ALSO BY
FRED VAN LENTE
Ten Dead Comedians
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Fred Van Lente
All rights reserved. Except as authorized under U.S. copyright law, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2017951341
ISBN: 9781683690344
Ebook ISBN: 9781683690351
Ebook design adapted from printed book design by Doogie Horner
Cover illustration by 100% Soft
Interior illustrations by Tom Fowler
Production management by John J. McGurk
Quirk Books
215 Church Street
Philadelphia, PA 19106
quirkbooks.com
v5.3.1
a
For Dad
NOTE
Due to ongoing litigation, many names of the companies, trademarked characters, and real people in the statement of Michael “Mike M” Mason have been changed upon the advice of the publisher’s counsel. However, none of the artwork has been altered in any way; it has been reproduced exactly as it was found in the sketchbook confiscated by the San Diego Police Department.
Contents
Cover
Also by Fred Van Lente
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Acknowledgments
About the Author
WEDNESDAY
heard about the first death from the girl who picked me up at the airport. She said her name was Violet and she was my biggest fan.
She looked Hispanic, no older than twenty. She had dark-blue eyeliner drawn in a kind of Egyptian curl at the edges of her sad, serious eyes. She was standing at the foot of the escalator holding a cheery hand-drawn sign with my name spelled out in magic-markered rainbows. I couldn’t have missed it even if she hadn’t started jumping up and down and waving it with one hand as soon as my face appeared on the arrivals level above. I was wearing sunglasses and had slung over my shoulder a beat-up bike messenger bag filled with art supplies, toiletries, and a single change of clothes. I carried a small, flat, black portfolio of original art from my comic books.
With my free hand I reached out to shake hers when I stepped off the escalator. “The con sent you?”
She had to shove the sign under her armpit to take my hand, which was when I realized that she had no left arm—or rather, her left arm stopped just above what would have been her elbow.
“I am so very very happy to meet you! My name is Violet—as you can see! Violent Violet.”
I put two and two together finally and her outfit clicked. She was wearing a leather aviator helmet and from her belt jangled a riot of prosthetic arms—one ending in a claw, another in a popgun, another in a weed whacker—just like Violent Violet, one of the main characters from the indie comic book I made my bones on, Gut Check, a post-apocalyptic pro-wrestling action-drama-romance about the titular hero, an American who travels to Edo to learn sumo wrestling and goes on to become a superstar on the televised wrestling circuit before finding himself enlisted in an ancient war against demonic luchadores to prevent the Mayan end-of-days—
Yeah, the one the movie is based on, right.
Yeah, they had me on set to help out a little bit.
No, I—
Hey, listen, is it cool if we not talk about the movie? Or maybe save it until I get through my whole statement? Because it’s kind of on the long side.
Thanks.
Anyway, like the girl picking me up at the airport, the comics version of Violent Violet—Gut Check’s love interest—is a one-armed warrior who wrestles using her wide variety of prosthetic limbs or, from time to time, with none at all, just to prove she requires no technological enhancement to kick your dumb ableist ass.
“She is my favorite, and you’re my favorite, I mean, seriously, you are my favorite artist of all time, I love Gut Check, I love the comic, I love the movie, I love your amazing run on Mister Mystery, I mean, I love everything you do.”
I greet all praise with suspicion and believe every horrible thing ever said about me a hundredfold, so I just smiled vaguely and nodded, more in acknowledgment than agreement. “That’s really nice of you to say, thanks. Thanks for volunteering for the con, that’s really cool of you.”
“Yeah, no problem. Anything you need, I’m gonna get you. I am, like, going to be right by your Artists’ Alley table at the con, you need me to go get you food, you need me to bring water, you need me to sit at your booth while you go to the men’s room, whatever you need, all of Comic-Con, I am going to be your sidekick, I am there for you, all the way, 24/7.”
