I loved him like the foul-mouthed whiskey-throated Tom Waits father I never had.
Sitting in Violent Violent’s passenger seat, I tried to focus beyond what was outside my window. I turned back to my phone, looking for a more detailed explanation of Ben K’s death. The consensus of the various fan sites was that he’d been discovered by a colleague, one of the Atlas editors, after mail had been piling up outside the door of the same one-room studio where I had worked with him as a kid. He’d been dead for maybe three days.
All of a sudden, my eyes felt a little too big for their sockets. I took a deep breath, and a hand touched my shoulder.
“Are you going to be all right?” Violent Violet asked. I was surprised at how shocked and worried she looked.
I decided to be strong. For her, don’t you know. “Yeah. I guess.” I swallowed. “Although now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, to be honest.”
The con was putting me up at the Hilton San Diego Bayfront, which was a big flat monolith rising up on the southeastern side of the convention center. To get there, you have to drive up a ramp to what is essentially the second floor, and before I knew it, we had arrived. My thoughts were scattered and muted; I didn’t know what to say, or what to do, or even how to do it if I did.
“Are you still going to Artists’ Alley tonight?” Violet asked me.
I nodded.
“Okay. I’ll head over to the storage place and grab your stuff now. I may not be able to make it back to the con until tomorrow, though.”
The doorman, who was dressed as a blood-dripping zombie Hulk, came over and opened the door for me. “That’s fine. Hey.” I turned back to her just after I climbed out. “I thought you said you wanted to tell me something.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She looked guilty for a second, but then I realized that was maybe her default expression. Violent Violet suffered from Resting Shame Face. “I—I just wanted to say—it may not seem like it sometimes, but what you do matters. It matters to people like me. You know, people look at us and don’t know what to say or do, but when you make your heroes look like…people like me…everyone around us takes a second look. So. Thank you.”
I got a lump in my throat. “You’re welcome. Your saying that means a lot to me. You’re all right, Violent Violet.”
“I know,” she said cheerily and drove off.
As she did, I finally looked up, taking in the imposing facade of the Bayfront rising above me, and saw for the first time that Atlas had completely covered it, from bottom floor to top, with an ad for the just-announced Mister Mystery movie. Ben K’s shadowy trench-coated creation, for which he never got true royalties, or even credit, scowled down on me and the festival before him, his white eyes burning with the pitiless judgment of an Old Testament God.
* * *
– – – –
The Bayfront Hilton’s hypermodern, copper-colored lobby had been transformed into a superhero team’s space-station headquarters for Comic-Con. The front desk was even manned by Superman himself, with a gelled curlicue of hair at the top of his forehead and everything. His red-and-blue costume had big puffy muscles sewn in, which didn’t make him look like he had a superhuman physique so much as a rare Kryptonian eating disorder.
“Welcome to the Bayfront, sir,” Supes said. “What brings you to San Diego?”
“I heard there was some kind of a comic con going on? Little affair, real mom-and-pop operation?”
Kal-El laughed a loud, fake, customer-service laugh. “I believe I heard that too, sir. Can I see some ID and a credit card?”
I turned over my New Jersey driver’s license but held on to my credit cards. “I should be comped all the way through.”
The Space Computer confirmed this as true. Not for funnybook royalty such as myself were the indignities of paying for hotel rooms and Artists’ Alley tables. Long ago, I made a drawing for the guy who’s been running Comic-Con’s guest services since the late 1980s. I drew a spectacular Sailor Moon for his personal sketchbook full of lovingly rendered Sailor Moons. In gratitude he made me an Always Approved guest, meaning I could parachute out of an airplane in the middle of the convention center and still receive a badge, table, and hotel room. The barter economy was alive and well on the comic-con circuit.
“Behold, the prodigal artist returns. You never gave me a goat, so don’t expect a fatted calf. Glad you’re taking a break from devouring life with prostitutes.”
I sensed the crackle of nervous energy surrounding Sebastian Mod before I heard his voice. He’d come right up to my shoulder and spoke right into my ear, looking around the crowded lobby as if expecting assassins to leap out at every corner. He had shaved his head completely bald and wore circular sunglasses on his beaklike nose—one red-tinted lens and one green one. He wore high tops, leather pants, a 1985 West German army jacket, and no shirt: as usual, he dressed like he was actively encouraging people to punch him in the face.
