by Baron Sord
“You’re dripping,” Arnold said.
“What?”
He pointed at my spoon.
I wasn’t holding it over my bowl. Milk had splattered all over the table. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No worries,” he said casually as he poured his own bowl of Lucky Charms where he stood behind the big kitchen island.
I grabbed a paper towel from the roll hanging under the cabinet and wiped up the spilt milk, over which nobody was crying.
Arnold sat down at the table with his Lucky Charms.
I said, “I see you picked out all the marshmallows again.”
“And?” he challenged with a smirk.
“Wouldn’t it be better to have the marshmallows in your cereal?” For this exact reason, I insisted we buy separate boxes of Lucky Charms. I liked having marshmallows in mine. He always picked his out and snacked on them in front of the TV.
“I like eating them dry,” he said defensively. Always the same answer. “I hate it when they get slimy.”
“Riiiight,” I smirked.
He munched on a mouthful of charmless Lucky Charms while saying, “Did you take home a hot cosplayer from the Con last night?” Munch, munch, munch.
“I wish,” I chuckled.
“Was she dressed as Batwoman? Did she keep her costume on the whole time? Or just the cape and cowl?”
“Neither,” I grinned, picturing a basically naked and moaning Batwoman in my bed. It was a far-fetched fantasy, but one I was happy to imagine. In mine, she may or may not have looked exactly like Yoga Angelina.
Arnold said seriously, “Does she keep her Bat Sex Toys in her utility belt?”
“I don’t think she has any Bat Sex Toys.”
“What about Bat Condoms? She at least has those, right?”
“No Bat Condoms,” I chuckled. “I told you, there was no Batwoman last night and no Bat-Banging of any kind. There is rarely any banging.”
“Try and change that today,” he said with his usual optimism. Munch, munch, munch, “If you didn’t get laid last night, why were you up so late?”
Yawning, I said, “Drawing.”
“Oh, right. You said you were showing your art samples yesterday. How’d that go?”
“I showed my portfolio to the editors at Marvel, DC, Image, Dark Horse, and all the other big names.”
“Nice. Any interest from them?”
“Not really. A few said come back next year with new art.”
“That means you’re getting better, right?” Arnold said with genuine encouragement.
“It does. That’s why I was up so late. I added a new piece to my portfolio.”
“Can I see?”
I unzipped my portfolio where it was laying on the table and opened it to the new piece.
“Who is that? Spawn?” Arnold adjusted his eyeglasses with one finger.
“Yup.”
“Badass,” Arnold chuckled. “I love the guns. What are those, like hundred-caliber machine guns?”
“Two hundred,” I snickered. You had to draw Spawn holding guns big enough to blast a hole in the side of a mountain.
“Love it,” Arnold grinned. “Who’re the three babes hanging off Spawn? And who’s the hot devil babe? She looks like Hellboy.”
“Hellbabe,” I smiled.
“Is that a thing?”
“Not in the comic. I made her up. She’s Hellboy’s estranged sister.”
“Nice. I’m all about getting me a leetle devil estranged,” he said wickedly, using his Scarface’s Tony Montana accent.
“Don’t you mean strange?”
“No. Estranged sounds a leetle beet more dangerous, don’ you theenk?” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together to emphasize how little he meant. Arnold was good with accents and had a flair for the dramatic.
“Right,” I snickered.
“Who’re the other two sexy babes?”
“Mistress Victory and S&M. They’re both Crash Comics super-heroines.”
“Nice. I gotta tell you, Doug, this is definitely your best drawing yet. What’s your plan for today?”
“Hit up the small press publishers, starting with Crash Comics. Hopefully my drawing of Mistress Victory and S&M will impress Jeff Strickland, the editor-in-chief.”
Munch, munch, munch. “Sweet. If this guy Jeff doesn’t like your drawing, and he doesn’t hire you on the spot for an art job, you tell him I said he’s an idiot.”
I smirked, “I’ll make sure to do that.”
