3AM, Banshee

3AM, Banshee

Oct 18

[In September 2008, Jeff Stolarcyk participated in a professional paranormal investigation. He survived, and this is his unvarnished account of the incident. A version of this essay appears in Grok #3 – Nameless Horror.]

It’s three AM in the Banshee’s basement, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. It’s gone from 65 degrees down to 52 over a period of thirty minutes. I’m standing facing the center of the room, one hand on my voice recorder, the other holding my Flip camera up to record. To my right, Joe asks, “Are you a male entity?” No answer. There is nobody in the center of the room, just more recorders, more cameras and a lone K2 meter in the center of the floor. The LEDs on the K2 meter dance between one lit and none lit. The K2 measures electromagnetism, and electromagnetism is linked to ghosts.

“Make the device go off twice for yes,” he instructs we-don’t-know-who, motioning to the meter placed on the floor two meters away from any of the four of us. Within thirty seconds, one beep sounds in the silence, followed after a pause by another. Two lights.

“Are there other entities in this room with you?” we had already asked it. Beep Beep. Two lights.

“Is there an evil entity in this room?” Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep; no delay at all. All the lights are bright and steady.

3AM Banshee, by Jeff Stolarcyk

The ghost, as a literary construct, is great even if ghost movies aren’t ever as great as they could be in the post-Poltergeist age. As a long-time, dyed-in-the-wool horror buff, I’ve got an unnatural fascination with ghosts, even though I’m not always of the opinion that they exist. My horror fandom led me to a similar eerie fixation on real-life ghost hunters, the ones found on Sci Fi and Discovery and the History Channel, and especially the ones that guest on that venerable fringe-culture radio staple Coast To Coast AM.

So it’s not exactly surprising that, in search of nameless horror, I went looking for ghosts with a local group of paranormal investigators.

In late September, Joe – the leader of a local group of professional ghost hunters – called me and invited me along with them to investigate The Banshee, a local pub in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Employees had contacted Joe’s group about a pair of full-body apparitions and other paranormal events, including one report of a physical attack in the basement of the bar. The staff have their own rumors about turn-of-the-century mass graves in the basement of the building, and several patrons corroborate the activity the staff has experienced.

I flip my cell phone closed and tell a coworker, “The Banshee is haunted.” He nods slowly, the nod that people nod when they’re accommodating idiocy. “Yeah,” he tells me. “I know.” It’s amazing how many people will casually admit to believing in ghosts. People believe all sorts of things that they think of as normal, especially the things that aren’t that normal at all.

Myself, I’ve had my moments. I’ve spent the night in a room where a woman died and felt watched all night. I’ve gotten chills in 80 degree heat while walking past a Louisiana graveyard. They’re not enough to dispel my natural skepticism, but they are good anecdotes when the topic arises and, like I’ve said, I’m fascinated by the phenomenon.

And yet the Banshee is haunted and I’m the last person to know about it. Despite having been a patron for years. During my graduate fellowship days, I’d schedule tutoring sessions there in order to keep my daily diet of draft cider and potato soup free from interruption. I still had dinner or drinks at the pub at least once a month. I’d been a patron since the bar opened its doors and never once had I been spooked, scared or startled. When I heard that we were going to investigate the building on my ghost hunting ride-along, my curiosity was piqued. Upon hearing the news, several friends and acquaintances freely admitted that they’d heard odd noises in the Banshee or seen anachronistic figures out of their peripheral vision, drawing back the curtain on a side of the sprawling Irish pub that I’d never seen before. My bar, where I once got wild applause for heckling a folk singer who refused to sing old revoultionary songs, was holding out on me.  I was about to receive an education, though, and I’d be in the company of experts.

Nothing at all could go wrong.

With Violet Light, Part II

With Violet Light, Part II

Oct 15

Welcome back, friends! You all read Part I, yes? If not, go do that.

Now! Let us once again gaze upon the beauty of Paul “Cool Jerk” Horn’s crazily amazing illustration as we read—this is the week where it truly becomes a central piece of the story.

A note before we launch into Part II: though this is the official One Con Glory sequel, I also wrote a little bridge story that takes place between the book and “With Violet Light.” It’s all about the idea of retcon, the importance of saying a certain handful of words to someone when you feel a certain way, and the secret behind “Men’s Pocky.” For reals. You can read it in this issue of Grok.

Okay. Back to Julie.

—Sarah Kuhn

**

“But we’re Facebook friends.” I try to affect a beseeching sort of look, but it has little to no effect on the tiny, blonde wall of hostility in front of me.

She shrugs. “I have 3,747 connections on the FB. I am not acquainted with most of them personally.” She returns to shelving Invincible Iron Man hardcovers, her three-sizes too big Green Lantern shirt hanging precariously off her spindly frame.

“But you added me,” I whine, crossing my arms over my chest. Jesus. I’m about two seconds away from stamping my foot, a la Jubilee on a fireworks-fueled tantrum.

There’s that shrug again. “You probably have Comics Bee as one of your fan pages, right? I make a point of adding everyone on there. Encourages excellent customer relations.”

“I can see how that would be very…effective,” I say, fighting like mad to keep the sarcasm from leaking into my voice. “But I’m a regular here. We’ve had actual conversations. I explained my theory on why Nova could totally beat Hulk in a fight and you agreed with me.”

She pauses, cocking her head to the side, affecting the appearance of a freckle-faced robot scanning her way through all of her past human interactions. I can practically see bits of 11001110 data flying through her brain. “That’s hardly a unique theory,” she finally says. “I’ve had that conversation at least 67.5 times.”