“Hey, Sebastian. You realize I only understand about every other sentence that comes out of your mouth?”
“As long as you understand me here, in the kidneys, where the eyes of the soul rest, that’s all I care about,” he said.
Every three or four years the big publishers elevate a new writer to megastar status by putting him on one of the five major franchises (historically, but not always, Batman, X-Men, Spider-Man, Avengers, and Mister Mystery). Sebastian Mod was our current moment’s It Writer. As Abraham Lincoln once said (I’m paraphrasing), if you want to see what someone is really like, give them Geek Power. Within six months Mod’s higher-profile status transformed him into a Frankenstein Monster of ego and entitlement, rampaging across the countryside terrorizing his editors with threats and demands.
Mod had spent the last few years reaping the benefits of his carefully crafted public image as an unapologetically pretentious techno-shaman bad boy. Hollywood executives, having long been to faux badassery what a nursing home is to a chain-email scam—easy marks—bought his schtick hook, line, and sinker; in addition to the four or five summer blockbusters that had been adapted from his own creator-owned work, Mod rented himself out to the studios as a consultant for their comic book franchises. He was a Crocodile Dundee for the Otaku Outback, guiding A-list stars to the essential graphic novels and cartoon episodes to consume in preparation for playing the Anti-Monitor, or Elsa Bloodstone, or whomever. There is a persistent urban legend within the comics community that as a result of meeting for several hours with Mod while preparing for Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Jesse Eisenberg’s manic turn as Lex Luthor was basically a thinly veiled Sebastian Mod impersonation.
I have no doubt in my mind whatsoever that the primary source of these rumors is Sebastian Mod.
“You may think it’s a coincidence, us meeting here, now, in this lobby, but it is not, my friend. It is not.”
“You haven’t given me much chance to think about anything.”
“My last ten or twelve orgasms? I made sure to picture your face while I came, to summon you here to me.”
“That’s funny, because what you’re actually doing is repelling me.” Sebastian Mod liked to tell people he worshipped some kind of pre-monotheistic serpentine sex god and was a practicing tantric magician. He once asked his thousands of fans to masturbate simultaneously on the same date at the same time and use their combined “mana” to keep one of his titles from being canceled. After what I like to call “The Wankening,” the series lasted only four more issues before finally getting the ax, so trillions of spermatozoa gave their lives for a skinny $9.99 trade paperback; rarely have so many given so much for so little.
“I’m not staying in this hotel. I’m not even having dinner here. I’m just randomly passing through. You’re here, though, aren’t you? And so am I.” He said it like that slammed shut any possible argument. “You know, I’ve taken over writing Mister Mystery and read the whole series dating b
ack to the first Nixon administration, and I’ve got to say, the most striking run was yours. Despite what many people say, you’re quite an effective storyteller.”
“Stop. I’m blushing.”
“I have a proposal that I’d like to imprint onto your DNA—something for us to work on together.”
“Is that right? Well—yeah. I might be into that.” Though Sebastian Mod’s personality was the human equivalent of crawling through broken glass, you couldn’t deny that he moved a lot of comics. Each of his first issues went through a minimum five printings, and that was even before one factored in Hollywood option money. As someone staring down looming alimony payments, I had to consider any project he suggested, no matter how exhausting I might personally find my potential cocreator. “What did you have in mind?”
“Not here,” he hissed, looking out the corner of his eye at the figures in black lurking in the Space Lobby. There were three of them, women, cosplaying as J, K, and young K. Sebastian Mod kept one eye on them while he talked to me, even though they weren’t paying either of us the least bit of attention. “You going to Christine’s birthday karaoke thing at the Gaslighter tonight?”
“No, Sebastian, I am not going to my ex-wife’s birthday party.”
“Really?” Mod reacted like Earth emotions were unknown to him.
“Really. Why, are you going?”
“Not now. I’d much rather talk with you about this project. It’s burning its way through my gut like some alien parasite and I’ve got to pass it on or I’ll die.”
“You’re really selling it.”
