In The Depths of Cringe

Fear and Loathing at PortCon 2016:

In the Depths of Cringe

Day 1:

    Thursday the 23rd: This marked the beginning of a weekend of debauchery, manic behavior, drugs, alcohol, and yes, anime. This, the fourth weekend of June, is a time annually reserved by sweaty, neckbeard sporting, introverted creatures to meekly wander from the depths of their basement dwellings and migrate to the Double Tree Hotel in South Portland, ME. This is PortCon. 

    Naturally I took this as an opportunity to study these creatures first hand. It would be an excavation into the depths of cringe, therefore I needed to equip myself properly of course. I made sure to load my alligator-skinned briefcase with all manner of necessary tools: a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a speed pouring top (for accurate alcohol measurements on the fly), night and day shades, a pack of Dunhills, three Acapulco shirts, condoms (just to be sure), and a notebook for journalistic purposes. 

    I grabbed my keys, tightened the laces of my white Chuck Taylors and carried my suitcase out the front door. My car chirped as I unlocked it. A fairly sensitive sound for the beast it is. A silver 2003 Mustang GT decked out with a custom grille, spoiler, hood scoop, and a V8 engine capable of turning the human brain into shit. It growled to life as the fire from a Zippo lit a Dunhill. I threw the bastard into reverse and peeled out of the driveway while One Toke Over The Line echoed through the cockpit. 

    This assignment was going to be an interesting one, I thought as the Silver Beast roared down the road. An experiment in taking a character to the limit. Method acting at its finest. Pure Gonzo journalism. I had one task to complete before I was to arrive at the Hotel and I was already late for the all hands meeting— a pre-con ritual for staffers. I had signed up to staff the thing under the pseudonym Chuck Steak. A guise for my true assignment. This task was a simple one. There was a package I had to pick up from a certain location. 

    I slowed the Beast down to a crawl to case the joint. It was a heavily fortified warehouse building. This was to be a straight shot— get in, get out. I killed the engine and skulked towards the door. No one was in sight. I was greeted by the breeze of air conditioning, a jarring reprieve from the intense heat of the day. I shortly found who and what I was looking for. An old man with a chin-strap beard and glasses who whistled when he spoke. Hopefully the exchange could be made properly, I thought. Little did the bastard know I had a back-up plan in my pocket. 

    “Sign John’s name,” he said. 

    I know not to ask questions here so I began to do so. 

    “John the Baptist,” he added. I took note. 

    As I put the pen down he began reaching behind a desk for something while saying, “I’m going to do something for Catholicism here.” 

    Jesus, I thought, what kind of back-woods, depraved antics is this bastard going to pull? Quickly I grabbed the item and made for the door. Get to the car, I thought, there’s no way in hell they’ll catch me in the Beast. A familiar chirp before I jumped into the cockpit and floored the gas pedal, cackling madly as I did so. 

    “How’s about this for Catholicism, you bastards!” 

    The hotel was looming in the distance. 

*    *    *

    I pulled into the parking lot a fair distance away from the Hotel entrance— I didn't want to draw too much attention. Lighting up another Dunhill, I quickly began calling my usual contacts to get a good read on the place. One finally answered. 

    “Steak? Where are you? You missed the all-hands meeting.”

    “I know,” I told them, “there was some emergency business I had to take care of. When is hotel check-in?”

    “Three-thirty.”

    I checked the time. The clock read 3:00pm.

    “Come meet me in the lobby to get your badge and complimentary hat.”

    A free hat, I thought, what do they think this is, a game? Then I hung up. 

    I was greeted in the lobby by the chair of my department. It was a sub-section of security. His name was Brick Nosh. He briefed me on the goings on of the con. Things like how the convention was divided between a space in the nearby mall and the hotel itself, among other things. He also handed me a black hat with SECURITY written across the top as well as a hotel key. 

    “Did you get the suite?” I asked. 

    “Room 731,” he nodded.

Then I moved to the staff desk to sign in and retrieve my badge. A very uncomfortable looking woman with glasses and a nasally voice was seated there to greet me.

    “Name?” She asked.

    “Steak,” I replied.

    “I don’t think I see you on here Mr. Steak.”

    “Check again, I’m certainly on there. The Rolling Stone sent me.”

    “Oh, found you. Yes, thank you, Mr. Steak. Here’s your badge and lanyard. Now just sign here.”

    I signed an X. Best to be as untraceable as possible I thought— no paper trails.

Up to the suite, I found more familiar faces. Then I unloaded what I needed to and kept the rest hidden. Now I had to be on shift. The con was beginning.

*    *    *

    The reg line. A mire of sweat, sunburns, impatience and autism. I was positioned near the door alongside a cohort of mine. This year we had planned to tackle the project together, I was able to get her in under the pseudonym Grace Blunt. Grace and I had worked together before but never on a journalistic expedition of this magnitude. Because we were standing at the front of the line, we were privy to every sort of strangeness that poured out of the mouths of the con-goers.

    “I’m embarrassed and easily shy,” says a Chunin vest sporting, rather plump, man-child complete with mutton chops. He passed by with a couple other creatures of similar appearance. 

