Everything I draw ends up wearing a bow-tie

(via scaragh)

2or3thingsiknowaboutfilm:

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
Directed by Stanley Kubrick 

(Artwork by Carl Ramos)

(via youreashamedofmybaking-blog)

isnarniainyournose:

Supes, what

(via nevertoomanyspiders)

Because people kept asking me about it, and because it is blatantly obvious I will never have the time/mental tenacity to write up a Portal 2 fic about this guy; here’s ‘my’ Wheatley’s back-story for those of you who are still mad enough to remember himholy shit I’m sorry what happened to my drawing this kid.

TL:DR central begins now.

Born and raised in Bristol, Wheatley grew up a natural entertainer. With his comical proportions and gift for absurdity he was always the funny man, always the kid with a sharp come back and the grace to laugh at himself. He’d been penned down as a man for the vaudeville circuit from childhood, but when the first two-reelers came to England, it was all too clear what his course was; watching Fatty Arbuckle and Charlie Chaplin lighting up the screens at fairs and movies, it wasn’t long before he found himself traveling to the fabled streets of Hollywood to land in the film circuit.

If his distinct, lanky-limbed self wasn’t enough to draw attention to him, he had a natural gift for comedic writing. He became a 'gag man’, and one of the best; working on ideas and prop mechanics for the earliest stars of the silver screen. He earned a good reputation and reasonable living- never the star of the show, but always welcome to brain storming sessions, and as good a laugh socializing backstage as working there. He had his quirks- notably a small twitch that became increasingly distinct, and his troubles with sleeping- but otherwise the Englishman led a happy and creative existence in the wild atmosphere of early cinema.

Towards the end of the twenties, however, things began to slide. Having moved onto the Keaton pictures, it was partway through the filming of Steamboat Bill Jr that the team were told the company was to be closed down, Keaton himself having already had most of his creative rights already removed from the perceived failure of his masterpiece The General. Knowing that he would have to make a move before this fate befell him he consulted with his agent, who suggested he move to the Walt Disney studios, which had now become a solid, enterprising company which was constantly looking for fresh talent and ideas. Seeing no reason to look this gift horse in the mouth he applied, and to his relief was taken on as an assistant to Disney’s finest 'story-men’.

He spent a hectic few years in this business, and whilst some of the spontaneity of his former employment had been lost, he still made a good name for himself and enjoyed the work- which was rare and valued in these days of depression. His habitual twitch had been growing more pronounced, however, and he suffered an increasing severity and frequency of headaches. After one viewing of a film in the 'sweatbox’ (a small viewing room for the early stages of the cartoon to be reviewed) he suffered a minor epileptic fit; initially supposed to have been brought on by the close quarters and flashing light of the projector, a doctor’s investigation brought a much more troubling reason to light. Wheatley had a brain tumor.

Treatment for such an ailment was risky and very new- the illness still very much a comparatively recent discovery. Although a valued commodity, Wheatley was neither rich nor essential to the company; it looked unlikely that treatment would be willingly paid for, let alone successful. Remarkably, Walt himself got wind of the plight, but his response was completely unexpected; he requested that Wheatley be brought to him and his own private medical team immediately.

Bewildered, and not a little bit suspecting, Wheatley met the great man face to face… and after that would remember very little else.

Rumours about Walt’s cryogenic freezing would flicker through history long after it had been proven the man had died and been buried in a regular fashion, but what steps he had taken to investigate the matter and methods of this mad science would be much less thoroughly investigated, or available for study. When Cave Johnson’s corporate empire took shares in Disney’s own, nobody thought it more than a shrewd business maneuver. That a rudimentary preservation cell should be included in one of the most secluded clauses of the deal was hardly an item of notice.

Years later, these mysteries and ordeals long lost to the annals of time, a very different dilemma was occurring in the laboratories of Aperture Science. Artificial intelligence was blunt and incomplete. When the cores were developed it was a matter of debate as to how intelligent or complete a personality had to be to control or inhibit a ravingly psychotic machine which was fueled by what had been a real human mind. Obviously, the next thought the scientists turned to was how to use another in retaliation. The first preserved specimens to be investigated were, naturally, the ones which were thought the least likely to have survived the process, and who would ever expect a consciousness frozen in the mid nineteen thirties to have survived?

Perhaps it was not entirely intact, but survived it had.

((If you want me to write up more of my deluded story- like how Wheaters ends up getting back to earth and re-humanized, I can try but 'tis the season to be sociable and write up a resume instead of crazy fanfic, so idk when I’ll be able to. Also sorry for the massive text dump. Oi.))