“… .5?”

“I was interrupted one of those times by a pressing back issue mis-numbering fiasco. Hours of my life gone, thanks to incompetent help.” She shakes her head and her insolent little ponytail wags back and forth. “Like I said,” she says, popping the last hardcover into place on the shelf, “I don’t know you. I don’t know your friend and I have no interest in meeting him. Good-bye.”

“Gah.” I turn on my heel and stomp across the Comics Bee’s rather spacious quarters to Layla. She’s perched on the counter, chatting easily with the cute, spiky-haired guy manning the register—Evan Chang, the shop’s other assistant manager.

“Ah, Julie,” he says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Am I hearing this right? Are you really trying to hook Bitchy McContinuityNazi up with a boyfriend?”

“It’s all for her,” I grumble, inclining my head towards Layla.

“So she says,” says Evan, brushing a stray piece of lint off his form-fitting—and strangely logo-free—black t-shirt. “I must say: I was hoping you’d stopped by on a non-Wednesday so we could continue our ongoing debate over the series finale of Battlestar Galactica.”

I shrug. “You won’t admit that it was seriously epic, so…”

He smirks a little. “If ‘epic’ means ‘shoddily slapped-together and fueled by someone’s hallucinogen-spiked spirit quest,’ then I’m with ya. Anyway, I actually think I can help with your little love quest.” He leans forward conspiratorially, a grin spreading over his impish face. “We’re having a signing tonight—Terry Temperton, local guy. Writes and draws Angst Sundae?”

“I know it,” I say. “Black and white, heavy inks? Lots of people feeling all their feelings?”

“Affirmative,” says Evan. “As you might imagine, Jill hates that stuff. But she’s being forced to work the event and will basically be drowning me in her misery the entire live long night. If someone were to bring her a like-minded, superhero-loving geek to talk to, I bet she’d be eternally grateful. Well, sort of. ‘Grateful’ looks different on Jill than it does on normal people.”

“That’s perfect!” Layla shrieks.

“I’d be happy to provide the introductions and engage them in sexily scintillating conversation, just to get the ball rolling,” he continues. “And if this somehow results in Jill being in love and out of my hair…well, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

Layla rubs her hands together with glee. “I can already see the nerd-sparks flying!”

“Be here at 7,” says Evan. “Oh, and Julie: While I admire your dedication to geek-centric romance, Layla tells me you just left a gorgeous, half-naked man all alone in your apartment.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Priorities, woman.”

“Yeah, a dead asleep, gorgeous, half-naked man. And I left him a note…wait a second.” I raise an eyebrow at Layla. “How do you know about the half-naked part?”

She has the good grace to blush. “I’m sexually-deprived and your bedroom door was a little bit open,” she blurts out. “I might’ve sneaked a peek while you were in the bathroom.” She blinks at me, all Bambi-esque innocence. “And, um…damn, Jules. That chest belongs in a museum somewhere.”

Evan’s eyes widen with interest. “Did you take a picture?”

“No!” Layla crosses her arms over her chest, trying for “indignant.” It only lasts a few seconds. “Okay…yes,” she admits, shooting me a guilty look.

“Layla…” I sputter.

“I’m an artist!” she says defensively. “It’s my duty to capture beauty wherever I see it.”

“Maybe try seeing it in naked people who aren’t my boyfriend,” I grumble.

“This is, by far, the girliest conversation the Comics Bee has ever played host to,” Evan says bemusedly.

“Oooooh!” Layla turns to him, the very picture of puppy-like eagerness. “So I guess I’m a Charlotte. But which one is Julie?!”

He studies me thoughtfully. “Miranda.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “And Jack keeps trying to stick me with the Emma Frost label. Why am I always the bitchy one?”

Evan and Layla exchange an all-too-knowing look. “Well,” says Evan, “if the white pleather bustier fits…”

**

Jack is still dead to the world when I return home. As usual, he’s somehow managed to annex the entire bed territory in his sleep, one arm flopping haphazardly over what’s supposed to be my pillow, legs entangled in the clump of bedding, drool pooling next to his half-open mouth.

I think he’s maybe the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I ease myself onto the two square inches of mattress that aren’t taken up by his fully-sprawled form and gently brush his sleep-matted hair off of his face. “Hey,” I whisper. “Sleeping Beauty. You’re snoring your entire visit away.”

No response.

I move in closer, resting my head on top of his pillow-stealing arm. “Come on,” I say, raising my voice a tiny bit. “Otherwise I’m just gonna watch you while you sleep. In a totally creepy way. And darling—” I press my forehead to his and affect a terrible Transylvanian accent. “Your neck smells like freesia.”

“Mrph.” One eye pops open. “You actually read those books?” he asks, voice husky with sleep.

I bring my index finger to my lips. “I’ll never tell. ”

He lets loose with a mighty yawn, his features eventually resolving themselves into a lopsided grin. “Hi,” he says, all lazy warmth, his half-lidded eyes slowly taking me in. I brush my fingertips down his cheek, studying the angular planes of his face. I feel my entire body relax—happy to be so close to him, surrounded by quiet and soft sheets and a glorious lack of distractions.

“I wish it could be like this every day,” I murmur.

He studies me intently, suddenly looking a bit more awake.

“That’s…not impossible.”

“Right, right, as soon as they finally invent that Trekkian transporter machine.” I cup his face in my hands. “You look better. More rested. But, you know…you don’t…when you’re wiped like this, we don’t have to do the weekend visit thing. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Seriously? ‘Obligated?’” He raises an eyebrow, trying to keep things light. But hurt flashes over his face, his eyes clouding over. “That’s, uh…romantic.”

