Ask anyone who’s ever worked a table. There is always at least one completely crazy person every con who will insist on talking about Uwe Boll for 45 minutes with you (true story). As they might actually be a customer or an editor from a major comic company, you don’t want to be rude. So, you smile and nod and hope that if they go on a spree, they’ll remember you fondly and not attempt to make a hat out of your liver.
That’s one of the funny things about cons: you can’t really make assumptions about the people walking by. The guy in the stained Wolverine short and jorts could be multi-millionaire while the guy in the tailored suit with the briefcase might just be trying to show people his original work: Suitman and Copy Boy, which was done in stick-figures and crayon (semi-true: it wasn’t called Suitman and Copy Boy).
Where were we? Ah, yes. Mental preparation.
Now, everyone mentally prepares differently. By far the single most popular method is beer, followed by more beer, leading to staggering, and if possible yet more beer. Said beer is generally drunk in the evenings after the con and sometimes well into the next morning, leading to vendors who haven’t actually ‘slept it off,’ as they never actually went to bed in the first place.
Yes, I actually heard ‘Dude, I think I’m still drunk’ one fine con morning as I went by a table.
I’m sure there are plenty of other ways to mentally prepare for a con. Some might read old comics. Some might walk into their local comic shop on a busy Wednesday and mention loudly that ‘Batman could totally beat Superman,’ thus sparking off a nerd riot.
NOTE: According to my mother, Superman would win because Christopher Reeve was the ‘handsome one.’ Except what she actually said was ‘the handsome one who was in that movie where he traveled back in time and fell in love with that woman with dark hair’ because she can’t remember the names of actors or movies. However, having known my mother all my life, I was able to interpret this as Christopher Reeve, as he was in Somewhere in Time with Jane Seymour.
Personally, I have a very simple regimen for mental preparation: I try to cancel a credit card. Now, if you’ve never tried to do this, it’s worthy of being one of Hercules’ Twelve Labors (right after the one where he had to clean the stables), as the person you’re talking to is being paid to get you to not cancel. They will try every verbal and psychological trick in their arsenal from guilt to coupons to dates with celebrities in order to keep you as a customer. It is the art of verbal sparring at its most intense. If you can successfully cancel a credit card, you can deal with any potential customer.
Though, I must point out that I still haven’t gotten my date with Olivia Wilde.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Con Training: Part 1
Con season is almost upon us and I’ve begun vigorous training in order to prepare myself both physically and mentally.
You see, cons are not just a large gathering of like-minded people interested in the buying, selling, and conversing about and in relation to paraphernalia related to their hobby or pastime.
Well, actually, yes. They are exactly that, but metaphorically speaking, they’re a battle. The sellers are drawn up formation, their books polished and gleaming in the fluorescent light, their pens held at the ready, their cash boxes unlocked and ready to receive the booty earned from the rampaging hordes who are about to descend upon them and . . . okay, forget I said that.
Ummm, what I really meant was that cons are like circuses. There are bright lights, strange and unusual animals, noxious odors, over-priced food, and people dressed in bizarre, often frightening costumes. The sellers are like caged beasts, roaming their ten foot tables, ready to pounce on any . . . . and crap.
So, let’s just agree that my analogies suck and move on.
Anyway, you can’t just ‘do’ a con. This could result in broken pencils and/or limbs. You have to work up to them. As a seller, you have to haul boxes of goods, get your cash ready, buy donuts, and do all sorts of things. Have you ever been to a con and seen a seemingly empty table, only to discover a disheveled man in a stained Green Lantern shirt lying in a fetal position on the floor behind it?
This is a man who did not properly prepare.
NOTE: Yes, I’ve actually seen this. I also once saw a Technically Not Topless Woman. Seriously. Ask me about it.