    Dear Jesus, I thought, this is only the beginning.

    A sudden gust of wind blew up every skirt in a twenty-yard radius. Squeals of all kinds sounded, accompanied by the ruffling of clammy palms grasping at flying fabric.

    “Trying not to have a Marilyn moment here,” says a young girl.

    “A Marilyn moment?” Grace fires her way.

    “Yeah, where my dress flies up and I look like an idiot.”

    Too late, I figured as I noticed her wiry purple wig and mangled black dress.

    An awning provided shelter from the heat of the sun, however, time passed slowly as more unwanted dialogue was heard.

    “Do you think they sell witches’ hats in the vendor room?”

    “One dab, two dabs, three dabs, five, six.”

    My mind was beginning to get lost in the cringe.

    “Slay! Yas.”

    Fuck… Is everything a meme?

    Amazing how nervous everyone looks. So uncomfortable in their own skin. People wringing their own hands at the thought of social interaction. It’s a wonder they’ve survived this long. 

    “Send in five more!” 

    “Go ahead. Alright, stop.” 

    Ferocious wind gusts were unrelenting. The shade was becoming too much for me. I needed to warm up, feel the heat of the sun and get the blood flowing. I stepped away into the almost blinding light, even when equipped with my Shooter-style aviator sunglasses. A fleeting moment, as peace was soon destroyed by the bombardment of more shit-noise.

    “I’m not good with puzzles. Where’s Walter is impossible,” croaked a certain troll.

    “It’s Waldo,” replied their apparent sidekick.

    “Eh. Walter, Waldo— same thing.”

    I turn around to see the circus again. Back in the fray. In one corner there’s a dwarf saying to her lumbering, brain-dead looking brother that she’s the taller of the two. She’s bullying him. Making fun of him for it. He just listens. Can he even speak? In another corner there’s a behemoth of a woman overflowing from her wheelchair. Moles, a unibrow, dark, greasy hair, filthy crocs, and a scowl miserable enough to break a mirror. She barks an order to her Igor-looking compatriot to wheel her forward. The poor bastard, he probably has to bathe her too. She passes and another massive wind gust clears the air.

    “Ooh! I’m not wearing anything under this dress,” said a girl clutching herself.

    “I’m not wearing anything under these shorts,” I reply.

    “Good to know.”

    A strange confrontation.

    “I work nights,” cries another banshee out loud, seemingly to herself, “so seeing the sun is confusing my brain right now.”

    “I got here at 1:00pm. I was the first in line.”

    A quick check of the time showed that it was nearing 5:00pm.

    “If you already have your badge get out of line,” snaps Blunt.

    “But I’m standing with my friend!”

    “I don’t care. Get out of the line.”

    The girl finally complies. Sassy and in the midst of a hissy fit she storms off.

I elbow Grace and whisper an assuring, “That’s it. Don’t take any guff from these swine.”

She smiles. Then we get the signal to send in another herd. The line stops again.

    “Ugh. Thank God I’m finally out of the sun.”

    “How long have you been in line for?” I shoot while moving to get as much sun as possible from outside the awning.

    “A little over an hour I’d say. Honestly I wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t already sunburnt.”

    The poor fools. Writhing under the intense heat of the June sun. A very humid heat in this north-eastern territory. If it weren't for the consistent breezes I’d be pouring sweat. Yet here these people stood with burns and it was only the first day of the con. They still had three more days to go.

    Not too long later I suddenly hear something catch my ear like nothing else.

    “I don’t want to talk about Trump. I mean, I have ties to the KKK.”

    My head snapped so hard I couldn't see straight. Did that bastard just say what I thought he said? I couldn't help but grin wickedly as I pulled out my notebook. Eagerly awaiting more shit-gold to pour from his mouth. But I was too slow, too much gold was already released and I was working feverishly to catch up. The conversation was now about guns and the Pulse Nightclub shooting.

    “Well first of all the guy didn't even have an AR-15,” the KKK guy’s jowls flapped.

    “And the guy clearly went insane,” said his partner.

    “Oh, clearly. Man, if America bans semi-automatic weapons I’m gonna be pissed off.”

    “How come?”

    “Well one of the first things I’m gonna do when I get a little older and have some disposable income is start a World War II gun collection. And you know what the first gun I plan on buying is? An M1 Garand. That right there is a semi-automatic rifle, and if I get older and can’t buy an M1 Garand I’m gonna be so pissed off.”

    “Yeah really, we’ll basically be like Australia at that point.”

    “Exactly.”

    Sweet Jesus. I was struggling to hold my composure. Did I really just witness that conversation? Are these real people? Incredible. These two fat, sweaty, greasy, bastards are sitting there talking about having ties to the KKK and starting a gun collection and meanwhile people in drag are walking past. What a time to be alive. The Orlando shooting killed 49 people, but NO if this blob of human fecal matter can’t buy an M1 Garand there’ll be Hell to pay! Save the world some trouble and go disembowel yourself with a wooden cooking spoon.

