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This old man he played one,
he played one upon my brain...
with a knick knack paddywack,
this old man came shambling, shambling, SHAMBLING...
The worst thing, the absolute worst thing about living in that part of town was the zombies. They'd shamble into the shop and then stand about bleating about brains and the lack of representation for the post-dead constituency...
Stoopid zombies!
The Thrumbar mercenaries are nasty folk. They work and work and work until the work is done, then they assign themselves into committees to ensure there's more work to do.
Oh, and they carry big-ass guns.
If you pay them enough, if you can find them, they'll do what you ask. For a price. Cos they're mercenaries. Which means they only care about money. Not princesses. Money. Sweet, sweet money.
This chap has issues with gravity and fear.
I don't yet know if he's a friend or foe to the Princess, but I do know he wears a blue spacesuit, and he floats around. A lot. He also screams. Incessantly. (that means 'without cessation') (which has nothing to do with toilets).
...Here she is! The Yellow Princess!
Guardian of the spaceways and friend to small crazy animals. Secretly a baby space-monster herself, the princess fights for freedom, safety and chocolate from here to Innaminka station. Fear her card-guns, flee from her pithy shouts of 'STUPID BASTARD!' and praise her good handwriting!
This one also came from the daughter. She announce that she was THE YELLOW PRINCESS! (and then shouted her battle cry, which I'll reveal in another piece of art, soon enough).
My daughter invented this one in Duplo (Lego for little hands) and announce it was an 'Aeroble'.
The Yellow Princess rides in this iron capsule as she ventures out into the dusty universe saving lives and spreading happiness! The Yellow Princess is our friend!
The secret hero in a thing I'm hauling together for my beautiful atomic kids (cos we is a nuclear family)
This is The Black Father (logo pending)
He's a ninja, philosopher, archaeologist, social anthropologist, avenging angel, father-figure type.
When trouble hits, The Black Father slip-slides from points unknown to wherever the hell you might be. Swords blazing, guns shining and poetry burning! Screaming Hell! It's The Black Father! *WA-HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
The worst thing, the absolute worst thing about living in that part of town was the zombies. They'd shamble into the shop and then stand about bleating about brains and the lack of representation for the post-dead constituency...
