Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (64 page)

By way of attempting an explanation, I took the bag I’d most been concerned with—the bag that would make everything better—and pulled it onto the asphalt, opening the zipper for River and the others to see.

“Comics!” River said excitedly.

He reached down and took a couple, then grimaced.

“What is this?” he said, holding one out like it was covered in Ebola virus. “Spiderman is wearing
pants
? I’ve been reading Spiderman my whole life! Spiderman is for kids, for God’s sake, and his penis is
covered
! That is just
sick!
” Then he noticed my sealed, perfect, mint copy of Nuderman. “Okay. Finally, something normal.” Then he noticed the title, searched the rest of the comics, and found an actual copy of Superman #1. “Wait a minute. Why is
Superman
wearing pants, and this one is called
Nuderman
?
This
is
Superman
— not the pervert wearing red nuthuggers.” He looked back and forth between the similar covers, and his scalp gave off smoke as the engine inside labored under the strain.

Finally, shaking his head to knock loose the unpleasant images, he handed me back the comics. “This is seriously wrong.”

Then, slowly, quietly, gradually, he became aware of all the people walking by on the street—most of them staring, pointing, and occasionally laughing, at our naked selves—and saw that they
all
wore clothes of some kind—everything from jeans, dresses, and shirts, to Star Wars, Star Trek, and superhero uniforms. It was likely the first time in history someone dressed as an Ewok felt they had the upper hand on another person’s fashion choice.

I gently took the comics from River, and he startled a bit, as if forgetting I was there. He studied me with frightened eyes, like a small child confronted by the real, live Mickey Mouse for the first time. And Mickey had his thingie out.

“Maybe you can explain things to him, Wisper,” I said, calmly. “He looks as though he needs a better understanding of what he’s gotten himself into.”

She took River to one side and began speaking to him in low tones. Other than the occasional “What?” Or, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Or, “Even to BED?” I heard only enough of their conversation to know that I understood exactly how River was feeling—though in reverse.

His difficulty handling the situation had me concerned about poor Sophie. The shy little thing must be near to tears herself over all this insanity. I turned and saw her pull some of Waboombas easily strippable clothing from a suitcase, absorbing it in with eyes the relative size, color, and shape of boiled ostrich eggs. The item in question was more air than fabric, not even classy enough for Fredericks of Hollywood, and could only have been designed by Pjuter or Manschingloss on a very,
very,
randy day.

“Oooooh,” Sophie said, delighted. “Can I wear this?”

Interesting. Apparently, on her world, Sophie was ‘kinky’. Maybe things
could
work out between her and Morgan.

Eventually we got a few strips of cloth, torn from something of mine that used to be a shirt, and formed it into a makeshift loincloth to place over the parts of River that would have gotten him arrested. It took a surprising amount of cloth. When we had finished, men in uniform anywhere else but a comics convention still would have busted him. But here, he was just one of the interesting stories that even the cops tell their fascinated friends after it’s all over.

“…and there was this one guy, right, and he’s wearing just this loincloth, thingie, right? Walkin’ around proud as can be, and
you could see his
junk
.”

How can that be in any way acceptable you ask?

Here, in this specific environment, it would simply be assumed that River was paid model for some Tarzan, or Tarzan-like-related project. No one would ever imagine someone so handsome, built, and hung could possibly be just a fan, or pervert, or both, which is really kind of unfair when you think about it. Nicholas Cage was a fan. Got his stage name from Luke Cage, Powerman, a comic book hero no less. Oh, and me too! I’m a fan, though not named after a superhero. Stephen Root is a fan. Mandy Patinkin likes toy trains, and Shaquille O’Neal loves Superman, as does Joey Fatone, from N Sync, and…

But I digress. Aren’t you used to that by now?

Perhaps I should describe the situation visually a bit for those not entirely familiar with ‘cons’, and the people they attract.

Most comic book conventions are populated with relatively normal people who wear street clothes, eat with actual dining utensils, and speak in languages and dialects primarily found on the Planet Earth. It’s really a minority of folks who dress up in fantastic costumes, dine willingly on convention food, and speak only languages invented by followers of Gene Roddenberry. But the ‘minority’ at a convention is far more concentrated than it would be in one’s day-to-day living experience, and so these individuals claim a larger percentage of the notoriety, the photo-ops, and the video newsbytes generally associated with ‘cons’.

At this con in particular—one of the larger conventions in the country—two hundred thousand people could pay for admittance on a single Saturday. If only one percent of those dressed up and refused to speak English during their visit, we’re talking two thousand such individuals parading, babbling, and posing for cameras. In a place that’s approximately one square mile, that’s a considerable concentration of ‘unique’. And I suspect the
actual
percentage of costume-types to be much,
much
higher.