Arnold got up and rinsed his cereal bowl in the sink. “I gotta run. I was late yesterday. Gabe said if I’m late again today, I have to clean the latrines and swab the deck.” Gabe was his boss. Arnold worked for SPAWAR, where he coded software for the Navy. He worked in an office at a computer, not on a ship.
I said, “Will Gabe make you walk the plank as well?”
Arnold winked, “Over shark infested waters, matey!” He made a pirate face. “Rrrrrr!”
I laughed. “See you later, Arn.”
He walked out of the kitchen and hollered over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to bang Batwoman tonight! And wear a Bat Condom! No telling where she’s been! Probably got the Super Clap from Superman!”
I laughed again and finished eating.
When I saw the time on the wall clock, I gasped.
9:25am.
I was going to be late if I didn’t move it. Comic book editors like Jeff “Why are you wasting my time?” Strickland looked at portfolios on a first-come, first-serve basis.
I ran out of the house and jumped in my car.
—: o o o :—
White-knuckling the steering wheel of my aging Chevy Aveo, I drove into downtown San Diego.
I was really fricking late.
I should’ve taken an Uber.
My lateness wasn’t helping my master plan to not spend the rest of my life testing DIY accounting software where I worked at YouDoIt, Inc. If I had my way, I would get paid to pencil dudes and babes doing things like punching out dinosaurs, throwing around M1 Abrams battle tanks like Matchbox cars, and vanquishing demon hordes back to the bowels of Hell.
If I ever wanted to switch jobs, I needed to find parking. Most of the lots had their entrances blocked by A-frame signs that said “LOT FULL” in bold red letters. The same bloody red used by irritated teachers everywhere when grading papers. It was also the color they used when they gave you an F for failing to think ahead.
Today I had failed to think ahead.
F.
F.
F.
I blamed myself.
If I hadn’t over-slept, I could have taken an Uber.
Too late now.
Now I was stuck in gridlocked traffic.
At one stoplight, I sat through three cycles of green, yellow, and red lights without reaching the intersection. What I wouldn’t do to be driving a 100-ton bulldozer today. One of those big mothers with a blade 20 feet wide. Wide as a fricking house. Plow every fricking gridlocker out of the intersection. Can you hear the crunching metal and shattering glass as the cars tumbled and rolled out of my way?
Next year.
Sadly, this year, I was in my Chevy. It could barely push air out of the way as the light finally turned green and I drove into the next block.
Wait!
An open parking lot!
With my blinker on, I hastily changed lanes and cut across traffic, nearly side-swiping someone in the process.
Their horn blared angrily.
“Sorry,” I muttered, ducking my head and hunching my shoulders as I gave them an apologetic wave. It was probably my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Hargutz with her red pen in hand, ruthlessly giving me an F double-minus in driving citizenship.
Mrs. Hargutz sneered, “You should’ve planned ahead, you dummy! Next time, plan ahead!” She had said those exact words to me more than once.
Scowling at the memory, I drove into the parking lot and started looking for an open space in the crowded aisles. There didn’t appear
to be a single one.
Then I saw it at the far end.
A free space!
I gunned it and my decrepit Chevy struggled forward like it needed a walker or a wheelchair.
Out of nowhere, a black blur shot toward me.
I slammed on the brakes and laid down rubber as my Chevy screeched to a stop.
The black blur was a brand new 7-series BMW sedan coming from the right and heading for the empty space like a black comet. It too slammed on its brakes just in time.
Our cars stopped inches apart.
Accident narrowly averted.
But only one of us was getting this space.
I opened my door and stepped out, immediately noticing my front bumper was an inch ahead of the BMW’s.
A photo finish.
I had clearly won by a nose.
The glare of the sky on the front windshield of the Beemer made it impossible to see inside.
I said, “Excuse me! I was here first. Would you mind backing up your car so I can park?”
