crudely, by a thin nail, having been pounded through one and then bent into a U shape before being pounded through the next and bent again to form a sort of staple. Nothing to see here.
Pouch Spotting!: Issue 2
Late to the party, I guess. I'm not much of an Instagram-er... more like an Eventualgram-er! LOL!!!
Rob posted a load of awesome drawings to his account. I'm re-posting for the convenience of all the little Pouchamanaics out there!
Rob posted a load of awesome drawings to his account. I'm re-posting for the convenience of all the little Pouchamanaics out there!
And this:
LOL!!!
Here's where I found it at:
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg87eqVhbZM/?hl=en
Monday, August 6, 2018
FanFiction of the Week: Where Walks the Coiner by Ernie Jones
Monday morning finds Our Hero, The Pouch, on a sidewalk, waiting patiently in line for his usual, a regular coffee and an onion bagel with butter. The air is cool and The Pouch briefly zones out while watching a falling leaf tumble about acrobatically in the brisk breeze. Too soon his revelry is interrupted by yelling.
"I didn't ask you for change!" screamed a relatively destitute man sitting atop a nearby newspaper box. "I don't have to grovel, if I want change, I have change." Leaping to his feet, still atop the newspaper box, he shouted, "I am the Coiner, now feel my wrath, you pretentious Yuppie!" With that the air became electric, buzzing with the familiar tinkle of pocket change. Bit by bit, each piece of coinage in the surrounding area leapt from purses and pockets and began a slow orbit of the Coiner. It was mere moments before the Coiner pointed down at the business man, the slowly rotating coins forming an aimed torrent!
The Pouch was swift, bounding away from the coffee and the bagel that were about to be his, such was the price of superherodom. Positioning himself before the about-to-be coin crushed Mergers and Acquisitions Vice-President, The Pouch opened each of his many compartments fully, absorbing and subdividing the stream of pocket change. As each pouch filled to completion, the overflow fell down to the next. The Pouch fell with a large clunk, unable to even move so full of the area's loose change had he become.
"The Pouch!?! What are you doing here? Why save this snobby jerk? He's the reason the rent is too damn high!"
"Mmmghrmml," said The Pouch, his mouth pouch also completely full of change, a flavor sensation he neither enjoyed nor felt he would ever forget.
"Can't you see? It's time for a change, and the Coiner is just the one who's going to bring it about!"
"Change?" an eerie voice said from above. Looking up, the Coiner and all of the other assorted pedestrians saw the hovering incubator of the Freemie, the small pinkish hands of this early born, market reform minded mutant working it's precise controls. "No real change will come until we get rid of all change, and paper bills, too!" Once more the air buzzed and then all of the coins filling The Pouch were sucked upwards into the sky, solely by the Freemie's powerful telekinetic capabilities. Once aloft, the change swirled and was suddenly cast into a large metal statue of a dollar sign with a slash through it. This impromptu anti-monetist monument was gently set down on the sidewalk before the Freemie's primary vehicle and temporary home flew off as quickly as it had arrived.
While everyone distractedly watched the retreat of the underdeveloped idealist, The Pouch regained his feet and delivered a haymaker to the Coiner that was technically a cheap shot but nobody was looking so what's the problem, right? The authorities were already close to the scene and upon their arrival, they stuffed the Coiner into a sack with a bunch of expired and thus worthless banknotes, his primary weakness.
Realizing that he was depending on a few quarters that now irrevocably constituted the cities latest work of plop art to cover the cost of coffee and bagel, The Pouch instead walked back to his shabby apartment, the emptiness of his stomach pouch only exasperated by its recent change fullness.
Pouch Spotting!: Issue 1
This is some crazy fan art by Donal Delay! Looks like he's another FoTP!
https://www.facebook.com/donnie.delay
https://imagecomics.com/creators/view/donal-delay
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Pouch Spotting! Issue 0
I have no idea who made this awesome image, but enjoy! Or, is it too soon?
Found in the wild: http://jimsmash.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-pouch-his-trusted-sidekick-satchel.html
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