    My time managing the line is almost up. Grace wanders over to me and tells me that she just heard someone say, “Oh that’s just a furry, you don't have to be afraid of that one.” Pure gold. Here are some more of my findings for during my shift.

    “I love myself a good wind tunnel.”

    Me too.

    “Never sign a deal with Kyuubay,” says a scrawny little runt (almost yelling) to the person next to him. The lad clearly requires some social advice.

    “How’s the sun?”… “Cold.”

    “You seen the video where they give Pikachu an AK47?”

    I think they play that one during Japanese infantry training at boot camp.

    “I have no friends,” says a nerd and before anyone can ask who they're talking to another staffer runs by and says, “Join the club, I’m the president.”

    “I feel so small and soft.”

    Good. You look it too.

    “She looks just like her daddy,” — about a doll. 

    Shivers.

    Venturing out to relieve my bladder, I passed by a line that must’ve been sixty deep. I leaned over and asked two robots what panel they were standing around for. They turned to answer me but quickly realized they both had no idea. I wrote down the names Josh and Tom in my notebook. A check of the clock revealed that it was finally 6:00pm and my shift was over. I left Grace in charge to manhandle the unruly ones and quickly moved to the elevator while tearing the SECURITY hat off my head and replacing it with my white bucket hat. 

    The doors opened and I entered. Leaning up against the wall I exhaled a sigh of relief. Freedom at last from the manic vibrations of the lobby. Back up in the room I was able to regroup. After all I barely had a moment to myself since I arrived. I gathered some essentials and then got back into the elevator. Each floor brought more people on board until the lift stopped on a particular floor where no one entered. I felt the uncomfortable sifting of bodies. Crawling skin. Nervous laughter. Then the doors closed. My hand gripped my notebook— I was back in the thick of it. 

*    *    *

    Time passed quickly that night and there seems to be large gaps in my notes. Memories of the weekend in general are fairly blurry— mostly existing in my mind as snapshots. Here are some of those moments from the night:

    Outside, under the same awning from earlier, I’m walking towards the door alongside another acquaintance of mine named Bill when a fairly large beast of a man emerges from the doorway walking towards us. He’s clean cut and almost baby-faced, yet he’s about the width of at least two of me and looks strangely akin to Gabe Newell. His rectangular glasses gleam in the twilight as he smirks and says, “you guys wanna do some coke?”

    Some memories can’t even be retrieved. I wrote down “Just had the most awkward fist bump of my life,” but your guess of the event is probably just as accurate as my own. Come to think about it, it may have been with that middle-aged, tall, lanky fool dressed like Deadpool. He’s probably a dad… at least his gut would indicate so.

    Grace and I had met up at one point and sat in the back of the Things That Can’t Be Unseen panel. We didn’t stay long, but I remember hearing someone shout, “let’s get some good old fashioned racism in here!” Old fashioned, eh? How old are we talking, because you only look to be in your mid-twenties. This culture seems to be full of clichés. 

    Another blank spot. All I can remember is that at some point Grace and I smoked an absurd amount of grass. We had a long talk in the Beast together. All manner of things. I found myself rather depressed though. Perhaps it was the grass, or perhaps it was just the fact that my body was completely exhausted. Either way my brain was melted. It was 4am by the time we parted ways. 

    I remember saying something like, “I’ll just sleep in the car right here outside your place.”

    “Are you sure? I wish I could help out.”

    “Yeah I’ll be fine,” I told her.

    She exited and began walking when suddenly I felt this insane desire to push it to the limit. My survival instincts woke me up from my stupor just enough for me to know I could make it back. It was a long and hard drive. Every moment was a dire struggle to keep my eyes open, and every successive moment I was fighting to keep them focused. Yellow lines and white lines. My mind was beginning to play tricks on me. Somehow I made it back. When I got to the hotel I slammed the Beast into a parking spot and stumbled to the door. Locked. After an eternity I remembered that the sliding glass could be opened with the suite key, so I pressed my wallet up against the lock. A green light. I was in. Eventually I made my way up to the room just about as gracefully as a newly crippled man with polio. Once I was at my bed I tore off my Hawaiian shirt and hit the pillow immobile.

*    *    *

Day 2:

    A new day. Last night was filled with paranoia and the inability to speak. When I smoke too much I reach a point where my brain develops a severe lag. My eyes will look in a new direction or my body will act in a certain way, but my brain doesn't register the change until a half a second later. This is frustrating because my brain is still mostly coherent somewhere deep under the thick fog so I can actually watch myself behave in this way more or less, while not being able to do anything to stop it. Too much grass indeed. Fear and insecurity. Am I really insecure? Maybe to a degree. Who isn't insecure with some aspect of themselves? No matter how small. Women make me think too hard. I haven’t crushed this hard on someone in a long time. Since last summer in fact. Is summer that contagious? Is “summer love” a real thing? It must be what I’m experiencing, but it’s not as if it’s ungrounded. She’s amazing, that’s for sure. A beautiful person inside and out. It’s just my overthinking paranoia that makes me a mess. For sure my lower brains are acting out of some kind of primal instinct. That must be it. Maybe it’s just the grass… or maybe the grass is just helping to bring it out. Either way you slice it last night was a rough one. After all, I barely made it home. 