Now, the physical preparation is quite easy. You simply need to eat as badly as possible for about a month. You see, con food is one of the most destructive things in the known universe. Do you remember how the Aliens bled acid? That’s because they ate con food. In essence: your stomach is Helm’s Deep and the chili-dog you just had is an Uruk-Hai army, intent on your destruction. So, you have to toughen your innards up to handle the pseudo-food your about to eat for the next couple of days.
This doesn’t sound too bad, I’m sure. However, the mental training is even more difficult. You have to prepare yourself to talk not only with the happy, well-adjusted comic-book fans, but also the legally insane. And yes, these are two different groups.
Next Week: Part 2
You see, cons are not just a large gathering of like-minded people interested in the buying, selling, and conversing about and in relation to paraphernalia related to their hobby or pastime.
Well, actually, yes. They are exactly that, but metaphorically speaking, they’re a battle. The sellers are drawn up formation, their books polished and gleaming in the fluorescent light, their pens held at the ready, their cash boxes unlocked and ready to receive the booty earned from the rampaging hordes who are about to descend upon them and . . . okay, forget I said that.
Ummm, what I really meant was that cons are like circuses. There are bright lights, strange and unusual animals, noxious odors, over-priced food, and people dressed in bizarre, often frightening costumes. The sellers are like caged beasts, roaming their ten foot tables, ready to pounce on any . . . . and crap.
So, let’s just agree that my analogies suck and move on.
Anyway, you can’t just ‘do’ a con. This could result in broken pencils and/or limbs. You have to work up to them. As a seller, you have to haul boxes of goods, get your cash ready, buy donuts, and do all sorts of things. Have you ever been to a con and seen a seemingly empty table, only to discover a disheveled man in a stained Green Lantern shirt lying in a fetal position on the floor behind it?
This is a man who did not properly prepare.
NOTE: Yes, I’ve actually seen this. I also once saw a Technically Not Topless Woman. Seriously. Ask me about it.
Now, the physical preparation is quite easy. You simply need to eat as badly as possible for about a month. You see, con food is one of the most destructive things in the known universe. Do you remember how the Aliens bled acid? That’s because they ate con food. In essence: your stomach is Helm’s Deep and the chili-dog you just had is an Uruk-Hai army, intent on your destruction. So, you have to toughen your innards up to handle the pseudo-food your about to eat for the next couple of days.
This doesn’t sound too bad, I’m sure. However, the mental training is even more difficult. You have to prepare yourself to talk not only with the happy, well-adjusted comic-book fans, but also the legally insane. And yes, these are two different groups.
Next Week: Part 2
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
This Is Shaving!
I don’t like shaving. I’ve made this clear in the past, but I felt it had bearing for this blog, so I figured I’d repeat myself a little.
Shaving is just . . . irritating, in more ways than one. Not only does it take away valuable time I could be using to sleep, if done improperly (or half-asleep), you can carve the hell out of your face. In fact, I need to psyche myself up to shave the couple-three times a week I actually do it. Sometimes I shout inspirational lines to get myself worked up. I’m sure my neighbors appreciate someone yelling ‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS!’ at 9 am.
NOTE: I appreciate the irony of using a line from a famously bearded character to get myself to shave. Likewise for ‘THIS IS SPARTA!!!!!!’
Anyway, whilst preparing to shave the other day (dampen face with hot water, miss, attempt to dampen face again, get face damp, scream ‘TETSUO!’), I sprayed some Barbasol into my hand and rubbed it all over my face. In doing so, I managed to get some in my mouth.
Now for those of you who’ve never tasted Barbasol, it’s not pleasant. It’s not bad. Definitely better than Brussel Sprouts. Worse than paint chips. It then occurred to me that someone should make a shaving cream that actually tastes good, just for such an occasion.
Now, it wouldn’t need to be terrific tasting. After all, you wouldn’t want people gorging themselves on shaving cream like it was some sort of fraternity ritual.