“Sorry…I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “That’s not what I…anyway.” I plaster a bright, hopeful smile across my face, racking my brain for a quick fix. “I’m trying to get better at…girly stuff.” I sit up in bed and hold my hands out in exaggerated “I am about to give an amazing presentation” style.

“For instance!” I exclaim, a little too excitedly. “I never mark things on the calendar—never! But I’ve made note of July 17—a mere month from now—in permanent ink and do you know why?”

He props himself up on an elbow and looks at me quizzically.

“July 17: GinormoCon! Our anniversary!” I grin triumphantly. “Or, uh…the anniversary of the first time we…you know.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, the humor returning to his eyes. He sits up and runs his fingers through my unruly mop of hair, smoothing out errant tangles. “And the second time,” he says, leaning in to feather kisses along the line of my jaw. “And the third. And—”

“Okay, okay,” I say, my neck going all goose-bumpy. “Does that still count? As our anniversary?”

He pulls back and locks his eyes with mine. “Yes.”

My face flushes with pleasure. “So certain! How do you always just…know these things?”

“What things?”

“Romantic things…love things…oh my God.” My eyes widen, realization dawning. “You’re totally a Star Sapphire.”

His lips twitch. “Baby…”

I sit up very straight, not really hearing him, my brain hooking into the meat of my thesis with ruthless, single-minded intent. “You always know how to be all direct and no-bullshit and somehow it’s the most romantic fucking thing ever,” I say. “All you need is a power ring and a super-boobsy pink spandex costume…er, sorry, violet costume, except those outfits always look pink to me, and then you can properly display your, um, love power.”

He cocks a teasing eyebrow, a wicked grin spreading over his face. “I’m pretty sure my…love power is on display right now.”

I blush, heat creeping up the back of my neck. “Yes, I can, um…feel that. But this is serious!” I clasp my hands together, and look at him pleadingly.

“I want to forsake my rageful Red Lantern ways!” I insist, my voice taking on a desperate, shrieky quality—like Black Canary and Siryn on a combined scream bender. “Teach me the way of the Star Sapphire! Teach me how to be chill and romantic and…and…love powerful!”

Unable to hold back any longer, he bursts out laughing, then gathers me against him and presses his lips to my forehead. “I’ll teach you tonight,” he says. “I made a reservation at Dante’s and then I was thinking we could take a walk by the waterfront—”

“Oh. I…uh…”

He frowns, brows knitting together. “Crap. That’s way touristy, isn’t it? Okay. New plan: your busted living room couch, Thai take-out from that place around the corner, and Shaun of the Dead on repeat.” His lips brush my earlobe. “Clothing optional.”

“That sounds…perfect,” I murmur, leaning into him. “But we sort of have to go to this party tonight.”

He pulls back, his face slowly falling. “Party…?” he says, trying to mask his disappointment. “Like, on our only night together? Like, with people who aren’t you and me?” He frowns skeptically. “Is the fate of the world somehow dependent on us attending this party? Because otherwise, I can’t see how it’s worth it.”

“Not the fate of the world, exactly, but the fate of…something.” I quickly fill him in on Layla and her Braidbeard-contingent sex quest.

“Luckily,” I conclude, “we’ve got Evan in our corner. And unlike the vast majority of nerds, he’s pretty savvy when it comes to interpersonal relations.”

“Evan…have you told me about Evan?” Jack asks, fingertips idly tracing my collarbone.

“He’s kind of a new friend,” I say. “Basically, the very model of an opinionated-yet-non-judgmental comics shop guy. Even if he is wrong about BSG.”

“Ah.” He nods absently and I notice that he still looks more than a little bit tired.

“We won’t stay long,” I say quickly. “I just need to set up this potentially vomit-inducing love connection. Then we can come back here and hang out.” I lean in, brushing my lips over his neck, feeling the rhythm of his pulse quicken. “In a…clothing optional environment.”

“Just not sure about the comics shop…thing,” he says, his breathing going uneven as my mouth grazes his ear. “With all the, um…fans?”

I pull back, my lips curving into a bemused half-smile. “Afraid of being mobbed, R-Pattz style? Aren’t we cocky.” I clap my hands over my heart and flutter my eyelashes, mock-swoony.

“OooOOOoooh!” I chirp, pitching my voice several octaves higher than necessary. “Is that Jack Camden?! I totally have his last Tiger Beat pin-up in my locker! OH-EM-GEE SQUEEEEEEEE!!!”

“Stop that!” he says, doing his best to look stern. The effect is ruined by the sheepish grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “It’s a valid concern.”

“Relax, heartthrob.” I ruffle his hair affectionately. “This isn’t your crowd. Super-indie. Most of them can recite the entire oeuvre of Chris Ware, but would never admit to owning a TV set.”

“You have such a…unique way of putting things, Red Lantern,” he says, the grin finally overtaking his entire face. “Forget about the love power—I think you’re pretty perfect as-is.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Neurotic?”

He kisses the inside of my wrist. “Sensitive.”

“Inappropriately opinionated?”

Pressing his fingertips to my shoulders, he eases me onto my back. “Passionate.”

“Temperamental to the point of psychosis?”

He slips warm, gentle hands under my t-shirt. “Well…yes. But I find that kind of hot.”

“Perv,” I say softly, biting my lip in a useless attempt to stop smiling. His mouth drifts over my neck and finds that sensitive spot, sending little shivers coursing through my nervous system.

