How to Sculpt a Marine

[jack_babalon]

Spent the afternoon with my buddy at his lady's place up OTP. While the two of them stepped out for a smoke I hit her office to check my messages. Wasn't long before I got a timid knock on the office door before it creaked open ever-so slightly. It was the lady's eight year old boy, Kid Solomon. Laying a heavy set of puppy eyes on me he asked, library softly, if I would help him sculpt a marine.

Now I'm not much of an artiste per say and sculpting's definitely my worst categorey in Cranium - ("My God what is that... a Lovecraftian Turd Monster?", "Um, actually... Winston Churchill") - but at that moment Kid Solomon looked as lonely as an orphan on Mother's Day. I'm pretty sure there's some law somewhere about it being every single guy's duty to help a child whenever they're threatened with lonliness or boredom while their parents are busy.

"Sure, Kid." I sighed with what I hoped was avuncular charm and he led me away from the internet into the dining room without further word.

So first off by 'Marine' he means something called a Spartan Marine from Halo 3. A recon scout to be exact. Not sure, being one of the few Americans under 40 to have never played the popular franchise. Don't care much for first-person shooters really. I prefer Sudoku and word puzzles to be honest. Ocassionally I'll try my luck at online cribbage.

Second of all by 'help' the Kid meant - "You work and I'll supervise from your lap."

Which oddly enough was the same arrangement I had back in the Cube Farm. My boss was this Korean midget prone to flamboyent outbursts and would often climb up the back of my chair whenever he caught me goofing off on my blog to scream 'boo' in my ear. Between him and the heart-attack soup they called coffee I was lucky to leave that place without a stroke. But all that's another story for another time...

... meanwhile, what was I going to do? Tell him 'no'? Casting my memory back to old Ray Harryhausen articles skimmed in Cinemafantastique and old SFX documentaries from my childhood I sat down to make myself a battle armored Recon Marine. Do or Die, Semper Sci-Fi! Boo-yah!

Now the material, the medium if you will, with which I had to work with were inch and a half slabs of basic colors that amounted to basically sculpting with malleable crayons. The Kid picked brown for his Spartan Armor motife and gave me a picture from his game rules to work off of.

Started with a torso thumbing out a broad chest and narrow waist from a hunk of morphic brown. Nipped off and pressed a tube over his shoulder like in the picture. "Jack, don't forget... Jack, are you listening... don't forget that he has two shoulder pads." "I got it." Sculpted a second tube out of his other shoulder. Then the helmet. "But his visor comes out... see... like this, Jack, like this". Fixed the helmet. To the Kid's delight I twisted a pinch of yellow and slapped 'eyes' under the corrected viser. Then I rolled up some thighs and limbs calling upon the experience of my bad habits. What I had was four impressive fatties for limbs. "Why you giggling?"

"Hey I know... why don't you sculpt his gun?"

"Okay... should I give him the flame-thrower or the shotgun?"

"Depends on the mission..." I answer vaguely under an air of sage authority, "... when I was in the NAVY they always gave us both before shore-leave. There was this one time on time on Skull Island, let me tell you, where I was glad I was packing heat. Literally"

The Kid doesn't sound impressed (children and cats seem to have an innate bullshit detector) but still he mulls over my advice as I create a neck and a couple of joints for the limbs.

"I think he'll have the shotgun in his hands and the flame thrower on his back" he nods with the conviction of a seasoned officer sending someone else into battle.

"Good call." I fasten on the head and knowing the Kid's watching, swivel it on its neck and in a squeaky voice that's supposed to sound like it's coming through the helmet-com link (or whatever the hell it is) start shrieking: "Oh my god! My arms... my arms! What happened to my arms! I'll never play the piano again!"

The Kid snickers and smiles and squirms excitedly.

Got 'em!

I attach the arms and thighs and begin squeezing out some feet and hands.

The Kid declares suddenly - "No, he's going to have the flame-thrower in his hands and the shotgun on his back."

"Good call!"

And with that I take a pair of scissors left on the dining room table (from where we worked) and engraved pecs, abs and biceps into the armor off their tip. By the time I was through the Kid had his arsenal ready.

I swivel the helmet back at him again: "Ready for duty, Sir!"

I hand the Marine over and the Kid presses what I assume was a flame-thrower (or a mishapen industrial sized tuning-fork) into the black nubs of fists I crafted.

"Well it looks like my work here is done..." (I've always wanted to say that) and off I went for a well-earned smoke.

Three drags in and the Kid steps out to inform me that an arm fell of his Marine.

"War's an ugly thing, Kid... it's better you learn that sooner than later."

The Kid twists his face up in baffled suspicion at me.

"Solomon!" his mom calls from inside (the couple having finished their smoke somewhere between torso and helmet).

The Kid turns around to sulk back in and...

"Hey!"

The Kid turns around.

"Next time we'll create a wire-skeleton for his body. Use some paperclips or something. His arms'll stay on better that way."

"We have paper-clips!"

"Then no worries... Lance Corporal Solomon will play the piano again!" with that I snap him a salute and though puzzled by the remark he giggles nonetheless before running back inside.

A few minutes pass. Kill the butt off the sole of the boot. My buddy comes out ready to give me a lift back to the pad:

"Ready?"

"Yep... 'Mission Accomplished'!"

Comments

[ltmurnau.livejournal.com]

Good deed for the day, Uncle Ra.

[jackbabalon23.livejournal.com]

Ah, that'd be my 'nephew' Mac who calls me 'Uncle Ra'... this is another kid I got roped into housesitting.