Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  On their flight from JFK, Silas had insisted he planned to work and he meant it. Trip had already scored him a C2E2 professional badge; Silas took that seriously. Despite Trip’s protests, Silas insisted on waking up early to help set up on Friday before the hall opened to the public. Truth be told, Trip liked coming to the convention center at sunup with someone rumpled and handsome who cheerfully downed bad coffee and a breakfast burrito.

  With Silas helping, he got his table set and dressed in record time. When they set up next to Anne Cain, the process had gone about five times faster with an extra set of hands. Silas intuited what he needed and double-piled the boxes he hauled around with startling ease.

  Trip gave him a wry grin. “Are you showing off?”

  “No, sir. Too lazy for two trips.” Silas smiled back and flexed arms pumped from rushing. “Good, right?”

  Trip loved seeing Silas turn into a big Alabama kid the minute they walked through the door. Unlike Trip, he had no reservations about walking right up to the Top Cow and Marvel teams and introducing himself. He’d never worn a professionals badge before, so getting to see the booths coming together and honest-to-God pop culture rock stars wandering around had turned him into a puddle of dorky glee. And when they asked what he did and he said, “yes-ma’am-movies,” the reciprocal ass-kissing had gotten Olympic.

  Across the room, Geoff Johns and Joe Quesada wandered the floor like civilians. Every comic convention existed in a kind of bubble outside space and time, an alternate reality built out of folding tables and carpet squares. Exhibitors spent the entire con season on the road trying to cop face time with the fanboys.

  Artists could make a solid income by appearing on the con circuit. Most sold original artwork, pencils of paneled pages, cover inks, or old Bristol boards. Any artist could do a brisk business in sketches. Even nontalents cleared a couple of bucks. The heavyweight stars had waiting lists that filled up in the first fifteen minutes of a con. George Perez was so sought-after that he raffled his sketches off for Heroes Initiative, which provided health insurance to pros in need.

  Trip didn’t have a huge following, but Hero High had enough of a devoted fanbase that he’d gotten to know a couple of the regulars.

  The Mighty Mites’ squeaky-clean image attracted a very odd stew of homeschoolers and nostalgia addicts. And mostly Trip ended up drawing custom sketches of the Hero High cast: Princess Quantum sexy at the prom or bulging close-ups of Alphalad. He knew their specs so fully that his hands moved on autopilot. Still, in a con as ginormous as C2E2, he’d clear a few grand easily… triple the cost of the table and his airfare.

  Of course, his Scratch announcement would change everything. For the first time, he couldn’t hunker down on a folding chair and chat with aficionados. Announcing a comic was a risky proposition in the best of circumstances. This book would ruffle feathers: gay, occult, erotic, demon? Any one of those was bait for several types of bigot.

  Maybe that’s the point. Bravery usually looked stupid from the outside.

  His inner Scratch crowed at the idea of pissing that many people off. Silas had given him pep talks on the plane and as they unpacked. Still, Trip had enjoyed dinner with the old-timers last night, and who knew if he’d ever get the invite again?

  Trip planned to announce Scratch at the Nerd Herd’s LGBT Comics panel. Even the fact he’d agreed to attend the annual homo event made Trip queasy, but these groupies would tweet the fuck out of the new title, and they had the power to build a little anticipation that could help get the series financed and distributed.

  Now, with the panel in four hours, Trip had calmed enough that the idea of announcing Scratch at the LGBT panel didn’t make him want to vomit. After today, Scratch would belong to the fans.

  Nothing on display till this afternoon. Once Scratch debuted, that toothpaste would never go back in the tube. Silas had pulled out all the Scratch swag they’d ordered and stashed it under the table: posters, T-shirts, and even a couple of cover flats. If all went well, they’d set the ball rolling with the announcement and have a rush this afternoon.

  His book. Their book.

  Wisely, Silas had left all the strategy to him, which helped Trip’s nerves when it came to the possible backlash. Trip still had doubts about how Cliff would react. Most of Hero High’s diehard fanbase might flip, and with Hollywood circling Big Dog and talking about acquisition, the stakes were brutal.