“Mmmm…” I sigh. “See, this right here…very Star Sapphire-y.”
He grins, clever fingers sliding up my back to unhook my bra. “I do look good in pink spandex.”

Read Part III

Retcon Punch, Episode 02: Douchebag Ascendant

Retcon Punch, Episode 02: Douchebag Ascendant

Oct 13

Catch up on Episode 01

Before I can realize the extent to which my ass truly is grass over the missing copy of Fantastic Four #1, I first panic over the missing shipment of new comics. I’m on the phone with my Diamond rep when Tara arrives for work.

Tara has three teenage kids, a husband who’s a bit of a dick, and the most obnoxious collection of seasonal T-shirts and sweaters ever assembled. She hasn’t read a comic book since the Nixon administration; she works at Superb for the pocket money. She’s a master of passive aggression.

“Hey, boss,” she says; every time she calls me “boss,” she sneers the word. “Did we sell that really old comic and I missed the party?”

Shit.

Retcon Punch, by Matt Springer - A Thrilling Tale of Sex, Betrayal and Comics

“Ha ha, no,” I reply over the hold music in my ear. Boomtown Rats, if you can believe it. “Just moved it into the back to rebag it. Hey, can you bitch out this Diamond rep when he comes on? We still haven’t gotten our books for the week.”

“Oh Christ.” Tara knows what that means—gritting through her teeth at hysterical nerds all day and a tightening in her neck that would make her head throb for the next two days.

Tara picks up the phone; I casually step into Superb’s back room, home of several thousand pounds of decaying newsprint. I close the door behind me.

I begin thinking, not overthinking or freaking out, but thinking. I Google my missing comic; I find the highest-resolution cover image I can. I print the cover, then I cut it out and slip it into a high-end Mylar sleeve. I calmly take it back out to the store and hang it in the open spot on the wall. No one notices, not even Tara, who once complained that I was “eating lunch too loud.”

My most immediate problem temporarily solved, I turn to the issue of the missing shipment. I soon notice Tara yelling into the receiver in a way that I don’t believe is designed to help create a positive working relationship with her counterpart on the other end of the line.

“I’m TELLING YOU. I’m TELLING YOU NOW. We are in HERMOSA Beach in CALIFORNIA and we do not have NEW comic BOOKS for to sell. If you can TELL ME PLEASE what might be the problem.”

I hear a tapping on the door and pray a quick silent prayer that it’s not one of the regulars hoping they can get in and out early to post a spoiler review on their message board of choice.

Miraculously, it’s the UPS guy, sheepishly pushing a cart stacked with boxes.

“Sorry, my kid had a thing at school, and I wanted to see it but I know you guys need this stuff ASAP…”

“Don’t worry, Gary. We’re just glad you made it. Right, Tara?”

“WHAT. Please tell me you are NOT blaming the WEATHER. Hold ON.”

“Tara? The books are here.”

Tara hangs up the phone without so much as a “get bent.”

**

Even the worst jobs have their moments, and at Superb, even the most horrific Wednesdays eventually hit their flow, when the tempo of the movement of the people creates a momentum that can actually convince me I’ve found a halfway decent way to earn a living.

Usually, that’s when Sid shows up.

Sidney Stone owns Superb Comics. He spent the better part of the mid-eighties and nineties as lead guitarist in a pop ska band that had five top forty hits in the UK. He poured his first major advance into opening Superb and now is one of those semi-retired former rockers who goes to shows six nights a week and records aimless bullshit in a “home studio.” As most of the customers know, I do the actual “running” of Superb Comics; Sid does the spending, the abusing of employee time and goodwill, and the conceptualizing of idiotic events that only lower the shop’s standing amongst the geek community of the Southland.

Sid always enters the shop like he’s about to be mobbed by teenybopper fangirls and paparazzi. Neither ever happens. With one arm around the latest girl, he saunters over to the main rack and walks excruciatingly slow between the paying customers and their precious comics.

We’ll get back to the girl. Promise.

“What’s the haps, Ike?”

“Not much. Just, you know, selling comic books.”

“I can see that.”

Sid’s a douchebag. I have evidence, your honor.

He is perpetually unable to conduct a true conversation, in that he never really responds to things someone else is saying. He comes sideways at every dialogue in which he is engaged because he is incapable of experiencing a world that contains anyone but himself.

To the extent that he does respond to an actual statement or question, it’s always to shut things down, like “I can see that.” Okay, asshole, you can see it; no shit. I’m trying to INTERACT WITH YOU AS A SEPARATE HUMAN BEING, not question the efficacy of your eyeballs. Jesus. I don’t know how anyone sleeps with him or even manages to spend more than ten minutes in his immediate vicinity.

And that’s the other thing that makes him forever douche: He manages to score amazing-looking women who could clearly do far better, but never do.

Take for example the girl standing idly under Sid’s arm while he prevents the paying customers from purchasing their comics. Long black hair in a ponytail, Tina Fey glasses (standard issue for his ladyfriends; he told me once he had a “librarian/whore complex,” which is so perfect he doesn’t even realize it), a slender frame but not too slender. Tight black jeans and a form-fitting Black Flag T-shirt.

Usually, the women who slither into the store under Sid’s arm are repellant simply by virtue of the company they keep, but I have to admit, this particular girl has something about her. I think it’s the expression; most of Sid’s girlfriends look like they’re disgusted by spending time in a comic book store, but this is the first one that looks disgusted by spending time with Sid himself. Her expression says, “I smell a fart.”

It makes me curious; I have always dismissed the rumors that Sid’s male appendage rivaled James Woods’ unit in scope and capacity, if only because said rumors were inevitably initiated by Sid himself. But maybe there’s something to them?