    Looking up from my notebook I saw the time read 10am, which signaled the beginning of my shift. I grabbed my hat and other nearby personal affects i.e. Dunhills, notebook, press badge, sunglasses, and headed toward the door. Down the hall the staff room awaited with free breakfast snacks and coffee. I would need to take full advantage of this room if I was to survive the weekend. The energy in there is always off. It isn't that the welcome isn't genuine. It isn't even the temperature, which is unsettlingly cold. It’s this strange feel of decay. The subtle aura of death present. Almost as if the room is a vortex of some kind— a black hole. There also always seems to be the same group of around five or six people consistently lingering there. Surely they can’t all be Staff Room staff, but then why are they always there? Are they ghosts? Are these people real? Can they hear my thoughts as I stealthily grab a handful of granola bars and fill up a paper cup with mediocre black coffee? Best to tread lightly. I don't know what these animals are capable of. They might all turn on me in a second, tear me limb from limb and just cook me into some makeshift meat-lovers pizza for the next lunchtime feeding frenzy.

    Eventually I made my way down to the tent area where the main events are held. There’s a group of maniacs who come to the con every year dressed to the nines as ghostbusters. The really crazy thing is that being a ghostbuster is actually the main focus of these peoples’ lives. There is nothing else. They eat, sleep, work, and then dress like ghostbusters. Renegades in their own right I suppose. At least they don't subject themselves to humiliation in some of these “game” panels that are saturated with prepubescent creatures and man-children with social issues. Like the Dating Game for instance. I was unlucky enough to peek my head in just long enough to catch the nauseating stench of body odor emanating from the tent’s heated interior and hear the words “dating game” from the poor security guard stationed at the entrance. No thanks. I’d rather hang out with the ghostbusters and listen to dubstep blasting out of their station wagon while they tell me all about how they've been saving up money for months straight just to get an “upgrade” on their “gear.”

*    *    *

    Back to managing lines.

    “Yes, ma’am. Marketing on this side, Bigfoot on the other.” 

    What did I just say? A quick check at the con schedule verifies that people are in fact in line for a “Bigfoot in Maine” panel. Sure, I thought, why not gather the masses and get everyone on high alert about the menace? I ought to go have a check, maybe I can beat the others to the prize. That big bastard would make a great rug. Even if I don't kill him I could certainly put him in a cage and auction him off to the highest bidder at some whack-job auction house in Louisville. Indeed.

    I have this soft anger brewing within me today. I can’t tell what it’s from. Maybe just from lack of sleep. Maybe people are just wearing on me. Any normal human can only take so much meme and anime talk in one setting before they start going cross-eyed. I think I just need to wake up. 

    Someone just said they were trying to adult. Quick someone hold me back before I rip their esophagus out.

    Vodka and coffee is proving to be a good combination. Here, Grace, I’ll put some in yours.

    Finally off shift, I make a shortcut through the vendor room to escape the madness surrounding me. I stop to just long enough to catch sight of a particular set of troglodytes camped out in the LARP weapon station. One of them was holding a large black cleaver— I could see his eyes crossing through the gleam of his glasses.

    “Nice axe,” drooled his neck-beard companion.

    Jesus get me out of here. I need food. I quickly found myself in the midst of the hot June sun surrounded by black asphalt. I needed to cross a six lane highway if I was to be able to make it to the nearest food establishments. There is a crosswalk for sure, but it’s only clear for about ten seconds before the traffic begins roaring again. You have to take it like an Olympic sprinter if you want to have a chance. Luckily I have the swagger of a parrot and the agility of a sloth, so I was only almost hit once.

*    *    *

    Shifts came and went as he day waned and I soon found myself among comrades. Another acquaintance of mine from years back arrived at the convention today. He’s my financial advisor of sorts. His name is Dave Wright, although everyone just seems to call him Gale. With him came a good group of highly respectable bastards from Boston. Gale and I have this tradition, among others, to find a field and drink late into the night. This time the Boston boys came with grass, so naturally we went looking for a field. 

    Somewhere in between the convention and their hotel we found a nice hidden spot and a smoking circle began. It wasn't too far into it when the shouting started. These men became savages before my eyes. Especially this one giant bastard— I think his name was Murphy— I’ve never seen someone so accurately personify an animal before whilst shouting through graveled vocal chords about Seinfeld being their favorite anime. 

    “You wanna talk about MEMES???” shouts Murphy— neck veins accompanying the rush that suddenly causes three of them to stand.

    “Yeah? YEAH? Let’s talk about MAY MAYs,” responds a wild-haired, scrappy looking bastard.

    “NAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH DUDE. I wanna talk about ANIME!” shouts a bean-pole named Doug.

    “ANIME? Alright, name your FAVORITE THREE. TOP THREE. RIGHT NOW.”