I mean, just consider the number of subcategories.

Star Trek fans. Star Wars fans. Manga fans—which are multiple and various. Battlestar Galactica fans. Stargate fans. Superhero fans, which in-and-of itself has many sub
sub
categories like
Batman
, and his fighting friends,
Superman
,
Wonder Woman, Spiderman
,
Captain America
,
the X-Men
, and even more obscure characters like
Bishop
,
Moon Knight, Cloak and Dagger
,
Lobo
,
Savage Dragon
,
Mister Monster
, and
Sammy the Fish Kid
. Then here are the fans of old pulp characters like
The Shadow
,
Tarzan
,
The Spider
,
The Avenger
, and
Doc Savage
. In addition you’ll find a significant population of Clive Barker fans dressed as specific, or interpreted, characters from his many horror projects such as
Hellraiser
,
Nightbreed
, and
People Who Eat Things Off The Floor
. Beyond horror, there’s ‘The Furries’, a sub category of fantasy fans who like to dress up as incarnations of human-animal hybrids, or just commission nude drawings of them. Foxes, wolves, cats, ferrets, mice, whatever. There are Fans of Harry Potter. Fans of Harry Dresden, fans of Harry Connick Jr., fans of Harry and David, and fans of Harry, Prince of Wales.

On top of that, throw in the professional models paid by the many companies to dress up as their characters in licensing-approved costumes for promotional purposes. The models wear clothing—or Waboombas-like,
no
clothing—that helps sell whatever it is the company wants pushed: movies, TV shows, comics, figurines, computer games, or even just the
ideas
for such things.

Now, imagine all these subgroups sprinkled in amongst the regular people, the average ‘joe’, and averager ‘jane’, many of those still displaying colorful T-shirts, hats, and bags of their own to proclaim appreciation of the same, or similar creations, only to a lesser degree.

Mix all this into a soup of brightly colored comics, eye-catching posters, twelve-foot stacks of toys, tables full of original art, obscure videos, collectible statues, collectible cups, collectible
everything
, struggling artists, struggling writers, struggling actors, professional artists, professional writers, professional sellers, Lou Ferrigno, and women porn stars selling pictures of themselves, nude, and otherwise. Pour it all into avenue after avenue of tables, and booths formed into a maze not unlike the one in the Shining. Make it thick, make it hot, and make it too much to get through in one sitting, and you have an understanding of the fine consommé that is ‘crème de la comic book convention’. Days and days of sumptuous entertainment with tasty fun to be had by all, leaving you sick, sleepy, and uncomfortable once you’ve consumed everything in front of you.

And so, given the situation, and the event at hand, River followed us through the front entrance of the convention center, penis barely covered, testicles dangling in the shadows of minimal strips of cloth, past several fascinated security people, lots of annoyed, and perhaps envious men, and dozens of appreciative women, without incident.

Sophie and Waboombas both had on bits of Waboombas-wear, and got more than their fair share of looks as well from both male and female attendees. Sophie was a pretty-enough girl, though nothing overly extraordinary. Yet here, dressed in six-inch heels, a thong, and a few choice pieces of silver-studded leather, with nothing more of her exposed than you’d find on an average beach, and she was the belle of the domination ball, basking in the much appreciated attention.

Waboombas was also clearly more in her element. She strutted proudly, pulling her suitcase full of comics, costumes, and body-paint behind her like an adoring puppy on a leash, and I was certain she could have sold the entire print run of
War Woman
right there to every male in line before even entering the convention center, provided it came with her phone number, or at least the first four digits of it.

Wisper wore one of my shirts, but remained pantsless and barefoot. She refused to wear either my slacks or my shoes after I’d laughed upon seeing her in them. If anyone asked, we intended to explain she was doing a scene from X-Men 174. I have no idea if there was a girl wearing nothing but a man’s shirt in X-Men 174, but interestingly, at cons people will generally buy whatever you tell them if it means the girl can continue walking around with no pants on.

I was woozy just thinking about it.

Myself, I was carrying my suitcase full of comics, wearing my ordinary, everyday clothes, and feeling oddly constrained by them. I kept pulling at the fabric and adjusting the folds for better comfort that just didn’t seem available. Wisper noticed my weird Dance Of The Uncomfortable, and it amused her no end.

“Only one day,” she said, “and already you’re a genuine nudist.”

“Believe me, if I could have gotten away with it, I’d be dressed more like you,” I said, smiling at her.

“That would be more fun for me too. Just tell me we won’t have to wear these things for long,” she sulked.

“We won’t,” I told her. “I’ve got only one destination, and then we’re right back to Nekkid Bottoms.”

“Nikkid Bottoms,” she corrected.

“Uuuh, right.”

“It’s an ‘i’ not an ‘e’.”