Lips

Cherry-red pop-art lips parted around a cyan tongue, "VICE" running the margin in bold outline. Pasche drew that mouth in '70 for the Stones and the culture never shut up about it — this is that mouth, cropped closer, meaner, with the tongue doing the talking. Comic-book palette, black outline, drop-shadow like it's been peeled off a Sunset Strip flyer at 2am and slapped on canvas.

Flip it. Dark charcoal pro-fabric, matte and thirsty. This is the grip side — a vice grip in the literal sense, clamps down on the board wherever you drop it and refuses to negotiate. No slide, no drift, no polite roll-off. It kisses the wood and stays kissed. Airmails land like a confession. Push-block a blocker on the lip and it sits there all frame, tongue out, daring somebody to move it.

Roll with the mouth that launched a thousand encores. Last call was an hour ago and nobody's leaving — throw the Lips.