    “Okay. OKAY. Here we go—”

    The smoke stings my eyes as I reach for a fresh Dunhill. I look at Grace. She’s digesting all of this willingly. Living in it. I don’t blame her, it’s hard not too. Just looking at these bastards bouncing in place, pointing, shouting, and peacocking around is thrilling in a strange way. There’s something about this event, in this place, that does it to people. It gives these boys the power to act this way. Encounter them on the street any other day of the year you'd probably never see them behaving anywhere close to the same. Maybe it’s because it’s only an annual event. Once a year they can let go and completely live with reckless abandon. Or maybe it’s because Grace is looking particularly enticing through the smoke and under the moonlight…

    “—SEINFELD. ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK. CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM.”

    “SHIT. I was gonna say Orange is the New Black too!”

    “Damn right! You??”

    “Alright. ALWAYS SUNNY… uh… GUND— wait. Wait, that’s not an anime…”

    “Yeah dude, that’s some bullshit western cartoon.”

    “Yeah, yeah, what was I thinking? Oh right— THE WALKING DEAD. MTV CRIBS.”

    Grace and I observe this for some time until she departs. Around then, the boys and I rise to stumble through our green haze towards their hotel room to acquire some drink. On our way there I receive a message from an old lover of mine. We go back a few years and have a small history together. She’s staying at this hotel it so happens so I split from the boys to go pay her a visit. I knock on the door and open it to a room packed with disheveled people. Two on the floor, two in a bed, and her standing in the doorway looking a mess, but always attractive. She comes from the boondocks of northern Maine and I’ve always had this immediate recognition of this difference between us. It’s fundamental— down to our core we’re vastly different people. To her, where she comes from, I’m a city-slicker just because I was raised five minutes outside Portland. I look her up and down wondering why I was there. What’s the score here? Nothing is happening. At least not now while there’s people around. There was a tension in the air and suddenly I began to feel very uneasy in this seedy hotel room down a decrepit hallway. I made my exit.

*    *    *

    After losing track of time wandering down identical looking hallways I finally catch sight of someone: a hippo of a man wearing a white shirt and black slacks with suspenders. This is it, I thought. It’s the Devil finally come for my soul. He turned and began walking toward me. My eyes grew wide and my heart raced. DON’T TURN AROUND, I thought. The second you do, you’ll find this bastard’s breath across your neck. So I began walking backwards… fast… almost at a jog. Was he gaining on me? Was there no escape? 

    “YOU AREN’T GETTING ME NOW YOU NAZI PIG BASTARD!” I shouted in vain as the boulder kept coming faster.

    Suddenly I feel the jerk on the back of my collar. I’m pulled into a doorway and it slams.

    “Who the hell are you shouting at, man?”

    I turn to find Gale looking at me through squinting eyes. He’s not wearing his glasses so his eyes look smaller than I’m used to. I try to respond but my tongue has gone numb from an intense case of cotton-mouth. I push past him for a beer in the outstretched hand of Doug. I barely choke down a swig when the rapping of a pair of ancient knuckles sounds on the door. Gale opens it.

    “Keep it down in there god damnit or else I’m throwing you cock-suckers out,” murmurs Satan.

    “Yes, sir,” Gale croaks as he closes the door. “Where the fuck did he come from?” he said turning back to me.

    “The depths of Hell, man,” I tell him. “Things were about to get downright nasty out there if you hadn't pulled me in.”

    “No worries, man.”

    The vibes in this room felt much different than they had in the previous room. Welcoming. A feeling of strangeness coming from the fact that I barely knew these guys, but even still there was a warmth about the room. We grabbed the beer, refreshed the grass supply and began to walk back to the field. After a long while more, I retired to collapse on my own bed back at the suite. 

*    *    *

Day 3:

    I wake up to the slam of the suite door. Brick, whistling loudly, turns after catching me sleeping in and shouts at me to get up. Apparently he spent the night fucking his woman until dawn. Certainly does make a man feel alive the next day. I look at the calendar. Saturday. I go through the motions: swindle the staff room creatures out of more snacks than I deserve, suck down a coffee on the elevator ride from Hell and head to my post. 

    Not long after I had reached my destination had some tall, gangly bastard came up to me brandishing his badge and taking off his mask for a wink. I stare blankly and drag on a Dunhill. My attention turns to his assortment of plastic weapons that he’s covered with. He notices.

    “Oh, don’t worry, I’m on my way to get them peace-bonded.”

    I exhale a smoke cloud.

    “Pretty cool though, huh? Check it out. I got the Ghostbusters gun, He-Man’s sword, Leonardo’s katana…”

    “Yeah, man. Next five, please,” I motioned towards the line behind him.

    “Oh, sorry I’m holding up the line. See you in there!” 

    I feel bad for that guy’s kids. At least he looked like a dad. What if he wasn’t? He certainly had the body for it. Maybe he’s just having an awkward time in his thirties. Poor guy. Unluckily for me I was within ear-shot of him talking with the girls at the security table, although this time he seemed to have put on a more manlier voice.

    “Hello, ladies, Deadpool’s got an arsenal for you.”

    One of them shudders as he begins grunting while he “unloads his gear,” the other seems much more into it.

    “What are you packin’?”

    He begins explaining, but I think my brain must’ve had a mini-stroke because I can’t remember how he described them a second time.