He gripped my shoulders. “With our creative powers combined we shall shake the proverbial walls of heaven. What say you to dinner and drinks at the Marriott Marquis tonight, once preview night ends?”
“Sounds great. I’ll meet you over there around nine.”
“Chin-chin,” he said for no reason, then walked sideways out of the Space Lobby while avoiding eye contact with the WiB like some kind of paranoid crab.
I got the sinking feeling I was making a terrible mistake; it wouldn’t be long before I realized how right I was, but for the wrong reasons.
* * *
– – – –
I took the Space Elevator to my Space Room and removed a change of clothes and toiletries from the bike messenger bag, then turned around and carried it and my portfolio right back down to the Space Lobby and across the street to the convention center. A guy carrying a bullhorn from the Eastboro Baptist Church screamed at the fans and cosplayers streaming by:
“THE JEDI KNIGHTS CANNOT SAVE YOU, THE AUTOBOTS CANNOT SAVE YOU, GRYFFINDORS CANNOT SAVE YOU, THE JUSTICE LEAGUE, THE AVENGERS, THE X-MEN AND TEEN TITANS CANNOT SAVE YOU. BECAUSE ALL OF THOSE THINGS ARE UNREAL, THEY ARE THE WICKED THINGS OF THIS WORLD. OPEN YOUR EYES TO THE REALITY…”
These were the same charming souls who protest soldiers’ funerals with hateful signs; this guy had a GOD HATES GEEKS placard sticking out of the back of his waistband. To my great amusement somebody in a delightfully retro cardboard robot outfit stood next to the religious ranter and held up a DESTROY ALL HUMANS sign. As I passed by, I gave the cosplayer a high-five.
Behind the preacher I nearly ran into some kind of steampunk ninja person wearing a jet-black intergalactic stealth suit with a helmet-goggles combo and heavily padded armored vest that completely disguised any gender, race, and waist size.
“Hey there! Hi!” Ninja Person pulled my gaze toward him/her/them with a wave. There was some kind of voice distortion box in the helmet, so it sounded like I was getting a telemarketing call from the killer in Saw. “Would you like to be part of history?”
“Not really,” I said. “Usually you get to be part of history by dying.”
“No, this is the good kind of history. The amazing kind of history. At a minute past midnight, when the first official, non-preview day of Comic-Con begins, we Dante’s Fire fans are going for the Guinness World Record for biggest group cosplay of any comics series, American, Japanese, or otherwise.”
“I have no idea what that is—”
“No worries, you just need to put on a costume and join us! We have costumes that match all body types and gender identifications. I’d just need you to fill out this cosplay consent form…”
“No thanks. Good luck to you guys, really. But I’m afraid I’m running late as it is…”
The fire-and-brimstoner with the megaphone was wandering back toward me, and I had to shout a little to be heard over him. “THE WORST THREAT YOU FACE IS NOT INVASION FROM OUTER SPACE, BUT THE ROT OF INNER SPACE IN YOUR VERY SOUL!”
“But this is to prove Dante’s Fire is the most popular manga to ever come from Japan to America,” Ninja Person continued.
“THERE IS ONE ONLY ONE SUPERHERO WHO CAN SAVE YOU, AND HIS NAME IS OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST!”
“And that Dante’s Fire otaku are the greatest, most dedicated otaku in history.” Otaku was a Japanese word that had been adopted as a prideful self-identifying term by international anime fans. I’d met precious few Americans who understood that in Japan, otaku had as pejorative a connotation as geek used to have here, meant to describe basement-dwellers (as in taku, or “home”) with poor social skills and even worse hygiene.
“THERE IS ONLY ONE COSPLAY TO DRESS IN THAT WILL SAVE YOU…”
“All you need to do is take a costume and report over there, the base of the steps to the Sails Pavilion, at midnight tonight to live on forever as a part of history—”
“…AND THAT IS THE BLOOD OF CHRIST, TO ACCEPT HIM AS YOUR LORD AND THE SOLE PATH TO SALVATION.”
Neither of these people were going to take no for answer, so I basically just ran away. Ninja Person immediately turned to the next hapless victim while the preacher blasted cosmic invective at another random passerby.