The door of the BMW opened and a very attractive blonde woman in a business suit stepped out. The angel choir didn’t sing because she looked like a porn star in a pinstripe skirt-suit. No devil choir sang either, but she deserved one. Everything about her said succubus, especially her expensive car and designer suit.
Succubus or not, like Yoga Angelina, the pinstripe porn star was waaaay out of my league. So far out, she was in a distant galaxy I would never reach without the help of warp drive or a worm hole.
Realistically, there was zero chance Pinstripe was as attracted to me as I was to her. That said, I would have this parking space. I had won the photo finish.
I offered her a resolute smirk. No, I didn’t lift my leg to mark the space. Thought about it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I realized I might trade this space for a dinner date. Call me crazy.
Pinstripe offered a friendly smile and said in a sultry voice, “Looks like we have a problem.”
For a second, I considered being a gentleman and just giving her the space. Then I came to my senses. Trying not to sound too much like Jack Nicholson in the movie The Shining, I smirked, “I did get here first.”
“You did,” Pinstripe grinned and flipped her hair flirtatiously with one hand. “Would it help any if I told you I was late for a very important client meeting?”
“How important is it?”
“Well,” she smiled, “I’m an attorney and…” She trailed off and her eyes searched for an answer.
I prompted, “You’re an attorney and… what?” A succubus who prayed on the less fortunate? Everything about her screamed opportunist. That said, if she said anything remotely noble, like she did pro bono work for an orphanage, I would absolutely give her this space without a second thought.
Pinstripe smiled, “Can I be honest with you?”
“Honesty works,” I smiled.
“I really need this space.”
I needed a better reason than that. I smirked, “How bad do you need it?”
Pinstripe took a moment to size me up, then said, “You look like a nice guy.” They always said that, although it was never clear to me if it was a compliment or an insult. In this case, it was obviously a manipulative flirt.
I wasn’t falling for it. I had won this space fair and square. I smiled, “It depends.”
“What depends?” She bit her plump lower lip suggestively.
Yeah, no. Not falling for it. I said, “How nice I’m going to be depends on what your meeting is.”
“Oh,” she giggled. She hadn’t expected that answer. “Are we negotiating?”
“Oh, uh, err… If you… I don’t… Uuuuh…” I wasn’t expecting her to actually negotiate. I tried to think of something clever to say.
Couldn’t.
My anxiety blew through the roof. To get the full effect, imagine the engine room in a battleship after a torpedo hits, and the mechanics are running around frantically while water geysers sideways into the hull and the sirens are blaring “Woop! Woop! Woop! Emergency in the engine room!”
I machine-gunned out the first words that came to mind:
“HowaboutIgiveyouthisspacefordinner?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Pinstripe laughed uncertainly, and looked amazing doing it.
I nodded like a moron and realized my hands were shaking at my sides. Good thing I was standing behind the open door of my Chevy so she couldn’t see me quivering. When I tried to speak, the only thing that came out was a strangled gag. I cleared my throat, “Rgh-em! Rgh-em!”
She giggled, “Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Rgh-em!” Embarrassed, I shook my head and took a deep breath. “I was saying, I might be willing to let you have my parking space if you agree to…” My voice dropped to a strained whisper like I was suggesting something criminal, “…have dinner with me? Rgh-em! You can say no. It’s totally cool if you say no, but, you know, if you… Rgh-em! We could… I don’t know…”
I sighed as my words trailed off.
That hadn’t gone well.
What did you expect?
She was a porn star in a pinstripe.
And yes, before you ask, I had asked women out before. In fact, I once had a girlfriend in college for five months and two weeks, not that I counted. A cute brunette named Gigi. We had slept together several times. Several. She was an exchange student from France. When Gigi’s year abroad was over, I had told her I would quit school and follow her home to France (love is often blind, especially in my case). She had replied in her cute and demure French accent, “No, Doug. Jean is waiting for me in Paris.” Who was Jean? Jean was her French boyfriend. The one she never mentioned. Really.
But that was the past.
Now, I was going to ask out Pinstripe.
Gigi could bite me.