    The convention is small. Very small. In some conventions you might never see the same person twice in a weekend, but at PortCon you’re almost guaranteed to see everyone several times over, unless of course you and they stay in separate rooms for the entire duration and never walk around. Tourettes girl is hard to miss, and for some reason she just kept walking past my post in the main lobby. The murmuring I can handle, but when she ‘yip’s right in your ear it’s god damn deafening and I was not in the mood. I almost lost my cool in a bad way, but then I remembered the purpose of my excursion. My assignment. I couldn't get thrown out now. Not in the thick of it. After all, this was Saturday, the day when EVERYONE shows up. Even the uncle of the little doofus dressed like Naruto who just shows up to see why the fuck his nephew begged him to drive an hour and a half from China to come run around and dress up like a Japanese cartoon character. 

    People are lazily ambling and sometimes they get a burst of life when they see someone they know, but mostly it’s just 9am and people are begging for coffee like cats for cream.

    A considerably older woman just walked by dressed like Bulma. I wonder how she feels. I wonder how she sees everyone else as well. I certainly remember walking around this place six years ago thinking that I’d always be apart of the younger crowd. That somehow there was no younger generation behind me. I was very wrong, and I can only guess what’s going through her mind as well. Maybe she was wrong about the same thing. 

    Grace appeared suddenly, “I swear the next person I have to tell to stop blocking the doorway is gonna get scalped,” she said, brandishing a razor sharp hunting knife.

    “Jesus God, where did you get that thing?” I said admiring the blade.

    “Picked it up in Tijuana, it’s illegal in Uncle Sam’s territory.”

    “Of course. The law doesn't appreciate a good weapon unless it’s at their disposal… Take my spot will you? I need to piss.” 

    I passed by one of the staff tables on my way and snagged a schedule while they weren't looking. They said they had a short supply of them, but I had lost mine and God damnit this isn't time for games, it’s dog eat dog. 

    On my way back a small gaggle of trolls passed me with their apparent leader spewing some nonsense, “I got so angry and so I forgot my liquid latex.” I decided to check up on a nearby line and do a head-count. Forty-something, not bad. Just then this scrawny Bankai Ichigo fucker had an episode and started talking out loud to no one in particular.

    “We moved during a snow storm. It sucked.” No one responded. 

    “Yeah. We had to eat dinner at Applebee’s.”

    I kept moving.

    “Looking for Reg?” I asked a pretty confused looking fellow.

    “I’m diabetic,” he responded.

    I kept moving.

    I’ve noticed quite a lot of people seem to talk out loud to no one in particular actually. It’s strange. Almost as if they’re desperate to reach out, make a connection, but they just have absolutely no idea how to go about it. So they just start talking, but no one listens or responds. Otherwise they think they have something funny to say in that same questionable brand of humor that uses the intonation of a fourteen year-old to land the punchline. I don't know. It doesn't work for me. Personally I’d rather rip my ears off. I returned to Grace. The line was dying down. We were almost off shift when another unfortunate approached.

    “Ash will never pay you back,” he said to Grace’s face. I braced myself for a reprise of the hunting knife.

     Almost immediately she responded, “I’m not Misty, God damnit. I’m here to smoke blunts and not give a fuck.”

    He was stunned. Clearly he’d never been reproached by a woman like that in his life. Finally he squeaked out, “Good no one likes her anyway.”

    What the fuck just happened? I thought to myself. Shortly thereafter I was relieved of my position and so I told Grace that I’d meet up with her later.

*    *    *

    The heat of the day was on full blast, but I reveled in it. I was stuck inside with chilled air the whole morning after all and I wanted to bask in the warmth of the June sun. Quickly I found a spot to sit and write. I lit a Dunhill and took out my notebook. After a while I found myself laying back on the warm concrete railing. Then I was disturbed by a woman dressed like a fairy god-mother.

    “Did you see the colorful bird back here molting?”

    “What?” I said. What the fuck was she talking about, I wondered.

    “It must’ve been quite the bird with all those pink and purple feathers.” She gestured to all of the fake feathers strewn about the ground nearby.

    “Oh. Right. Yeah, I didn't see it,” I responded while flicking my lighter open. She smiled and sat down on a bench to read. A bird. Indeed, I thought. I felt the need to go search for more familiar faces so I began to walk back inside. 

    Gale spotted me from the bar and whistled me over. The bar was the only spot in the hotel where it was technically fine to drink at. We had a couple gin and tonics and then went up to his room to continue drinking with our own store of alcohol.

    He and his roommate enlightened me on breaking news as far as the world economy was concerned. England had just separated itself from the European Union. This apparently was big fucking news for everyone with stocks in British goods on Wall Street. Tons of people were beginning to sell and stocks were going down like crazy. In a matter of hours the British Pound went from being worth roughly $1.60 to being worth somewhere around $1.22. We weren't sitting in his hotel room talking stocks over gin and tonics long before Grace burst through the door demanding that we all go to the pool.

    “Come on you jackasses, the pool is empty, it’s all ours.”