I didn’t want to belong to any eternity that would have me as a member.
* * *
– – – –
The preview night hordes pushed their way through the four sets of double doors into the main hall, advancing me with them. The inside of the convention center simultaneously went on forever and seemed far too small to contain everything; the displays always seemed to get bigger and brighter and louder every year. The Jurassic Park TV show booth was an eye-poppingly detailed re-creation of a cloning lab, bordered by clear tubes in which embryonic dinosaurs of various species—there’s a raptor, a T. rex, an ankylosaurus!—bobbed in colorful gel. Masked luchadores hurled each other onto a raised mat with teeth-rattling crashes; hooded dwarf wrestlers did the same with slightly less noise—but only slightly. A LEGO airship covered in stunted-limbed wizards and cyborgs quietly traced parabolas in the air above the company’s plastic wonderland of a booth. The Dragonriders of Pern movie people were letting guests climb into the saddles of a variety of roaring life-size wyrms and get photographed. On a Jumbotron overhead a digitized man with machine guns instead of arms ran through what appeared to be a college campus, perforating zombie co-eds with duck-if-you-hear-it booms. Superman and Captain America and Link (not Zelda, goddamn it) and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Game of Thrones and Commander Shepard (male and female versions) loomed on banners in the cavernous room over their respective corporate parent’s booths like fluttering flags on a medieval battlefield. The displays of T-shirt vendors with the Green Lantern logo and the Deadpool logo and the Venture Industries logo and “Bazinga!” climbed to the rafters. A woman in elf ears and a floral wreath hawked what appeared to be small knit busts of your favorite superheroes meant to go over the eraser end of a pencil. (Pencil doilies? Was that actually a thing?) The cube boxes of big-headed Funko dolls formed whole walls of vendors’ booths like Minecraft bricks. A brochure-wielding NASA representative stood in a small canvas tent silkscreened with purple nebulae photographed by the Hubble Telescope and looked absolutely overwhelmed by the Lovecraftian vastness of it all.
/> If the con was an archeological site, this would be the uppermost strata, the bombastic bells-and-whistles mini-Disneylands that were the booths of the major Hollywood studios and video game publishers. Hollywood discovered Comic-Con not long after I broke into the industry: San Diego is a mere two hours south of Los Angeles and thus a great place to waste employers’ expense accounts while acting all hip at the same time by pretending to enjoy these graphic-manga-comic-novel things. Movie people weren’t used to having gatherings to which the public was invited: They were used to treating themselves more like distant royalty whom the huddled masses could just gawk at through the palace gates. But once they discovered Comic-Con as a marketing tool they quickly infected the event and took it over like show-biz vampires.
Even so, every once in a while at Comic-Con you might accidentally stumble onto, you know, actual comic books, even if the space allotted to the convention’s original purpose had shrunk and shrunk until it was just a little corner of the hall. The dealers of original art and dealers in old comics would be the absolute lowest level of our hypothetical dig, where the origins of Geek civilization might be discovered. In the olden days, when the con was first founded, around the same time the great Jack Kirby moved to Southern California to ease his youngest daughter’s asthma, this was the con: the comic book dealers replaced the childhood memories your mom threw away when you went off to college. Of course, you were an accountant now, with a job you hated, a wife you forgot why you liked, and kids you were too busy trying to keep alive to properly love. And now you finally had more than twelve cents in your pocket, now you could pay several hundred bucks for that book you read so much when you were ten that it fell apart in your hands. Back when I was twelve and I could cajole my dubious father into taking me to a “convention” in Manhattan, it was invariably inside the dingy ballroom of a struggling hotel on Tenth Avenue near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. The vendors looked like carnies and smelled like ashtrays and talked like crotchety candy store clerks, perpetually vigilant against thieving children. They surrounded themselves with cardboard longboxes jammed to the gills with comic books in plastic Mylar sleeves, with or without the (hopefully acid-free) cardboard backing to keep them straight and flat. The most coveted comics, like The Incredible Hulk #181 and Giant-Sized X-Men #1 and Daredevil #168 were mounted on a wire rack behind them—you had to ask for permission to look at them more closely.
The Con Artist Page 2