It just needs to be not bad. Also, it should have some sort of mint taste, as everything else in the bathroom is mint-flavored. I currently have Clean Mint toothpaste, Fresh Mint mouthwash, Mint dental floss, Amazing Mint toilet paper, and I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Mint ceiling fixtures.
Honestly, it can’t be that hard. You just need someone with a PhD in Mintology or something. And a big batch of shaving cream. And a lot of mint.
Cheers,
-Jason
Shaving is just . . . irritating, in more ways than one. Not only does it take away valuable time I could be using to sleep, if done improperly (or half-asleep), you can carve the hell out of your face. In fact, I need to psyche myself up to shave the couple-three times a week I actually do it. Sometimes I shout inspirational lines to get myself worked up. I’m sure my neighbors appreciate someone yelling ‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS!’ at 9 am.
NOTE: I appreciate the irony of using a line from a famously bearded character to get myself to shave. Likewise for ‘THIS IS SPARTA!!!!!!’
Anyway, whilst preparing to shave the other day (dampen face with hot water, miss, attempt to dampen face again, get face damp, scream ‘TETSUO!’), I sprayed some Barbasol into my hand and rubbed it all over my face. In doing so, I managed to get some in my mouth.
Now for those of you who’ve never tasted Barbasol, it’s not pleasant. It’s not bad. Definitely better than Brussel Sprouts. Worse than paint chips. It then occurred to me that someone should make a shaving cream that actually tastes good, just for such an occasion.
Now, it wouldn’t need to be terrific tasting. After all, you wouldn’t want people gorging themselves on shaving cream like it was some sort of fraternity ritual.
It just needs to be not bad. Also, it should have some sort of mint taste, as everything else in the bathroom is mint-flavored. I currently have Clean Mint toothpaste, Fresh Mint mouthwash, Mint dental floss, Amazing Mint toilet paper, and I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Mint ceiling fixtures.
Honestly, it can’t be that hard. You just need someone with a PhD in Mintology or something. And a big batch of shaving cream. And a lot of mint.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Fact: Most Walls Are Solid
I walked into a wall the other day.
Now, I could lie and say it was a ninja wall or fitted with spikes or something. I suppose I could even get away with saying it was invisible. I mean, no one seems to bat an eye when I ramble on about fighting mimes and ninjas, so running into an invisible wall would just seem par for the course.
Sadly, however, it was none of the above. It was a perfectly ordinary, flat, off-white wall that I managed to more or less punch myself in the face with. And, just in case you hadn’t noticed, walls are pretty damn solid and generally non-ambulatory.
Note: Now, I hesitate to say that all walls are solid, as I have not made an exhaustive study of them, but I can reasonably say that in my experience, most are. This particular wall was most definitely solid.
At this point, you might be wondering how I managed to do this. You may also be wondering why you’re reading a blog about a guy who not only walks into walls, but admits it publically.
No, I don’t know why either.
Imagine if you will, an apartment with a TV, a giant bean bag, and five swords, a sallet, and a mace hung on the walls or sitting on shelves. This is not because I’m a huge nerd. It’s in case there’s a sudden zombie apocalypse. Well, okay, it’s because I’m a huge nerd. Now imagine Olivia Wilde is there wearing her outfit from TRON. Now imagine she has a twin sister. Wait, as long as we’re doing this: Three Olivia Wilds, 2-dozen bottles of real-sugar Coke, a big bowl of popcorn, and the entirety of Farscape on Blu-Ray.
Yes. Colossal nerd.
Here’s the real story. I was walking out of the bathroom after having just washed my glasses. There’s a short hallway, with my living room to the right and my cyber lair to the left. Yes, I have a cyber lair (enormous nerd). Anyway, as I was raising my glasses to put them on, I turned left about half-a-second too early. My right arm missed the wall and I continued forward, ramming the left side of my face directly into the wall.
Bad words were said. In fact, I may have made up several new ones. After some hopping around and continued swearing, I went back into the bathroom to inspect the damage. I had managed to hit myself just off to the side of my left eye. It was tender, but there was no swelling. The wall was fine.
