Cowboy Bebop Official Artwork Novels & Stories

Chapter 16 Minutes later, her cowboy returned, now in gray sweatpants and a simple T-shirt, no hat, no boots, no posture of a ranch master. He looked… ordinary. Almost like any other man, if it weren’t for the fact that he filled the entire room with that immense presence, broad, impossible to ignore. Dolores blinked, surprised. She had never imagined she could be attracted to a man so big, so vast in body and silence. And yet there she was, heart shaken by someone who was never part of her plans.

He had to admit this place wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He let his gaze wander around the shop, taking in things he hadn't really noticed yesterday. The artwork on the walls, for instance. Yesterday, they had been blurs of color. Today, he realized they were great examples of contemporary Western art. The style was very distinctive and arresting. Someone had lovingly painted a magnificent stallion, a small herd of horses galloping across a pasture, a tired cowboy at the end of a long day, and other similar scenes. Whoever this was might have come from Montana like he had, because the essence of the cowboy had been captured perfectly.

Her heart beat a little faster. “Mr. Dawson. Small towns, you know how it is. Few decent places to eat.” He laughed, a low and pleasant sound that didn’t reach his cold blue eyes. “Decent is a strong word for Gordão’s. But it has its charm. Authentic. Like the people here.” He nodded at Gordão. “Whiskey, Gordão. Double, on the rocks. And bring a portion of those spicy wings for the lady, on me. She looks like she needs to recover her strength after dealing with our… difficult patient.”

"And what's the name of your piece miss?" "Seasons, it was my final project at school and surprisingly it did really well," I said and they snapped their fingers. "But please, Laid Down and Bold Rest are extremely amazing, go check them out," I said and they left. "Professional artist? Featured here? You?" Michael asked and I cocked my head to the side. "Surprisingly I really thought you'd have tabs on me this entire time," I said crossing my arms over my chest. "Guess I was fooling myself."

Boring. He needed inspiration, something new and different. The only way to find the passion that defined his quirky artistic style was to start at the source of all things Western: rodeo. The salt-of-the-earth people—spectators, families of the cowboys and cowgirls, and the iron will of the competitors themselves. The livestock—angry, slobbering bulls, high-strung broncs kicking at the metal chutes, the bellow of steers, the nervous tamping of hooves behind the gates. The low bellow of the steers and calves in the pens. The rich scents of sweat and leather, mud and manure, the choking heat and the constant buzz of insects, hay and linament, tobacco and beer. The excitement. If he could capt