    “Sure,” I said, “and even if people are in it we’ll be sure to make such a ruckus that they have no choice but to leave. That’s the way you have to be with these animals, otherwise they'll never respect you.”

    Gale agreed, “there’s no other way. And, as your financial advisor, I suggest you wear a skimpy bathing suit that way you can strike as much fear in as many of these scoundrels as possible.”

    I nodded, “then let’s head out. Damn the gin and tonics. What are they going to do, call the pigs on us?”

    As we move toward the staircase, drinks in hand, Gale begins telling us a story. I must’ve already been drunk at this point because I only caught enough of it to write this:

    “Dave is telling us a story from the other night about a bunch of people at a party. One bastard puked in a Wal-Mart bag (the closest thing to him) and then instead of just dumping the bag, he carried it all the way home. … I need to film that — would probably make a great screenplay.”

*    *    *

    At the pool, we found the Boston boys waiting for us. They seemed calmer this time. Possibly still hungover. 

    “Grace, what happened? You disappeared earlier,” one guy said.

    “I was being followed. Had to lose my tail,” she said.

    “Probably a God damn narcotics agent,” I nodded.

    “I wonder if he likes memes.”

    Lord help us, I thought, here it comes.

    “DID YOU SAY MEMES? I FUCKING LOVE MEMES.”

    “YOU DO? NO SHIT!”

    “YEAH MAN. I FUCKING LIVE AND BREATHE MEMES.”

    “WOW. YOU LIKE MEMES ALMOST AS MUCH AS I LIKE ANIME.”

    “YOU LOVE ANIME TOO?”

    “YEAH!!”

    “SHIT DUDE I THINK WE JUST BECAME BEST FRIENDS.”

    “Wait. I thought we were already best friends…”

    “Oh yeah…” 

    Dank memes at the pool. Eventually we all began to move on and dry off. Checking the schedule I realized we were just in time for some panel called the Flirting Workshop. Naturally this was probably pure gold. Autism to the extreme. We must go. 

    The line was massive. Spearheading the effort to wrangle the horde was Brick Nosh. I tried to persuade him to get us in first, but the bastard wouldn't budge. Of course while waiting we were privy to more of the oddest statements to have ever come out of peoples’ mouths.

    “Master Roshi has diarrhea.”

    “Where was we then?”

    “I don’t flex, I flab. It’s all fat.”

    “Did you just call me Dad?” — “Well, actually I wrote a fanfic once…”

    A festively plump man-child walks up to a woman and waves a fan in her face. “I’m sorry you just look so hot.” I nearly hurled.

    Two girls tell their friend that they need to use the bathroom next to the line. He waits, but after some time the boy gets impatient and follows them in.

    “Fuck it,” he says, “I’ll just say I’m trans if someone asks.”

    Soon afterward a woman comes bolting out of the bathroom (not one of his friends) shaking her hands dry with the most disturbed look on her face. While the door was opening and closing you could hear strange sounds and giggling from within.

    The panel turned out to be full, so we had to make other plans. The field. A friend of mine pulled his truck into the far corner of it, closer to the Boston boys hotel than my own. A good spot. The drinking commenced with the sound of hard rock blasting from the speakers of the white pick-up. We had a large crew out there: the Boston boys, a few of my own friends and acquaintances from years back, Gale, Grace, etc. There were edibles, beers, liquor bottles, grass, the whole nine. When Bohemian Rhapsody came on the radio the whole chorus of us screamed it to the darkness like some primal worship ritual to the Rock Gods. The gods of rebellion; of being so loud that all other bullshit is drowned out. Suddenly half the group went quiet. The Boston boys had spotted a squad car off on the edge of the field. Pigs. Possibly just setting up a speed trap. 

    “But they could easily just been making like they’re setting one up to catch us off guard,” said some of the more paranoid minds among our group.  A ruse. Indeed. A brave few ventured forth to the Boston boys’ hotel (past the squad car) to acquire more booze. Prayers were said in their defense, but it turns out that the car was in fact just setting up a speed trap as they seemed to have no idea that we were raging 100 yards behind them. 

    Soon afterwards I began the stumble back toward the suite. The hotel lobby was empty. A ghost-town. Quiet and serene, until a sudden noise disturbed me. Voices. People were coming. I recognized one of them was the narc’s voice from before. I wouldn't allow myself to be caught here. Not alone. I made a run for the elevator like a gazelle, which seemed to open up for me as I approached. I slammed the ‘door close’ button and soon began ascending. Paranoia. Adrenaline. A sign? I collapsed on the bed.

*    *    *

Day 4:

    Dawn of the final day. Sunday. There’s a rotting bag of Chipotle from Thursday that’s beginning to stick up the joint. I’ll leave that for the cleaning ladies. I walk into the bathroom and look upon my gross figure in the mirror. Dropping my clothes, I jump in the shower. Afterwards I came in the sink, then shaved. Maybe they'll think the stuff in the sink is just shaving cream. Brick said I had to be out by noon. Gathering my things now. Time to go. 

    A horrendous elevator ride. Crammed to the brim with sweaty people and luggage— the door could barely close. Slower than two snails fucking. This thing gets slower and slower every day… or maybe I’m just more and more hungover every day. 