She said all of that without taking a single breath. I couldn’t tell if she was on something or just naturally had the metabolism of a hummingbird. I didn’t really mind one way or another. I’d seen worse. One time, I agreed to do what I was told was a quote-unquote small convention in Eugene, Oregon. I flew in, the owner of the local comic book store picked me up and took me to the quote-unquote show. Not to a convention center, not to a hotel ballroom, not even to his shop, but to the basement of his house, which was lined with framed copies of my comics and some of my original art he had bought online. There was no one else there except these two big, quiet white dudes. After we had been down there for a couple hours, hanging out, drinking beers and eating pizza, I realized, looking into the guy’s eyes, that wait, there is no con. This is the con. He just wanted to meet me and have me hang out with him and his buddies.
Once you get through a weekend like that without anybody wearing your skin for a hat, the Violent Violets of the world seem fairly normal.
“I love it,” I said. “Lead on.”
Catching a ride from the airport with one of my own characters would ordinarily qualify as strange, except that fiction starts devouring reality pretty much as soon as you step off the plane at San Diego International Airport during the week of Comic-Con. The escalators leading down to baggage claim had been covered in vinyl and made to look like on- and off-ramps ferrying you into and out of the bowels of a massive gray spaceship: Up was labeled TO ABDUCTION and down was labeled POST ABDUCTION. The baggage kiosks had been skinned to look like spinning UFOs. The whole thing was promoting some new extraterrestrial romance streaming on Netflix in two weeks.
I followed Violent Violet through the automatic glass doors of the terminal. The weather in San Diego was, per usual, insultingly perfect: cool, blue skies, a vague sweetness in the air. Across the palm-lined taxi stand was a squat concrete parking garage where we found her candy-colored Toyota Corolla.
“I have to warn you,” she said, holding up her hand before getting inside, “the interior of my car is a reflection of my internal psyche.”
I opened the passenger door to find what would have been my seat covered in In-N-Out Burger cartons, an empty Coke Zero bottle, and a half-eaten bag of Smartfood, among other dorm-room detritus.
“Oh, shit, shit, sorry, sorry.” She reached across from the driver’s side and swept the garbage onto the floor of the car. “I was going to do that before coming to meet you but I was so excited and my brain just started racing and—brrrruuuggghhh!” She mimed an EMP exp
losion mushrooming out of her cranium, or at least that’s what I assumed it was.
“Believe me, I’ve been there.” I got in the car, keeping my bags in my lap. My shoe soles settled atop the pile of garbage with an audible crunch.
Violent Violet maneuvered us out of the airport’s pretzeled traffic. The car had an automatic transmission, unsurprisingly, and she only ever took her one hand off the steering to use her turn signal, at which point she leaned forward ever so slightly to brace the wheel with the tip of her stump. It looked like the most natural thing in the world.
“There is one thing I should probably tell you, though,” she said once we got on the highway, and took a deep breath.
Before she could say more I interjected:
“Actually, real quick, if you’re serious about being my helper, I’ve got a mission for you.”
“I accept it. I pledge my honor and my life to its completion!”
“You are officially my hero. Thank you. There’s this self-storage place, A1 U-Store, off I-5? I need you to go into my unit, it’s number 616, and grab my banner, a FedEx box filled with prints, and a small suitcase and bring them to me at my table, okay?” I wrote the address on a Starbucks receipt I found in my pocket and put that plus the key on the dashboard where Violent Violet could see them. “Normally I’d do this myself, but I want to make it to my table before preview night ends.”
“Oh…kay.” She frowned, puzzled. “You keep that stuff here when you’re not in town?”
“Yeah, I have storage units all over the country. Charlotte, Chicago, Seattle, Orlando. Wherever the big comic cons are.”
“You don’t keep them at home?”
“This is my home.”
“Pardon?”
“I gave up my house three years ago. Now I live entirely at cons. They fly me out, put me up in hotels, and I go to my Artists’ Alley table and draw sketches for people, and then another con flies me somewhere else. I just ask them to extend my stay past the weekend in either direction, instead of an appearance fee.”