Then I follow the fart face over my shoulder and realize she’s staring blankly at the Fantastic Four fake, like she knows exactly what I’ve done, and my heart drops to my shoe.

“I’m here to pay now.”

The soft-spoken nervous college kid has been standing at the register for at least a couple minutes when he finally speaks and shatters my paranoid musings.

“Sorry. Let me ring you up.”

“Asleep at the wheel, eh, Ikester? That’s not the way to keep your job.”

Sid smirks in my general direction; I glance up to return a tight smile, just in time to catch his lady rolling her eyes so far back into her head that she can stare at her own brain.

Next week: Baby’s In Black!

With Violet Light, Part I

With Violet Light, Part I

Oct 08

Hello! So before we begin, let me tell you a couple things. This story (a mini-sequel to my geek novella One Con Glory) was totally inspired by…well, many things, but most importantly:

1. An amazing online discussion about “male Star Sapphires.”
2. The Grok theme “avatar.”
3. Karen Healey’s desire to see more of the perma-cheerful Layla Lee.

It ran previously in an issue of Grok (as did an additional mini-sequel, “My Epic Win”) and now I’m serializing it here with a few exciting extras. First off, check out that incredible “Jack and Julie do crossplay” illustration by Mr. Paul “Cool Jerk” Horn. So pretty. And as you will see, so key to the story.

Second, I have a little set of Halloween-themed BPAL prototype scents (courtesy of our pal Geek Girl Diva) that I’d like to give away in honor of the story’s launch here on the newly-redesigned Alert Nerd. The scents represent the spookier side of Julie’s hometown (San Francisco), Jack’s current city (Los Angeles), and a couple places in between. They are, like most BPAL scents, quite delicious. To enter the giveaway, just @ me on Twitter with an explanation of your current avatar (yes, in 140 characters or less).

Okay? Okay! Let’s go.

—Sarah Kuhn

**

“Shit.”

I know I’m going to fall on my ass a millisecond before it actually happens. I’m running, slipping, tripping my way across the apartment when my stupid feet slide out from under me like they’ve been dunked in Crisco and suddenly it’s all, “Oh, hi, hardwood floors, nice to fucking meet you.”

A string of muttered profanities later, I’m popping back up and skidding over to the door and flinging it open and drinking in the sight of a phenomenally cute boy in a ratty Silver Surfer t-shirt.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, bright blue eyes dancing with amusement as they take in my beyond-disheveled form. “What’s…going on here?”

I tug the shirt I’ve hastily thrown on over my barely-covered backside and make a fruitless attempt to brush the angry snarl of wet hair out of eyes. “I was, um…getting out of the shower when you knocked,” I stammer. “I thought you were coming…later? Not that I’m not glad you’re here. I just thought I’d have more time to get ready and…”

I trail off as a full-on grin overtakes his face and he steps inside, slipping his arms around my waist, pulling my damp, unkempt form into the irresistible warmth of his body. I melt against him, inhaling the scent of soap and sweat-on-skin, fluttery little sensations blooming in my gut.

“I especially like the part,” he says, lips brushing my hair, “where you’re not wearing pants.”

My face flushes and before I can retort, he scoops me off the ground and into his arms and brings his mouth to mine, hot and sweet and delicious enough to scramble my brain for a few dizzying seconds. “Wait…Jack,” I gasp, desperately trying to maintain coherent thought as my legs wrap around his waist. “I’m not…let me finish getting—”

“Dressed?” His mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on my neck. “Why?”

I inhale sharply, the fluttery gut sensations morphing into something decidedly more pornographic. “I…don’t have a good answer for that.”

He kicks the apartment door shut and stumbles toward the bedroom with me in his arms, our lips locked together the entire way. “Your bag…” I murmur against his mouth. “…mrpmh…still in the hall…”

“Don’t care,” he breathes as we tumble into bed, a muddle of tangled limbs and half-shed clothes.

I pull back and study him as he makes quick work of the buttons on my shirt. “Hey,” I say softly, reaching up to cup his face in my hands. “Slow down for a second.” I brush my thumbs over the deep, dark circles under his eyes, my brows knitting together with concern. “You look exhausted.”

“Back-to-back 14-hour shooting days.” He undoes the last button and peels off my shirt. “I walked off the set and got in my car and made a break for it.”

“What…you drove all the way up here on no sleep?” I place a hand against his chest. “Why would you do that?”

He brushes my still-damp hair off my face, blue eyes giving me that oh-so-earnest look that I’m a total fucking sucker for. “I wanted to see you.”

He kisses me again and all errant worries fall out of my head. I yank his shirt off and skate my fingertips over his back—his beautiful, naked back—then pull him against me, our bodies twining together, all sweat and heat and oh, God, he’s doing that with his tongue that he knows I—

BOOM-BOOM.

We freeze, mid-makeout. I frown in the direction of the front door, which seems to be on the receiving end of a rather thunderous knock. He follows my gaze. “Are you expecting—”

“Shhh.” I press a finger to his lips. “Maybe they’ll go away.”

BOOM. BOOM-BOOM. BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM!!!

“Or not,” I growl through gritted teeth. I reluctantly untangle myself from him, throwing on my discarded shirt and a random pair of shorts.

“Tell them you’re in the middle of…doing something.” Jack grins lazily and leans back against the pillows, hands clasped behind his head, mouth-watering chest on full display. I hear myself whimper a little.

“Don’t move,” I command, stomping into the living room.