Well, there you have it. I didn’t give myself a black eye, though in hindsight, I could have made up a killer story about muggers or ninjas. My face is still a little sore, but fear not, my good looks are still intact.
So, to sum up: I’m dumb enough to not only walk into a wall, but to tell people about it. It is always possible that I’ll do it again at a later date, which is why I duct-taped a pillow to the wall. It never hurts to be prepared.
Or to be a ginormous nerd.
Cheers,
-Jason
Now, I could lie and say it was a ninja wall or fitted with spikes or something. I suppose I could even get away with saying it was invisible. I mean, no one seems to bat an eye when I ramble on about fighting mimes and ninjas, so running into an invisible wall would just seem par for the course.
Sadly, however, it was none of the above. It was a perfectly ordinary, flat, off-white wall that I managed to more or less punch myself in the face with. And, just in case you hadn’t noticed, walls are pretty damn solid and generally non-ambulatory.
Note: Now, I hesitate to say that all walls are solid, as I have not made an exhaustive study of them, but I can reasonably say that in my experience, most are. This particular wall was most definitely solid.
At this point, you might be wondering how I managed to do this. You may also be wondering why you’re reading a blog about a guy who not only walks into walls, but admits it publically.
No, I don’t know why either.
Imagine if you will, an apartment with a TV, a giant bean bag, and five swords, a sallet, and a mace hung on the walls or sitting on shelves. This is not because I’m a huge nerd. It’s in case there’s a sudden zombie apocalypse. Well, okay, it’s because I’m a huge nerd. Now imagine Olivia Wilde is there wearing her outfit from TRON. Now imagine she has a twin sister. Wait, as long as we’re doing this: Three Olivia Wilds, 2-dozen bottles of real-sugar Coke, a big bowl of popcorn, and the entirety of Farscape on Blu-Ray.
Yes. Colossal nerd.
Here’s the real story. I was walking out of the bathroom after having just washed my glasses. There’s a short hallway, with my living room to the right and my cyber lair to the left. Yes, I have a cyber lair (enormous nerd). Anyway, as I was raising my glasses to put them on, I turned left about half-a-second too early. My right arm missed the wall and I continued forward, ramming the left side of my face directly into the wall.
Bad words were said. In fact, I may have made up several new ones. After some hopping around and continued swearing, I went back into the bathroom to inspect the damage. I had managed to hit myself just off to the side of my left eye. It was tender, but there was no swelling. The wall was fine.
Well, there you have it. I didn’t give myself a black eye, though in hindsight, I could have made up a killer story about muggers or ninjas. My face is still a little sore, but fear not, my good looks are still intact.
So, to sum up: I’m dumb enough to not only walk into a wall, but to tell people about it. It is always possible that I’ll do it again at a later date, which is why I duct-taped a pillow to the wall. It never hurts to be prepared.
Or to be a ginormous nerd.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Mahandas Ghandi: Werewolf Puncher
This was recently sent to me by a friend who shall remain nameless (Laura). It actually looks fun and I would probably go see it given sufficient prodding:
Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter
This led to some internet detecting and I discovered this gem: Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter
Apparently this is some sort of ‘thing,’ wherein you take a historical figure and have them fight the forces of evil. It makes a weird sort of sense. Historical figures are to put it mildly, historical, and therefore more or less famous. Their names are readily recognizable and therefore make for free publicity. After all, no one would go see ‘Jason Janicki: Ninja Fighter,’ but ‘Genghis Khan: Ninja Fighter’ is an instant draw.
NOTE: Obviously, my immediate family would have to go see it. After all, I am the youngest, so if they have any hope of someone taking care of them when they get old, they have to humor me. Plus, I know where they live.
So, in order to cash in on what will probably become a trend, I’ve assembled a list of people, creatures, and actions so people (such as you) can make their own ‘X battles Y’ mash-ups. Simply pick one from each column and you’ve got a title you can use:
NOTE: Blogger hates columns, so use your imagination.