I muttered, “Err… what do you think? Rgh-em? About… you know? You and me…? Rgh-em?”
“Wait,” Pinstripe grinned. “Did you just ask me out to dinner?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “Hmm. Dinner? With you?” Her eyes narrowed. She was thinking about it, but only in a half-hearted theoretical way. Her eyes roamed over my less-than-impressive Chevy Aveo, which screamed, “Fuel economy!” under the best circumstances. Being that it was now 14 years old, it screamed, “IT’S NOT ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT! I CAN’T AFFORD A BETTER CAR!”
Hoping to distract Pinstripe from the embarrassment that was my Aveo, I stepped out from behind the door and offered my hand to shake. “HELLO!” That came out a bit loud. “Rgh-em!” I cleared my throat and tried again in a more normal tone. “Hello. I’m Doug. Doug Moore.” Much better. Now I sounded vaguely human instead of like Weasel Boy, the Eternal Virgin, which I was not — not since Gigi. (Several times. Several.)
“Hi, Doug.” Pinstripe lifted her hand halfway before dropping it to her side. She frowned. Then she scowled. “Oh.”
Houston, we have a problem.
Her eyes had dropped to my shirt.
My Star Wars Rock Concert T-shirt.
The one with the main cast of Star Wars on a concert stage and the words “STAR WARS” in the same font as the logo of the band IRON MAIDEN. This shirt was easily the geekiest one in my wardrobe and one of my favorites. That said, just because the internet had made nerdy stuff cool in recent years, it was still nerdy. Ask the grown woman standing in front of me.
The grimace on her face spoke volumes.
Pinstripe said, “Are you here for that cartoon kid thing they have every year?”
“Uhh…” I wanted to tell her that San Diego Comic Con was more than cartoons and it was for kids of all ages, but I didn’t want to correct her. That would be even nerdier than admitting it. The question was, how did you admit to a grown woman that you took two days off work to go to a comic book convention by yourself? Without sounding horribly geeky?
You didn’t.
“Yeah, yeah…” I sighed apologetically. I hung my head, trying to hide my
disgrace. “…I’m here for the cartoon kid thing.”
“Riiiiight.” Her grimace did little to hide her disdain. “You know what? Why don’t you take the space. I’ll find another one.” She climbed into her BMW and drove off with tires screeching.
Not that I cared.
Pretending not to be bitter or disgruntled, I parked my car in the space and grabbed my art portfolio from the back. When the trunk thunked shut, I thought to myself, I may not have a date, but at least I won’t be late for my very important date with the comic book editors at the Con.
Apologies to the White Rabbit of Wonderland.
Like me, he should’ve taken Uber.
—: Chapter 3 :—
T-minus four hours until super powers.
It was 9:56am when I crossed Harbor Drive on foot and walked inside the convention center.
Just in time.
What a relief.
Screw you, Mrs. Hargutz.
You too, Gigi.
And you three, Pinstripe.
I wasn’t bitter.
I wasn’t!
The gigantic lobby area of the convention center was only a quarter mile long, but it felt like it went on for two or three miles. Currently, it was jam-packed with tens of thousands of fans waiting to get inside.
I could see the cosplay turnout was as big as always. Everywhere I looked, I saw multiple versions of Batman, Spider-Man, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Black Widow, the rest of The Avengers, and Justice League.
And more:
Pokémon characters.
My Little Ponies and plenty of Bronies.
Game of Thrones, Doctor Who, The Walking Dead. And Klingons. Lots of Klingons barking at each other in grammatically correct Klingonese.
If it was pop culture, it was here.
I fricking loved this place.
The gender swapping was also in full effect.
Female Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Yes, their turtle shells had boob swells, and they were remarkably sexy.
Female Han Solo.
He-Man and She-Man (not She-Ra, but she was here too, as was a spectacularly bedazzled He-Ra).
Disney’s feminine Maleficent, who should’ve been named Femaleficent because there was a very masculine Maleficent standing beside her.