  If nothing else, Cliff had taught him about the pitfalls of niche markets and careful spin. He hadn’t seen Big Dog yet, but that was one of the hurdles. Cliff managed to stay out of sight. Trip expected a metric fuck-ton of grief.

  With Silas there beside him on the ground, Trip had a cohort and conspirator to help him get shit done. Little things.

  Hands down the best part. Trip had never gone to a con with an actual bona fide boyfriend. In the past, no one he’d dated even tolerated comics, let alone had an interest.

  The minute the doors opened to civilians at ten in the morning, Silas used his phone to take pics of a laughing group of forty-two Slave Leias: every shape, color, size, and gender you could imagine.

  Slave Leias weirded Trip out. For one thing, he’d always thought the Star Wars movies sucked: all of them. Maybe because he’d grown up at a time when they were things his elders called hip, or maybe because he’d never been a sci-fi buff. Capes, okay. Mutants and monsters, absolutely. But space opera left him cold. Star Trek and Wookies just didn’t have a place in his geeky heart.

  So the idea of hundreds of fans sporting a metallic bikini and a leash just seemed slightly off-putting. Like accidentally finding a greasy thumbprint on someone else’s porn collection.

  Trip didn’t like manga or Maus, but he got them, and they were comics. But the slow inexorable encroachment of Hollywood on the comic conventions felt like a betrayal by his own kind. Star Wars and Star Trek haunted the comic cons disproportionately. He simply ignored them. It was San Diego’s fault, all those ecstatic consumers corralled into one space for E-Z advertising. Comic fandom had built this empire for twenty years and sold out in twenty minutes.

  As if to prove his point, a Jedi appeared. On the landing above the convention floor, a tubby man in his forties, dressed elaborately as Darth Hemorrhoid, leapt and sliced the air with a two-bladed lightsaber, doing some kind of frenzied exhibition. His audience? Three cynical ten-year-olds. May the Farce be with you.

  Once upon a while ago, Trip had been one of them, all of them, really. He snuck into the city from Westchester, happy to stand on line for hours and share mythology with his fellow fanatics… the valiant dweebs who hunted Easter eggs and hatched them. He totally understood the power of a borrowed hero. He remembered a time when a single picture or line of dialogue could save his life. He looked back often, so he’d never look down on them.

  Trip thumbed through his binders of research—costumes, designs, and logos for about thirty of the major superheroes—that had saved his ass on any number of custom sketches.

  Silas stooped to eyeball the boxes under their table. “You sure you don’t want Scratch up? Even the teaser?”

  “Not till we announce. A cover is one of the fastest ways to create buzz, and I only got the panel spot because I promised them the exclusive. We’ll have enough pushback that we need to get Diamond and Wizard behind us if we can. They run an article or even a couple blog posts, and we can take that to the pubs.”

  “Sure. I just want to see him.”

  The Scratch banner had turned out even better than expected. Six by nine feet, the big incubus at his most seductive and destructive, beckoning from the Horn Gate. Got an itch?

  They’d done this the right way: a smaller con, friendly crowd, an LGBT panel, Silas here to make showbiz noises and charm the suits. There were about six publishers that might have real interest. Hedged bets. Once Scratch and the fans found each other, they would sweep away any lingering anxiety Trip harbored.

  The Artist Alley sketches would make him money, and the Scratc
h promo and the media kit had cost him a couple grand at most. Silas had balked at the price tag, but Trip had money in the bank and he understood the importance of giving the collectors something to remember, a fantasy they could hold in their hands. He’d stopped short of paying to color the Scratch interiors: that was several grand a publisher would front as a show of good faith.

  “Folks are gonna piss their pants.” Silas looked as antsy as a kid in front of a pile of presents. “How does it work?”

  “The collectors sign up for sketches first thing. Hero High crazies, mostly. But at a con this size, they’ll keep me drawing most of the day. They go to panels while I do my thing. For my sanity, I try not to take the sketchbooks back to the hotel unless it’s a real commission. They just want custom art. Usually a little racy.”

  “Why have I never come to a con before? This is bananas.” Silas tapped Trip’s table.

  Trip followed his gaze and sniffed. “Fanthropology in the wild.”