“So you were just coming from another con when you arrived here?”
“Yeah, a small one, in Cleveland. There was a ballroom dancing competition and a brewers’ convention going on in the same hotel, which made for some interesting conversations at the breakfast buffet.”
“You…live at comic book conventions.” Violent Violet blinked. “Is that really, really awesome…or really, really sad?”
“Yes,” I said with conviction.
Violent Violet didn’t say anything, she just drove.
“I store my prints in the unit because they can get completely destroyed on flights, either in the overhead bins or from the barbarians in baggage handling. And I scatter changes of clothes everywhere because I find doing laundry in hotels super depressing.
“And another thing, Violet, if you’d be so kind. If you see me trying to talk to my ex-wife, or call her, or wave her over to me, I need you to take that arm on your belt with the spike on the end and ram it directly through my eyeball and into my brain. If you could do that for me, I’d really appreciate it.”
“I, uh…” She swallowed. I met her five minutes ago and already discovered the limits of her devotion. I excel at that. “I don’t really know what your ex-wife looks like, though? Besides, all my weapons are Styrofoam.”
“Ah, well. My loss.” I looked out the window. The Corolla was winging its way toward downtown, a modest row of skyscrapers rising up beyond a harbor dotted with sailboats and U.S. Navy warships. “I wasn’t even going to come to this show when I heard through the grapevine she was going to be here too. For the first time in three years, we’re going to be in close physical proximity to each other, like matter and antimatter. That’s dangerous stuff. Like, cosmically dangerous.”
“Why’d you change your mind?” Violent Violet’s voice had softened to a peep.
“The committee that runs the Kirby Awards asked me to give a lifetime achievement award to Benjamin Kurtz—you know, Ben K, the creator of Mister Mystery? He’s like my oldest friend and mentor in this business, so I couldn’t say no.”
“Oh.” She practically swallowed the word.
“Oh?” I turned to her with a frown. “Oh, what oh?”
After a moment’s hesitation she said:
“You haven’t seen Twitter?”
* * *
– – – –
I am not a big social-media guy. My Facebook feed consists mostly of updates on people’s cancer treatments, memorials to recently dead pets, and deeply misinformed political rants. But after Violent Violet said what she did, I pulled out my phone. On Twitter my feed was filled with many variations of:
“RIP, Ben K, you were truly The Great One”
“Raising a glass of brown to Teh (sic) Great One last night, Ben K, you were the best”
“A photo of me & Ben K from DragonCon last year, really devastated that this is the last time I’ll ever see TGO”
Violet said something but I didn’t hear her, so I looked at her with what must have been utter bafflement because she repeated without prompting:
“I’m really, really sorry.”
I blinked. My mind reeled. As Violet’s Corolla drew closer to the convention center, reality further loosened its grip on my surroundings. Comic-Con was such a draw for San Diego—I once overheard a retail clerk say it generated as much as a third of merchants’ revenue for the year—that the city allowed itself to be more or less completely taken over by it. Absolute Zero, the nuclear winter HBO show based on the Steve Ellis comic, had constructed a massive ice castle that rose up and around the Wyndham hotel. Westworld, the latest season soon to be re-released on Blu-ray, had its own saloon. It was preview night at the con, and only VIP ticket holders could get inside, but still the sidewalks in front of the Hyatt and Marriott Marquis were crammed with people. A woman in a BURR SHOT FIRST T-shirt (Star Wars font) held the hand of a six-year-old in an R2-D2 cap. They passed a Golden Age Flash wearing his upside-down-bedpan Mercury helmet, the cuffs of his Spandex so saggy around his winged boots that it looked like he would run out of his costume if he started to jog. The sky was an of-course California blue and the sunlight beat down with brilliant indifference that Ben K was dead.
Ben K was dead.