George Washington Armadillo Puncher
Thomas Jefferson Zombie Killer
Mohandas Gandhi Nazi Fighter
Anne Frank Werewolf Kicker
Margaret Thatcher Nerd Spooker
Ramses II Clown Strangler
George Patton World Smasher
Andrew Jackson Vampire Stabber
Mother Theresa Demon Hunter
Helen Keller Mummy Thrasher
Mary Shelley Dragon Tamer
Cleopatra Hamster Destroyer
Louis XIV Devil Crusher
Personally, I would totally see Anne Frank: Nazi Hunter. I have this mental image of a young girl wielding an iron bound book on a chain (like a meteor hammer – the ball on a long chain like the evil schoolgirl in Kill Bill used) beating the hell out of a lot of Nazis. I realize that Anne Frank died tragically and I have the utmost respect for her and her work, but I would still pay to see a fictionalized version of her beat the crap out of a lot of bad men.
Anyway, I’m sure you get the idea. And, obviously, should you make a multi-million dollar feature film using my title generator, I would appreciate a small gratuity, say 5% of gross. Or, you could just let me meet Olivia Wilde and have her pretend not to be horrified.
Cheers,
-Jason
Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter
This led to some internet detecting and I discovered this gem: Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter
Apparently this is some sort of ‘thing,’ wherein you take a historical figure and have them fight the forces of evil. It makes a weird sort of sense. Historical figures are to put it mildly, historical, and therefore more or less famous. Their names are readily recognizable and therefore make for free publicity. After all, no one would go see ‘Jason Janicki: Ninja Fighter,’ but ‘Genghis Khan: Ninja Fighter’ is an instant draw.
NOTE: Obviously, my immediate family would have to go see it. After all, I am the youngest, so if they have any hope of someone taking care of them when they get old, they have to humor me. Plus, I know where they live.
So, in order to cash in on what will probably become a trend, I’ve assembled a list of people, creatures, and actions so people (such as you) can make their own ‘X battles Y’ mash-ups. Simply pick one from each column and you’ve got a title you can use:
NOTE: Blogger hates columns, so use your imagination.
George Washington Armadillo Puncher
Thomas Jefferson Zombie Killer
Mohandas Gandhi Nazi Fighter
Anne Frank Werewolf Kicker
Margaret Thatcher Nerd Spooker
Ramses II Clown Strangler
George Patton World Smasher
Andrew Jackson Vampire Stabber
Mother Theresa Demon Hunter
Helen Keller Mummy Thrasher
Mary Shelley Dragon Tamer
Cleopatra Hamster Destroyer
Louis XIV Devil Crusher
Personally, I would totally see Anne Frank: Nazi Hunter. I have this mental image of a young girl wielding an iron bound book on a chain (like a meteor hammer – the ball on a long chain like the evil schoolgirl in Kill Bill used) beating the hell out of a lot of Nazis. I realize that Anne Frank died tragically and I have the utmost respect for her and her work, but I would still pay to see a fictionalized version of her beat the crap out of a lot of bad men.
Anyway, I’m sure you get the idea. And, obviously, should you make a multi-million dollar feature film using my title generator, I would appreciate a small gratuity, say 5% of gross. Or, you could just let me meet Olivia Wilde and have her pretend not to be horrified.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Best Side: Part 7
The carnage was too terrible to describe.
Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.
There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.
Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.
“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.
“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.
There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.
They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.
They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.
“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.
“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.
The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.
“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”
“Huh?”
“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”
“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”
“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”
“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.
At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.
“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”
The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”
“You have a point.”
“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”
“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”
“I think I can manage.”
I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”
“That’s three conditions.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
We shook and then made our way towards the front door.
“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.
“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.
I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.
Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”
Le Fin
Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.
There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.
Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.
“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.
“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.
There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.
They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.
They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.