  Silas glanced around at the other folks setting up. Big name artists surrounded them, good for Trip. Mike McKone and Phil Jimenez shared one of the corner tables, spread with massive portfolios that showed their pages for Marvel and DC.

  Silas flicked his eyes at several chipper, over-tanned figures who unpacked stacks of headshots onto their tables. He mumbled, “Are those actors?”

  Trip muttered back. “Yes… and no. At larger cons, Gil Gerard still shows to sign Buck Rogers stills. Burt Ward brags about the double-jock he wore on TV to rein in Robin’s huge dong. Smaller cons, fake celebrities turn up. Y’get stormtrooper six from Empire Strikes Back or demons from Angel. One-show wonders. Extras from cult movies.”

  A lot of regulars made their living pushing autographed headshots to hardcore devotees who might remember them.

  “Ah.” Silas blinked. “Eep.”

  Trip shrugged and scratched his leg. “Yeah. They used to freak me out, but I think it’s a good reminder. They’re one of the morals. Whenever someone gets big for their britches, I remember Adam West hungover and arguing to the point of fisticuffs with a fifty-year-old fan over an episode title. True story.”

  The sketch line formed quickly. Silas wrangled people into some kind of order and even produced a clipboard for sign-ups out of thin air. Trip felt like a celebrity, but more than that, like what he did mattered to someone who mattered to him. Heady shit.

  By 11:00 a.m., Trip’s list had filled up, and for the most part, the fans had scattered to their various panels while he drew commissions.

  Rather than going back to the room to catch a couple more hours’ sleep, Silas stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders firmly, as if Trip were a boxer in the ring.

  The tender kneading melted him, though he couldn’t dismiss the awkward self-consciousness at the attention. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I wanna. Am I hurting you?”

  “No.” He dropped his head forward. Head rush. “Fantastic.”

  “Guys.” Rey Arzeno walked past lugging a portfolio and a wheeled suitcase. He raised an arm in weary greeting. They’d been on the same flight. He wheeled toward a corner table and unfurled an ARZENO banner.

  Silas leaned closer and murmured, “Are you embarrassed ’cause I’m groping you in public?”

  “Nuh-no.” Not much.

  “Well, I can stop, but listening to you groan and whimper has given me a huge, rude stonker and I forgot to wear briefs, so it could get indecent if I step away.” He bumped the ridge against Trip’s backbone.

  Trip wheezed in mortification. “Silas!”

  “So you, sir, are my human curtain for the next five minutes,” Silas muttered. “Or I could sit down before I bust my nut in my jeans.”

  Trip sat very straight.

  Silas sat down. “Nobody saw anything.” He pressed against his tented zipper.

  Trip gave a grim stare up the concrete aisle toward the entrance. “No sign of Staplegun.”

  “Neither hide nor hairball. Last time I checked the Big Dog booth, the interns were setting up the display.”

  “You should go check out the rest of the con.” Trip realized it sounded like he wanted to be alone. “If you want, I mean.”

  “Okay. Scope the competition.” Silas rocked on his feet. “I won’t have any trouble finding my way back.”

  Behind the entire table and across its front, vinyl banners showcased Hero High splash pages with Alphalad and the Mighty Mites in oversaturated magenta, aqua, and orange. Cliff had designed the setup to be visible from fifty yards away; inspecting it at close range gave Trip vertigo.

  “Yeah. No.” He chuckled.

  Silas started to walk away and then paused and turned back. “You doing okay?”

  “I am.” Trip peeked up from his sketch and smiled. “I’m jumpy, but I’m better than I thought I’d be.”

  “You’re being really goddamn brave.”

  “I guess.” Trip plucked at his collar. His eyes itched and felt swollen for the first time in months. Probably moldy in this place. “Nothing brave is ever a smart idea.”

  “Listen, billionaire vigilantes, sending your baby to Earth in a comet, blocking bullets with bracelets… all that shit is a fuck-awful way to deal with evil. It’s courageous and stupid and beautiful, but completely bananas. We like to watch that stuff and read about it because we want to stay excited, but we need to stay alive.”

  Trip coughed and blinked. Out of habit, he rooted around in his bag for a Benadryl and took it with a swig of Diet Dr Pepper.

  “Gah.” Silas stared at the soda in horror. “Do you want breakfast or anything? Something biodegradable?”

