ECC 2010: An After-Action Report

0700
The day began like most others, with a startled gasp followed by a throat-searing scream. At some point, I’ll need to take the stuffed porcupine out of the bed, but that can wait. I showered, shaved, breakfasted, nodded off, and then breakfasted, showered and shaved again. Needless to say, I was full, my face was bleeding, and I was out of shampoo.

0830
I arrived at Leigh’s house and rang the doorbell. He opened the door and hit me with a shovel, as was customary. We then packed his car with all the necessary con goods, which included a tablecloth, three boxes of books, a dolly, three sharpened wooden stakes, a zombie survival kit, 11.5 donuts, and a sock full of quarters. We departed, stopped, came back, Leigh put his pants on, and then we left again.

0915
We arrived at the Seattle Convention Center. I stood watch as Leigh unloaded and we then proceeded into the convention hall. We quickly became lost and were forced to eat some of the donuts to survive. Several nerds, catching the scent of donuts, attempted to make off with them, forcing me to sing ‘My Sharona,’ the Knack’s 1979 #1 hit. It worked and they retreated. Leigh’s now deaf in his right ear, though. A small price to pay for donuts.

0930
We assembled our table fort with a quantity of large couch pillows and then hid inside. To our left was Brittany Lee, an excellent artist and snappy dresser. To our right was Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics. Also in attendance were artists Jason Metcalf, Pepe Melan, Randy Kintz, Quenton Shaw of Creator's Edge Press, and the team from Alaska Robotics, Beth and Maria from ZB Publications, the brother and sister duo of Inanimate Sloth Bear Press, and writer Bill Harms. They formed an impenetrable wall of steel that protected us from the zombie warlord and his horde of undead. At least, we assume they did, as said horde never materialized.

0945-1800
It was all-out battle. Our foamy fort proved inadequate to stave off the legions of comic fans and we were eventually forced to interact with them. Leah, our colorist and medic, arrived mid-morning, providing us with much needed reinforcements. We formed a ragged line, with Leah and myself at the fore, where we fended off the frontal attacks. Leigh guarded our rear, furiously drawing pictures of voluptuous super heroines. Lunch was eaten. Blood was spilled. I sneezed. Twice. We survived, broken and bloody, nearly donutless, the detritus of battle strewn around us like so many empty water bottles.

1800-?
We retreated to the safety of a restaurant with what remained of our stalwart companions. Ale flowed like some sort of liquid, as we recounted the deeds of the day. We drank. We feasted. We were locked out of the parking garage and had to figure out how to get to our cars. It was a good evening.

Sunday came. It was just like Saturday, so reread up to this line and then skip it. Otherwise, you’ll be locked in an eternal loop, never to emerge.

In the end, despite the blood, the singing, and the inarticulate screams of pain, it was all worth it. We forged bonds that weekend. Bonds of friendship. Bonds of blood. Bonds that smelled faintly of athletes foot spray. Bonds that will never be broken. Unless of course, sufficient money is offered, in which case, all bets are off.

We will return to those Emerald Halls. We must. We owe it to those who came before us and to those that never left, possibly because they’re still locked out of the garage. It is our destiny.

Cheers,
-Jason