Martian Week: Sol 2

The Martians described in Bradbury's stories had golden eyes. Mine are a bit more yellow, but I think they stand out nicely. 
 

Martian Week: Sol 1

Exogenesis, the latest collection of pulp figures from, well, Pulp Figures, takes its inspiration from the so-called golden age of pulp science fiction. One subset of Exogenesis, The Martians, features five figures clearly based on the Martians seen in The Martian Chronicles, the 1980 NBC miniseries, in turn based on, of course, The Martian Chronicles, the great fix-up novel by Ray Bradbury. 

In the miniseries, the Martians all whore white robes. I've given my Martians a more colourful wardrobe and tried my hand at a bit of abstract art for each base. 

This Martian wears a fearsome mask that really freaked me out as a kid. Turns out first contact isn't an easy thing . . . even when both sides have good intentions. 



 

River Pirate Rifleman

 

Saucer Men

 

The Institute in a Radiation Suit

I haven't painted very many Fallout: Wasteland Warfare miniatures lately, focusing instead on finishing my collection of Pulp Figures. This guy is . . . okay, I guess. I like the look of the suit, but the base is pretty lackluster. 
 

Chu-Bops

Sometime between 1980 and 1983, probably on a road trip with the family between Alberta and Manitoba, I picked up these two Chu-Bops. Each Chu-Bop was a 3x3-inch album sleeve reproduction containing a pink bubblegum record. I was never much of a gum guy, but at just 35 cents each, these were a cool little novelty. I really love that Blue Oyster Cult art! 

Here Come de Jugde

Looks like the prop department was slightly off their game for the production of this fourth-season episode of Hill Street Blues. 
 

Pirate Skeleton Parrot

Polly want pieces of eight! 
 

Skeleton Pirate Monkey

 

Gaze of the Gorgon

After painting Medusa, I created a little diorama for her by adding a rock from the street and gluing some previously painted treasure to its surface. Steal her gold at your peril! 
 

Two Cossacks

 

Machete-Wielding River Pirate

Yarrr, give me all yer booty or face my machete! 
 

Nefarious River Pirate

Yarrrr! Hand over yer booty. 
 

General Cappy Boyd

Is it just me, or does this guy look a little like Harrison Ford? 
 

A Fistful of Dynamite

Here's Michael "Boomer" Murphy. He likes to blow things up with dynamite. This figure reminds me of the story I once read about someone who put a blasting cap in his mouth and bit down on it as a gag. Unfortunately, it destroyed his teeth and jaw. Playing with things that explode is best done in a safe, simulated environment, such as a tabletop roleplaying game. 
 

GI

Needs a jeep. 
 

Gyro Raider

"Hand it over," barked the nefarious gyro raider. 

Sullenly, I gave him my sandwich. He was armed and dressed like he stepped out of the 1930s. Clearly, he was a nut. So a pita sacrifice seemed the proper thing to do. 

He bit into the gyro. Creamy white yogurt sauce stained his magnificent moustache. He smirked at me. 

"Exult, young man, for this day you have been blessed by the presence of the Gyro Raider," he said. 

"I'll give my regards to Condiment King," I muttered as the villain darted away. 
 

Lord Lippenbrush

 

The Compassion and Excellence of Alberta's Health Care Professionals

The last few days have been pretty rough for the Woods family. But in the midst of worry and stress, we are united in our gratitude for the nurses, doctors, porters, volunteers, and lab technicians who have been unfailingly kind and relentless in their efforts to figure out why Mom is currently sick and how to heal her. She is in very good hands and we are optimistic that soon she'll be back home. It helps immeasurably that Mom is incredibly tough and brave. 

In Canada, we are blessed to have a robust publicly-funded, publicly-delivered health care system, despite unrelenting efforts by right-wing politicians to privatize that system. Our current experience reinforces my belief that Canadians everywhere should recognize that our public system needs our consistent moral, financial, and political support.

We hope to see you tomorrow, Mom, or the next day, when you're well enough. Angels and ministers of grace be with you. 

Wing Commander Winfield

I really like the way her leather jacket turned out, but the rest is a bit rough. 
 

Meg Masters

 

The Swords of Suyin

Bloodied blades and a decent base--for once. 
 

Carnahan, Rugged Son of the Empire

This fellow looks stern and prepared for anything. 
 

Mac MacCurdy

Och! Another Scot! And he's loading for bear. 
 

Bugs Malarchy

Bugs Marchy is back--back in black--and don't you know, he feels so good to be back. 
 

Birthday Sean 2025

Today, Sean celebrates another birthday! Happy Birthday, little (but physically bigger) brother. 
 

Mick Blackstone

Pulp Figures names this as one of five "Two-Bit Hoods," so I dub him . . . Mick Blackstone, because he dresses in black and he has a heart of stone. 
 

Occult Detective Jules de Jardin

You'd think more people would wear capes. 
 

Professor Arbogast

Alas, poor Burnshock! I knew him, Verluccio. A fellow of infinite quest, of infinite gallantry. He hath saved the galaxy a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here gazed those eyes that 

He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here gazed those eyes that women loved I know not how oft. Where be your quips? your derring? your do? your flashes of phaser fire that were wont to set the universe afire? 
 

The Stars Are Women

The kitchen is all rounded corners and pastel colours, cozy and functional, standing room only. Aldebaran plays host; like all the other stars here, she wears a form-fitting evening gown that glows the wearer's signature colour; in Aldebaran's case, red. She's chatting with  Antares and Capella when the front door chimes; in walk Vega and Pollux. 

"You look radiant," Aldebaran says, embracing both stars in a searing hug. 

"Technically, we're all radiant," Pollux quips, and all the ladies laugh. 

The party spills into the dining room. Rigel and Canopus are dancing a slow waltz while others chat about family groupings of stars, extolling the virtues of the common binary and trinary units while bemoaning the fates of the poor singular stars. Blonde Sol fumes with arms crossed, tired of the ancient condescension. Her gaze smoulders. 

But all their gazes smoulder. Petite, spicy redhead Wolf 359 glances sidelong at Sol, extends a hand, gently drags her solitary companion to the balcony. They look out into the infinite night, the other guests still light years distant but drawing inexorably closer as the universe shrinks. 

Flames dance on their shoulders, sparks pop and rise from their torchlit hair. She doesn't say it, but Sol misses her humans, the only intelligent life that ever arose in this slowly constricting, inexorably cooling cosmos. 

"I really liked your 'billions and billions' guy," Wolf 359 offers. "He had a better grasp of things than most." 

Sol nods. 

"I guess it's better that they were around for a while rather than not at all," she says. 

"Maybe the next time around will be more interesting," Wolf 359 says. 

"We'll never know," Sol says. 

They watch the final starset together. It takes slightly less than eternity.