  Trip’s stomach had tied itself into a noose. “I’ve got a couple Slim Jims and a bag of Combos in my kit. I’m fine.”

  “I meant food, Mr. Spector. You gotta long day and I’m just a tourist. Can I get you something?”

  “Nah. Go check out the booths.” Trip dredged up the two strips of processed meat. They felt like fishing lures in his hand, greasy inside their vacuum-sealed sleeves. He just needed to settle down and get into a groove with his regulars, drawing the old familiar Mighty Mites by rote, and he’d be fine. “Me and Slim Jim go way back.”

  “Jesus.” Silas wouldn’t leave it alone. “C’mon, you can’t eat that crap. How about I get you a sandwich and some water?” He rocked on his feet. “Humor me.” He planted his heels.

  “I’m fine,” Trip snapped back. He needed time to get his head together. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Silas scowled, but he stood his ground, kept his voice low and level. “You’re gonna be trapped back here for hours, and that way—”

  “I’m plenty skinny and I’m already freaking out. Why do you even give a shit?”

  Silas barked back, “Because I love you, idiot!”

  Silence. Oops.

  Silas went crimson. He’d stopped breathing, and he’d dropped his eyes to the table between them.

  Crickets.

  Artist Alley got very quiet. Comic pros Trip had known for five years gauged the two of them with high brows and ears like elephants. Anne Cain gave him a big shmoopy smile, bless her.

  Trip should have said something back, something real, but a whole crowd had trained their eyes on him now, so instead, he gave a nervous smile. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, I mean it.” He said he loves me. Say something back.

  “I’ll just—” And then Silas was gone, wiping his sweet, stubbly face.

  Trip had fucked that right up. A wave of weakness crashed over him and tugged him under. Helpless, hopeless, heartless. What was he supposed to do? Thousands of people watching. Declarations weren’t his style, and Silas had blindsided him.

  He’d make it up to Silas later. He’d panicked because of his dread of the Scratch rollout. They’d go out tonight and celebrate, just the two of them. Silas knew how Trip felt anyway, even if he’d never spoken the words. Things would work out. He just needed to get through this crazy day, and then he�
��d figure out a sexy apology that would make clear how much Silas meant to him.

  He glanced at his list of sketch sign-ups and decided to tackle them from the top: a four-character sketch of Princess Quantum fighting three Vulgarians.

  What had Picasso said? If I don’t have red, I use blue.

  This gentleman wanted the poses on the sexy side. Not for the first time, he wished he could afford to fly Dolores from Uruguay so they could share a booth.

  Trip dove back into the drawing, uncapped his pen, and hit the edge on the jawline. One of his teachers had beaten that lesson into him: the secret to depicting a beautiful woman was the line of the throat. True.

  “Triple X!”

  Cliff waved at him from the entrance to the main convention hall. He wore a Big Dog sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off to show his tan guns. The hand he waved looked dirty, so he’d probably just come from finishing their booth with whatever interns he’d charmed into servitude.

  Cliff appeared jittery and bright-eyed as he approached the table, nodding and glad-handing at Trip’s neighbors like a cokehead. He didn’t seem pissed about anything. No sign of grouchy Staplegun. Good.

  Trip let out a breath. Maybe Cliff wasn’t gonna make trouble after all. One less thing to worry about before the Nerd Herd panel.

  Cliff rapped on the table. “’S’up, hot stuff.”

  Trip capped his pen and slid the drawing to the side. “Paying the rent.”

  “I figured you’d have a crazy-ass line.”

  “Up the alley. Silas got them all onto a list, and I’m booked for sketches through Sunday.”

  When Trip had first started drawing the Mighty Mites, he’d signed at the company booth, but wrestling for space with the other artists and the spread of Big Dog titles made for a hellish con all round. At least in Artist Alley, the folks who came wanted his work, and Trip had a little room to breathe.

  “I mean for autographs.” Cliff crossed his arms and his pecs bunched.

  Trip clicked his teeth together. “Yeah. Not really. A couple, I guess, now and then. Mostly fans want original art.” His fans didn’t really want Hero High nearly as much as he’d thought or as Cliff wanted to think. They wanted pictures.