I throw open the door and am greeted by the sight of a morose figure clad in a flannel shirt mis-buttoned over a coffee-stained tank. “I haven’t had sex in three days,” she blurts out, her delicate features twisting into a mask of from-the-gut distress. “Um, also…did someone lose a bag?” She proffers Jack’s abandoned duffle.

I let out a slow, supposed-to-be-calming breath. “Layla. You have no idea how not sympathetic I am to you right now.”

Her big, doe eyes fill with tears. “Can I come in? Please?!?”

I snatch the duffle from her and open the door a little wider. “Fine. But this better be seriously epic. Like, Tigh-finds-out-he’s-a-Cylon epic.”

She sweeps in, all long limbs and balletic grace, her off-kilter elegance somehow enhanced by her messy appearance. Then she whirls around, hands shooting out to lock my shoulders in a death grip. “You,” she breathes, still-teary eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You had sex recently.” Her head twists as she wildly scans the room, evoking unpleasant Exorcist-type imagery. “Is Jack here?”

“First of all: ow,” I say, batting ineffectually at her claw-like fingers. “Your Hulk-on-fucking-steroids strength never ceases to amaze me. Second of all: Yes, he is. And I would be having probably amazing sex right now if you hadn’t interrupted. So if you’re making it some kind of bizarre mission to perceive when people last copulated…well, your sexdar is broken.”

“I call it my ‘sex sense,’” she says sagely.

“I like ‘sexdar’ better. Now what, exactly, is so damn important? Because three days isn’t that long for most people and isn’t Mitch out of town for the weekend anyway?”

“Auuuuugggggggh.” With that anguished cry, Layla pirouettes herself onto my rickety couch and slumps over in defeat, deflating like a sad little balloon.

I try for another long, calming breath. Really not working, especially since all I can think of is Jack’s hand stroking its way down my—

“What the frak is wrong with me?” she moans, raking her fingers through her birds’ nest of hair.

I goggle at her. “Excuse me, but did the queen of pop cultural ignorance just correctly use ‘frak’?”

“I think I’ve managed to absorb a fair amount of Bubblestar Galactica terminology from you guys,” she says, eyes focusing and unfocusing as her gaze wanders distractedly around the apartment. She leans back in her seat, looking utterly lost.

And also like she’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“Hold on,” I mutter, shuffling back to the bedroom. Jack’s flopped on his side, comforter pulled around him like a makeshift cocoon, his breathing soft and even.

“Oh, no…nononono.” I crouch down next to the bed and he makes a valiant effort to open his droopy eyes a little wider. “It’s Layla with some sort of universe-shattering emergency…but I’m getting rid of her!” I insist, my voice twisting into a cartoon character-like squeak. “Don’t fall asleep! We can still—”

“Mmmm.” His eyes drift closed. “Totally…awake…”

His breathing morphs into soft little snores.

I heave the mightiest of sighs. “Forget universe-shattering,” I say, pressing a gentle kiss to his slumbering brow. “This ‘emergency’ better rock my fuckin’ multiverse.”

**

Layla’s problem comes out in a torrent of sighs and stream-of-consciousness monologuing. But it basically boils down to a single word.

“Braidbeard,” she sighs, her leggy form curled into a little ball next to my coffee table. “Ever since me and Mitch moved in together, he’s over constantly. All hours of the day. And, well…the night. He even has his own toothbrush in our bathroom.”

“That does…suck,” I murmur, casting furtive, longing looks toward the bedroom.

“I love living with Mitch,” she continues. “But I didn’t realize they were, you know…a package deal.” She uncurls herself and sits up, then flops her head onto the coffee table with a dull thunk. “And his presence keeps us from being…intimate. Instead of sex, it’s, like, round-the-clock Braidbeard commentary on why such-and-such ‘pwns’ and why so-and-so ‘suxxors’ and I never know what he’s talking about and when I try to ask, he interrupts me and—”

“Kinda like you just interrupted me?” I mutter, drumming my fingers on the coffee tabletop.

Her brow crinkles. “Julie,” she says, ultra-serious, “this isn’t a very good pep talk.”

“And…since when have I ever claimed to have a talent for at such things?” I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “Are you trying to have…what are you trying to have? Girl talk?”

She lifts her head from the table, her mouth quirking into a hopeful half-smile. “Why not? I mean, usually when we hang out, it’s with the group—with boys. And in that crowd, I’m mostly just ‘Mitch’s Girlfriend.’”

“I don’t think of you that way,” I lie.

“Actually, you do,” she says matter-of-factly. “Y’all are heavy on the comics and action movie ‘biff pow’ talk. Not a lot of, like, sharing.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “So it’s time for us to conform to our socially accepted stereotype? Would you like a drink with a little umbrella in it?”

Her smile upgrades to a full-on beam. “Oooooh! Like that show with all the brunch and blowjobs!”

“…Sex and the City?”

“Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Let’s please share like we’re on Sex and the City! I mean, Jules, I know you and Mitch are best friends cause you can blab about Iron Mans and Cyclones—”

“Cylons,” I mutter.

“—’til the cows come home, but don’t you ever just want to talk about relationships and cute dresses and the size of Jack’s—”

“Layla.” I shake my head at her, trying to tamp down on my shock. “No. And…I have to say, I don’t think any of that is exactly your thing either? Aren’t you usually more interested in, I don’t know, the latest advances in yoga posing?”

She bites her lip. “I just want to…try it. The girl talk thing.” She cocks her head to the side, doe eyes widening. “Do you have any umbrella drinks?”

“…gah.” I throw up my hands. “Fine. Let’s girl talk and get it over with.” I stalk into my miniscule kitchenette and snag a carton of nearly-expired orange juice, a dusty bottle of vodka, and a pair of plastic cups.