He was the first comics artist whose name I actually knew, because he was the first comics artist whose name I actually bothered to learn, because that’s how much I loved his drawings. Comics were a minor thing to my dad; he had been a casual reader as a kid. When I was growing up, he had this big red book he got for some birthday when he was a kid that was still lying around our apartment in New Providence, New Jersey: Jules Feiffer’s The Great Comic Book Heroes. In addition to Feiffer’s original New Yorker essay about his teenage years in Manhattan right after World War II, growing up among the comic book “shops” (the early producers of the funnybook medium), there were a bunch of reprints of superhero origin strips from the Golden Age—Siegel and Shuster’s Superman, Kane and (uncredited) Finger’s Batman, Simon and Kirby’s Captain America, Eisner’s The Spirit, and of course Ben K’s creation, Mister Mystery. Ben dreamed up the character when he was a wee lad of seventeen, and Mister Mystery became one of the few long-underwear men to survive the fairly predictable postwar lack of interest in fantasy fighting. It thrived a decade later in the revitalization of the genre commonly called the Silver Age.
I didn’t know any of that Comics History 101 crap when I was four, I just knew Mister Mystery was kick-ass because he was drawn kick-ass by the man known as the Great One. Of course, when I was a kid, anything with capes and punching was my jam. When I was old enough to ride a bike I would brave the scary street with all the cars on it, the one by the Friendly’s, to go to the 7-Eleven and buy Blue Ribbon Digests off the spinner rack, with the Mister Mystery reprints in them for the astronomical sum of one American dollar. When I
was old enough to drive I would head to the nearest comic book store I knew of, Dewey’s Comic City in Madison, by Drew University, where I discovered Ben K’s non-superhero output, the racy stuff, like Black Sky and American Wasteland.
By then I had been bitten by the drawing bug. I was filling my school notes with crazed sketches of pro wrestlers clothes-lining each other atop spaceships, and my parents, skeptical intellectual types, college professors, thought too highly of their open-mindedness to tell me to cut that out and fantasize about getting a real job instead. They moved to Park Slope once they accepted teaching jobs at Fordham, so I was able to go to the High School of Art and Design, and from there SVA, where one of our guest artists was, much to my shock and surprise, none other than the creator of Mister Mystery, the great Ben K himself. I had already moved on in terms of heroes, to the Jim Lees and Whilce Portacios of the world, the creators of the first Image Comics wave. But at my first sight of Ben K—tall, gaunt, with a reverse widow’s peak, spouting rapid-fire profanity-laced tirades about our general uselessness and inability to understand shot selection, anatomy, and composition—I fell in love with him all over again, not just as some kind of abstract demigod anymore, not just an all-caps name in the credits box, but as a mentor, a professor. Someone I hungered to impress.
And then he gave me a job. Me and this other guy, Dirtbag, another SVA student. He was talented too. We called him Dirtbag because every day he sat down to draw in the studio and within an hour he would somehow manage to cover himself from head to toe in ink stains, graphite smears, and eraser shavings. He was like a baseball player always sliding headfirst into home, which you are absolutely not supposed to do because of the risk of injury to your head and, more importantly, your hands. But he just couldn’t help himself. So we called him Dirtbag.
From that day on, for the last two years of college and for a few years after that, we worked for Ben K in his tiny rent-controlled studio on Fifty-seventh Street; it was lined with books, comics, movie magazines, art supplies, and every other thing he never threw away from his seven decades in the industry. Having kicked a nasty heroin habit in the late seventies, his drugs of choice were cigarettes and Maxwell House instant coffee, both of which he consumed incessantly as he pontificated on everything from politics to cinema to fine art to literature, all while drawing his comics stories for his employer, and the copyright holder for all of them, Atlas Comics. Me and Dirtbag inked backgrounds for him, erased pencil lines, and sometimes he made us draw whatever massive crowd scene the sadistic writer had cursed him with, during which he alternately praised our burgeoning skills and called us his favorite word, “cunts.”
The Con Artist Page 1