18-11-2004
Sweet was "unfolding" her love on every Milton who happened to stumble into orbit. No one was asking for her autograph, but she was making a lot of friends asking people to sign her t-shirt (which was three sizes too small and nearly transparent). So many people had signed it now, the signatures, messages, and drawings had crossed over onto her actual skin, resulting in her arms and legs becoming hopelessly blackened with Sharpie.
"Seriously, stop asking," I snapped. "Autographs are cash-only."
"What are you, his body guard?"
Oni wimpered.
I blew out a big puff of smoke, right in the geek's face.... which was pimply, pasty, and staring down at me from a six-foot-plus advantage.
"Why don't you find out?" I jeered.
The trouble with diplomacy, is that it only works when applied to long-distance communication, in which both parties are forced to wait while the other carefully composes a response, many miles away, sometimes leaving the area of contact with the conflict altogether, going into the kitchen to make a sandwich, even leaving the house altogether in search of olives or fritos, if there are none available in the fridge or pantry...
That's how it's done.
When Lennon said to McCartney, Why don't we do it in the road? McCartney didn't have the luxury of sitting behind an LCD screen, typewriter, or telegraph, weak in the knees but getting better all the time, typing out messages and waiting for a response.
They probably just threw down on the A46. (At least we hope they did.)
Sweet was hovering, and her strawberry scented deodorant smelled like rape.
My nose twitched.
"This con's jumped the shark," the kid (who was wearing a press badge, I suddenly noticed) grumbled. "Your show sucks, by the way. Another Eureka ripoff," he sneered.
He gestured to his friend, and the two disappeared into the sweaty, smelly crowd of gamers, walking right past Glen Danzig without a backwards glance.
"Don't worry," Sweet said. "I got his wallet."
As I watched Danzig posing in front of a bunch of chicks who were taller than him, Oni slid gracelessly to the floor, eyes fluttering, a bunch of pre-wrapped muffins and sticky buns rolling out of his coat pockets.
"Leave him. We'll come back later."
By midnight we were tired, hungry, and broke, loitering around some lame party at the Hyatt.
Sweet had worn holes in her buffalo sandals, and Oni, after having been escorted from the building by security and making his way back in, had found us just as a huge drum circle was forming in the lobby, the noise of which frightened him into the ladies bathroom, past a long line of confused and angry cosplayers, who we ended up having to run like hell from after calling "WILLIAMS!" several times into the night.
"God, I'm so HUNGRY..." Sweet moaned. "Don't they have any food at this party?"
Suddenly the lights dimmed and multi-colorded laser beams cut through the crowd.
Oni and Sweet drew closer, clutching each other in fear.
"Is that a midget cosplaying Shippo humping some dude's leg?"
"That's Richard Cawks," Sweet said. "The voice actor who plays Inuyasha."
"The midget?"
"No. The dude in the police uniform, with the guy in the Inuyasha costume laying on his chest."
My phone was about to die. I dialed Lance one more time.
Voice mail picked up: "If you're Randy Newman, you can fuck off. Fuck right. The fuck. Off. You should join the CIA and kill people for a living."
"You must use only ASCII characters in your message."
BEEP
"It's me. Stop screening my calls."
The applause from the stinky gathering of basement goblins was tremendous. The guy in the police uniform was bending the cosplayer in the cheap red suit sideways, mock-whispering, "Let me do the talking."
He licked his ear.
"It's like watching somebody's dad jerk it to screencaps of Bryan Adams and Rod Stewart performing the soundtrack for The Three Musketeers."
Sweet was going through Onis' pockets looking for sticky buns while the sick little bum twitched and trembled.
I called Lance again.
"If you're Randy Newman, you can fuck off. Fuck right. The fuck. Off. You should join the CIA and kill people for a living."
"You must use only ASCII characters in your message."
BEEP
"Where the fuck are you? We're starving and out of money... this wasn't the deal we had."
"Danni, why on earth are you wearing girl's gym shorts?"
A gravelly voice that never failed to seduce and startle me, accompanied by an equally gravelly set of fingers, clamped down hard on my unfleshy frame.
"Have you gone back to tricking?" it asked.
I shrugged him off.
"They're Sweets."
I pulled out a ciggy and lit up.
"You have some nerve showing up like this." I waved the little torch at him. "Where's the money?"
He took the smoke from my fingers and took a long drag.
"Don't worry," he said, exhaling the smoke. "I cleaned up on autographs; it was better than sex. I can't believe anyone still watches SciFi."
"Actually, SciFi does pretty good," I said.
"I didn't even know who they were before they contacted me. I was like, are you kidding me? SciFi was so ten years ago--but it WAS ten years ago. Then I found out I'd been making made-for-tv for them all this time... I almost kicked that kid's ass. Hey, Sweet."
He blew out a big puff of smoke.
"You wanna get an ice cream?"
"If daddy's paying..." she said, but she wasn't listening.
The cosplay sex show had just gotten three-wayish, with the midget climbing up a free-standing stripper pole, and Richard Cawks flipping the Inu cosplayer around to sit on his lap like a ventriloquist dummy.
"Shit," Lance spat.
He passed the fag back to me and lunged at the midget with a tube of lube plucked from tranny space (back pocket) and lubed up the pole above his head.
Laughing, he said, "Don't wanna make it too easy for you."
The midget slid to the floor like a furry french suppository.
"Fuck!" He rolled over and latched onto Lance's leg in a fair impression of John Lithgow's teeth.
I started laughing.
Lance was shaking his leg like the cold steel arm of Robert Patrick cosplaying David Bowie had got a hold of him.
"Lance, you fucking cunt!" I said, clutching my side. "Go for the hands, Warwick! Grrrr!"
Finally, Lance took a wad of twenties from his pocket and shoved it in the midget's mouth.
"Hey, fuck!" I said, jumping up. "That's my money!"
Now Lance was laughing.
"Wrestle 'em for it."
I flicked my fag into somebody's cheap wig.
The midget, having decided the money was better than the show, spit the cash into his stubby little fist and started crawling for the door.
"No you don't..."
I started after him--only to trip over Lance's out-stretched foot.
My face slammed into the smelly carpet. I tuned around and looked at him while he lit another one of MY cigarettes.
"What the fuck'd you do that for?"
"Stop cursing. The night is young."