“Here,” I say, marching back into the living room and plunking everything in front of her. “Will this do? I don’t have any umbrellas.”

She holds up a pair of umbrella-like shapes that appear to be constructed from origami paper and twisty pipe-cleaners. “Done,” she says, smiling beatifically.

I can’t help but soften in the face of her impromptu crafting. “Do you just carry that stuff around with you at all times?” I ask, settling in next to her.

“You never know when you’re gonna have a crafts-related emergency,” she says, pouring us both heavy-on-the-vodka drinks.

“Okay,” I say, trying to focus on the task at hand. “So what exactly can we do to get you back on the sex train? Designated date nights? Slutty outfits? Murder?”

She takes a healthy slug of her drink, then reaches over and gently slides my laptop across the coffee table. “I have a plan,” she says, just a bit too enthusiastically. “With your computer savvy and my sex sense, we’ll be unstoppable!”

“I think you need to decide which sex powers this ‘sense’ of yours actually encompasses,” I say, flipping open the computer.

She flaps her hand at the glowing screen. “Log on to Friendspace…”

“Facebook?”

“And go through all your geeky friends and find Braidbeard a girlfriend. A perfect match. Someone else he can spend all his time with.”

I gape at her. “You’re kidding, right? Are we still talking about Braidbeard? The guy who won’t let anyone else get a fucking word in edgewise? Can we revisit my ‘murder’ idea?”

One claw-hand locks onto my right shoulder, ruthless and death grippy. “Julie. Don’t you believe in love now? Love for all? Love for even the most anti-social of…” She jabs her particularly pointy index finger into my arm, emphasizing each syllable. “Mis. An. Thropes.”

“Ow. Fine,” I grumble, typing my way over to Facebook. “I’ll play along, but I resent the implication. Braidbeard’s the extreme end of the spectrum: I’m a moderately anti-social misanthrope.”

She peers over my shoulder, guzzling her cocktail as I click through long-forgotten high school friends who won’t leave me alone about their fucking Farm/Mafia/Quiz Where They’ve Learned They Are This One Kind of Snack Food.

“A certain sweet boy brought you down to ‘moderate,’ love,” she says, some of the usual zen-master calm creeping back into her voice. “Speaking of which: is he here for the whole weekend?”

“Yeah,” I say absently, deleting a request to join someone’s zombie horde. “Or at least until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Mmmm. Kind of a drag, that long distance thing.”

“More than kind of…goddammit, why does Kirstie keep ‘suggesting’ I become a ‘fan’ of Red Lobster?” I mime little air-quotes.

She rests her head against my shoulder. “Have you guys discussed…you know, the next step?”

“You mean the one where I block her ass for trying to forcibly induct me into the cult of Cheddar Bay biscuits?”

“I mean the ‘you guys’ that involves the cute boy.”

“Oh.” I scroll back through the middle section of my friends list. “It hasn’t come up. Wait a second… That just might work,” I murmur, lingering on a particular profile.

“What do you mean by ‘hasn’t come up’?”

I tear my eyes away from the screen and frown at her. “Is this also part of the girl talk deal?”

She drains her glass. “Yes.”

“Fine,” I say crossly. I take a deep breath, and toss back a hefty portion of my own drink, gasping a little as the booze burns through my gut.

“‘Hasn’t come up’…means ‘hasn’t come up,’” I say slowly, sounding the words out. “It means we spend every second we can together, but never talk about how it’s a lot of work, given that we live in different cities. It means I try not to think about the fact that he can’t move because of work and the fact that I’ve lived here all my life and am not exactly a creature of change. And it especially means that I’m doing my damndest to resist every single neurotic tendency in my being, because God knows there are a whole hell of a lot of them.”

Layla pours herself another round. “Maybe this is something you guys should, like…talk about?”

“No.” I shake my head vehemently. “He’s so…easygoing. Sweet, like you said. And I’m always the one who freaks out about the stupidest little relationship whatevers and I’m just trying to be…you know, normal. A nice, non-freaking-out girlfriend. Besides, I don’t really think of any of that stuff until he has to leave.”

I stir my drink with my pipe-cleaner umbrella, suddenly mesmerized by the bright orange liquid. “When he’s here, I’m just, um…happy.”

Layla gives me a mushy-faced “awwww” look, then chugs the rest of her second drink. I swivel back to my computer, all business. “Anyway. You might wanna slow down a little. Even Sex and the City girls aren’t much for getting tanked before noon.”

“Which Sex and the City person am I?!” she squeaks. “I’ve never actually seen an episode.”

“Uh, well I guess Charlotte is the most cheerful? The most…idealistic?”

“Oooooh! So I’m a Charlotte.”

I give her slovenly, now-slightly-tipsy form a once-over. “Actually, you’re…none of them. And I think you should keep it that way.” I scoot to the side so she can get a better view of the laptop screen. “So here’s our best Braidbeard date candidate, in my opinion. Jill Sloan. Assistant manager at Comics Bee on Divisadero. Obsessive, cranky, not terribly good at…interacting. With people. In other words, sort of a female Braidbeard?”

“Ah.” Layla squints at the screen, then gestures to Jill’s Facebook icon. “What’s this picture?”

“That,” I say proudly, “is what cinches it. Jill’s current avatar is Jessica Jones from New Avengers. And then we have Braidbeard…” I click over to Braidbeard’s profile and point to his avatar.

“Um?” She frowns, a vision of bewilderment. “That’s…a drawing of…a very muscular African-American gentleman? Who looks nothing like Braidbeard?”

