Beefchunk Patreon Exclusive (Patreon)

So the image in this post, I drew this week, today actually. But the story I'm posting here will only show up on Patreon for Patrons!

I've been trying to get creative with what I share here, making it exclusive and worthwhile. So below is the short story I wrote a few years ago that inspired Beefchunk's adventures. In essence its an origin story but as is the case with most of my stories, I enjoy dropping in on a moment rather than burdening the story with exposition.

This is a draft and there might be grammatical errors as I write drafts in notepad. But the point isn't perfection, I just think its cool to see how this character first stepped out of my mind. Before I had the skill with my hands to draw him as I saw him, as I do now.

Enjoy!

___________

THE SANDS OF CYROLUX

The sky is burnt, like an orange left to dry in the sun, rusted on and around its abrasions and its blemishes. Bruised clouds drift south of our setting, and streaks of purple and blue strike their way through the sunset. Beneath the red and golden suns a silhouette moves like a thick wavering hand held to the sun, over the dunes on the horizon. 

What crystallizes with its closeness, is a heavyset figure, broad shoulders, big round belly, thick thighs and strong calves. A sand weathered black cape blows around his curves, clinging to his massive frame. It is wrapped around his head as is common in the dunes and masks his face as its tail sways in the breeze. Catching on the gear and weaponry that hangs from his intimidating frame. What urges the traveler. What brings him to this barren sandscape?

A flicker of light. A flash like a diamond illuminated by the glow of a lantern's flame. A hatch-door in the sand, resembling that of a door valve on a sea faring vessel. Indeed, as the hulking, chunky figure squats down and uses his mighty arms to turn the valve within his grip, a strong wind blows from the north. The wind rips, scattering sand on sand and reveals that yes, the door is attached to a vessel. Though the vessel rests on its side, buried neath the mighty dunes.

A wicked hiss cuts through the valley as the wind settles down and the large man pulls the door open, quickly tossing the similarly large bag that hung over his shoulder, down the hatch. He looks around slowly, without fear, yet precise like an animal ensuring it hasn't drawn any unwanted attention. He descends.

Strong fat hands pull the hatch tight, cutting off the flow of sand scattering winds from the land on high. Our figure lifts the bag he'd tossed in and pats the sand off both the bag and his garments. The interior of the ship give glimmers and crackles of electronics that appear still functioning. Some of the systems have been removed, leaving only dangling wires and missing panels and inserts. 

Lanterns of all manner are utilized, strewn about the wall and dancing with holiday lights. A trained pilot or shuttle hobbyist could say easily, but the interior of this vessel reveals it is what is known in this galaxy as a Sky Glider. A space faring craft built for military and corporate interest missions, usually operated/occupied by a crew of four to five. 

But this figure appears alone, and this Sky Glider is a relic, and hasn't breached the atmosphere in ages. It sits abandoned blasted sideways in the desert dunes without a trace or indication of its previous experiences.

See the planet our hefty wanderer finds himself on is a desolate one, one that not many would choose to land on. He himself, certainly did not intend to, but that's a tale for later.

Without a doubt the crew that occupied this vessel, hadn't intended to stay, for this planet is known for exactly two things. It's wicked, vile, Slave Market. And the monstrous creatures that inhabit its wild and vast sands. Nothing good comes here that isn't in chains and unwillingly making the trip. 

The bag zips open and our figure removes his robe, his features are broad entirely. Thick  lips shaping a slight under-bite, wide bull like nostrils and soft dark brown eyes resting under a heavy brow. His body built as if Dionysus were the god of war, fat, round and soft all over but strong and capable as a Gannagan Ox. 

His clothing indicates he is almost certainly from the hub, or came from that direction at least. faded black jean shorts hug his thick meaty thighs and big ass and a blistered and tattered sports jersey stretches across his belly and jiggly pecs. He is godly. 

In fact outside of his armored robes and gear, he looks downright friendly and the contents of his bag make it hard to tell one way or the other. First, his fat paws withdraw a handful of loose rounds from the haul bag- rifle rounds, laser RT8 rounds, shotgun shells, clickblast rounds. All tools of destruction, as are the guns that follow them out of the bag. 

A big handful of jerky sticks and few cans of food, labels weathered off, plunk down next to a few other unidentifiable snacks. Our hefty, handsome figure adjusts his big behind in his chair and swivels to his right, putting an empty canister beneath the spout of what appears to be a repurposed version of the ships water system. 

In the ships present wonky state he seems to have re-positioned and replaced quite a few systems, to accommodate the ninety degree shifts. A steady stream of water begins to to fill the blue jug-like canister.

Last out of the bag are ratty but still intact books, one about gardening, a few pieces of gay literature and a few graphic novels. On top of the stack of books he sets what appear to be a black box, which can be assumed is from another crashed ship beyond these present dunes.

It must be told, that these same slavers who operate their sickening market off this planet called Cyrolux, are known for using the surrounding area to ground ships and bait vessels passing through the quadrant, using mostly tricks like false distress signals, but often they take dashing shuttles outside of the atmosphere and use EMP tow cables to seize and haul ships back to the ground, where they strip it for its crew and parts.

And if this planet truly only brings the worst or the unwilling, then there must be a reason for this lone madman to not only be here, but to be on his own. What are his intentions? How did he get here? We shall only learn more as the second sun sets, raining purple noir over the once hot, orange sand.