“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.
“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.
The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.
“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”
“Huh?”
“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”
“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”
“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”
“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.
At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.
“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”
The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”
“You have a point.”
“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”
“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”
“I think I can manage.”
I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”
“That’s three conditions.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
We shook and then made our way towards the front door.
“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.
“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.
I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.
Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”
Le Fin
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Best Side: Part 6
“What?” I said. “You don’t like it?” In my hand was a flail made out of three headless Ken dolls joined by chains to a door handle from a ’88 Subaru.
“Stupid is the word that comes to mind,” she replied. “I’m going out the back door. Good luck with that” she made a gesture at the flail. “Thing.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, swinging my flail in a little circle. It made a whistling noise that sounded exactly like a load of ape poop being flung out of a trebuchet.
The Dame ignored me and walked quickly towards the back door, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She stepped over a reanimated chicken and in two more steps was at the door. “Y’know,” she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really thought you could help. Sorry about the ninja thing.”
“No worries,” I said. I whacked my flail against the stainless steel counter. It made an amazingly satisfying thud and left three disturbingly Ken-shaped dents.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” She turned, hands on her hips. “You’re just going to let me walk out alone to face unknown peril by myself. And here I thought we had something.”
“Everytime we’ve met I ended up unconscious and/or shot. That’s not really a stable base for a relationship. Besides, we might meet again. I’m only 50% certain that door is trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“Yep.” I zipped up my fly, as I had previously forgotten to do so. “Like I said, we did that last time. If I were a ninja or a mime, I’d put a claymore or four on the next back door.”
The Dame glanced at the door, an eyebrow raised. “That does make a certain sense.”
“So today,” I said. “This nerd’s going out the front.”
“With a flail made out of Ken dolls.”
I grinned. “It’s all about the style.” I walked over to the door to the dining room, flail in my right hand, my left ready to push the door open. “You coming?” I asked, without turning around.
There was a clicking of heels and then the click of a hammer being pulled back. This was followed by the rapid clicking of one of those ball banging thingies people put on their desks, but that’s immaterial.
“On three?” the Dame asked, from close behind.
“How ‘bout one?” I said, as I pushed through the door and leapt into the room.
Next: Le Fin.
“Stupid is the word that comes to mind,” she replied. “I’m going out the back door. Good luck with that” she made a gesture at the flail. “Thing.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, swinging my flail in a little circle. It made a whistling noise that sounded exactly like a load of ape poop being flung out of a trebuchet.
The Dame ignored me and walked quickly towards the back door, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She stepped over a reanimated chicken and in two more steps was at the door. “Y’know,” she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really thought you could help. Sorry about the ninja thing.”
“No worries,” I said. I whacked my flail against the stainless steel counter. It made an amazingly satisfying thud and left three disturbingly Ken-shaped dents.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” She turned, hands on her hips. “You’re just going to let me walk out alone to face unknown peril by myself. And here I thought we had something.”
“Everytime we’ve met I ended up unconscious and/or shot. That’s not really a stable base for a relationship. Besides, we might meet again. I’m only 50% certain that door is trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“Yep.” I zipped up my fly, as I had previously forgotten to do so. “Like I said, we did that last time. If I were a ninja or a mime, I’d put a claymore or four on the next back door.”
The Dame glanced at the door, an eyebrow raised. “That does make a certain sense.”
“So today,” I said. “This nerd’s going out the front.”
“With a flail made out of Ken dolls.”
I grinned. “It’s all about the style.” I walked over to the door to the dining room, flail in my right hand, my left ready to push the door open. “You coming?” I asked, without turning around.
There was a clicking of heels and then the click of a hammer being pulled back. This was followed by the rapid clicking of one of those ball banging thingies people put on their desks, but that’s immaterial.
“On three?” the Dame asked, from close behind.
“How ‘bout one?” I said, as I pushed through the door and leapt into the room.
Next: Le Fin.
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