“Luke Cage!” I shriek, punching the air triumphantly. She gives me a blank stare. “Dammit, I need Mitch here to translate. Luke Cage and Jessica Jones are one of the coolest couples in the current Marvelverse. A One True Pairing if ever there was one.”

“So…Braidbeard and this random girl are perfect for each other because of the not-quite-accurate way they’ve chosen to represent themselves online?”

I roll my eyes. “If you’ve got any better ideas, please share. If not, we’re taking a little field trip down to Comics Bee.”

“Hmmm,” she says. “I suppose it could work.” She gives me another moony, mushy-faced gaze, a tiny hiccup escaping her lips. “True love does bloom in the strangest places. As you know.”

I throw her a look that’s half exasperation, half affection. “No need to lay it on so thick, Drunky. Let’s go do some recon.”

Read Part II

Retcon Punch, Episode 01: He Don’t Like Wednesdays

Retcon Punch, Episode 01: He Don’t Like Wednesdays

Oct 06

Yesterday.

Superman’s head shatters.

A bullet breaks the Man of Steel’s plastic noggin and continues into the back wall of the shitty little closet, packed to the rafters with toys for grown men.

“Ike, come on out. Let’s do this face to face. I get that you’re scared.”

“I should be! You’re shooting at me!”

Ike hears a small distant thud, a pistol hitting the worn carpet. Then, silence.

Ike looks down at Veronica’s unconscious form, her body sprawled uncomfortably over two large cases of Witchblade maquettes. He takes in the large bump on her forehead, shiny even in the near-darkness. He stares at the small of her back and the visible bit of her underpants.

“Ike? Don’t test me.”

It occurs to Ike that this was never supposed to happen—but then most of the time, when one is being shot at, it’s not supposed to be happening. Ike wishes he was at home in the crummy recliner he pulled out of his neighbor’s trash six years ago, settling his ass cheeks into the cushion’s familiar imprint for a night of Twilight Zone reruns. He has wished this same wish about seventy times over the course of the past fifteen minutes. It has yet to come true.

Instead, he’s here, and he’s shaking a little but it’s to be expected, because he can see through a bullet hole in the shitty little closet’s thin door and his adversary is closer than Ike thought, arms extended forward into pudgy claws like Batman crawling out of the Batmobile in that full-page Frank Miller splash from Dark Knight Returns…

Ike opens the door.

Retcon Punch, by Matt Springer - A Thrilling Tale of Sex, Betrayal and Comics

One Week Ago Yesterday.

I don’t like Wednesdays.

They always make me think of that song by the Boomtown Rats, where the girl has the chip in her head and she goes crazy because she don’t like Mondays. I actually bought a Boomtown Rats greatest hits in college; I wondered if they had any other good songs. They don’t.

Yes, I went to college, and now I sell comic books for a living. I try not to think about it.

Unlike the crazy chip head girl in the Boomtown Rats song, I’ve almost always preferred Mondays over Wednesdays. I manage Superb Comics at Sepulveda and Aviation in Hermosa Beach, and only the saddest of sad sacks would spend time in a comic book store on a Monday.

Whereas Wednesday is “new comic book day” to a salivating legion of fans, all of whom descend upon the store at exactly 11 a.m. and file nervously inside as fast as I can unlock the deadbolt. Then they form a line at the register, waiting for me to hand them a stack of 32-page pamphlets containing the latest installments in the ongoing adventures of intellectual properties concocted by brilliant Jewish men many decades ago.

On this particular Wednesday—the Wednesday when the giant penny in my personal Batcave flips, and suddenly heads is tails and black is white and dogs and cats are living together—the weekly comic book shipment to Superb Comics is late.

Comic book fans are tightly-wound people; they do not react well to change. Alter the shade of yellow on Batman’s belt buckle for one issue and the letters will pour in for months decrying the “new look” and longing for the halcyon days when Pantone 101 graced the waistband of the Caped Crusader.

When comic books arrive late, it is a cataclysmic event on par with a kidney arriving late for a transplant surgery. To say that “it sucks” is an understatement on the highest order. It sucks, in fact, the most massive of suckable items.

This is why it takes me upwards of an hour to notice the giant gaping hole where the store’s Fine/Very Fine copy of Fantastic Four #1 once hung. Like most comic book stores, Superb has its most expensive old comics displayed on the wall behind the register, which serves the dual purpose of attracting buyers and allowing an employee to always be standing in front of these pricey bits of pop ephemera so that no one can stuff a copy of Avengers #57 down their shorts and walk out with it.

This particular copy of Fantastic Four #1 had a $17,000 price tag plastered upon it. The tag was more of a joke than anything else—none of the clientele had the cash on hand to buy a comic book worth more than their annual salary. Instead, they’d just come in and ogle it as they made their purchases. Occasionally, some pimple-clad pre-teen would notice it and ask to hold it, and I’d always oblige. I don’t care if an extra half-ounce of fingerprint oils could over time deteriorate the precious paper slightly—it was worth it for the awe-filled expressions.

Still, the fact that Superb Comics wouldn’t be selling it anytime soon for $17,000 didn’t mean it wasn’t WORTH that much. It easily was. Any enterprising nerd could have moved it at a convention or on eBay for that amount.

So for those keeping score at home: It’s a Wednesday, the new comics are AWOL, and Superb Comics’ most valuable back issue has gone poof.

A single word runs through my brain, over and over. It starts with an “F.” It has four letters. It isn’t “fart.”

Next week: Douchebag Ascendant!