    Water. Finally more water. Dear God water is a beautiful thing. Outside again, I begin to bask, eager to absorb the energy of that wonderful sun. Sunlight isn't necessarily a rarity in Maine, but warm weather certainly is. You have to get it while it lasts. I need coffee, I think. Suddenly I hear noises coming from the West Tower, so I begin walking. On my way I run into the narc. Of course they caught me when I had my briefcase of contraband on me. Cornered. His associate is nearby as well. It was just like the 2v1 from last night, except there wasn't an elevator to save me this time.

    “Found you,” he says. My eyes dart around under my “tea shades” looking for an escape route. He continues.

    “Now that we have you, we can easily find your partner. She’s around here somewhere, and when I find her I’m gonna make her my waifu. We’re gonna move in together. Get a mortgage at OUR bank. Meanwhile, you'll be in jail.”

    Suddenly, like a bullet, Grace’s maroon toaster-car pulls into view. She leans on the horn and motions for me to run for it. I make a break, slugging the narc’s associate with my free hand and jumping in before he can respond. Grace slams on the gas and we peel out of the parking lot with Wild Honey Pie blasting from the speakers.

    “Fucking Nazi pigs had me trapped back there,” I exhaled loudly.

    “Yeah, man. You’re lucky I felt like going for a drive.”

    I nodded. “Where we headed?”

    “Not sure yet, I just needed to get the fuck out, you know? Being cooped up somewhere for days on end just doesn't work for me.”

    “Agreed. Let’s get food.”

    “Sounds good,” she said. “Hey do me a favor and grab that Queen CD on your right… Pop it in.”

    Time passed and we listened to tons of songs. I Want It All is one of my favorites by them. When Somebody To Love came on Grace chimed in.

    “You know he wrote this song after he was diagnosed with HIV, right?”

    “Holy Hell, really?”

    “Yeah, man.”

    That pass of Somebody To Love reminded me how powerful music is. That song has a whole new meaning to it now. It’s pretty amazing.

    “That was incredible,” I said finally.

    “Absolutely. That man inspires the hell out of me. I might obsess over and draw inspiration from people I’ve never met and will never meet, but people are inspired by the Bible… can’t I be inspired by a real person?”

    “Agreed.”

    I begin to write while she drives. The windows are down and a page gets ripped out. Damn this wind. Why do I get so caught up in women? Why is it so easy for me to fall? God damnit. “Lustful obsessions and passionate ambivalence — it’s hard to deal with it all. Fuck,” I write into the pages. Shortly we’re back at the hotel. She drops me off out front and goes to park the car, we agree to meet up later. 

*    *    *

    So many pale people waiting around for photoshoots. Burn you fools. Some of these girls look so young, meanwhile these photographers look so old and creepy. Jesus. This is like a playground for the enterprising pedophile. He’s complaining about the sun. Good. Get blinded by the glare you creepy bastard. I bet you just bought that camera a month ago. I hear one of the girls say something along the lines of “Whatever you do in your hotel room is what you do in your hotel room.” You look sixteen for Christ sake, don't egg that creep on!

     I’m burnt out. Do I just need sleep? More coffee? This much social activity is actually an overload. Not just physically draining, but mentally as well. I’m exhausted. At least the sun is warm and inviting. Summers in Maine are also so pleasant because there is always some reprieve from the heat: a soft breeze, or quick drizzle of rain. I never appreciated it when I was younger.

    I was walking around some more when I encountered someone whom I had met on a previous day. Today they were dressed as Thor. I walked over and demanded that she gave me the hammer. 

    “No, fuck you,” she said. So I grabbed for the hammer. She evaded me. So I reached for what was in her other hand. A small stuffed animal. I got it.

    “Bastard! Give it back.”

    “No,” I said, “Give me the hammer.”

    Suddenly I look around and we’re surrounded by people in giant furry costumes. 

    “Sweet Jesus,” I murmured. “Don’t pussy out on me now, Thor.”

    “Shut up, I’m still here aren’t I?”

    The next few moments were like a sequence from a nautical action movie where sharks are circling a group of divers dangling within a disconnected cage. We went from moments of apology and fear, to threatening the little animal out of anger and spite. They closed in. That’s when I took out my .44 Magnum. Stolen of course. Who the hell pays for guns nowadays? The furries couldn't see my eyes, but they knew I wasn't fucking around. You can’t fuck around when wielding that amount of pure-balls-firepower. They backed off, and I began sprinting in the other direction. I was holding a painted cap gun. Thank God they didn't call my bluff, otherwise they would've fucking torn me limb from limb.

*    *    *

    The closing ceremonies had begun. I wasn't interested. They don't pay me to give a fuck about that… in fact they don't pay me at all. Luckily I came across another peculiar acquaintance of mine. His main interest in life is to travel, but he also is a procurer of strange items, as well as rare types of grass. He invited me to go partake with him, and so I directed him towards the field. Along the way we found some Boston boys who decided to tag along. The field looks very different during the day. Mounds of dirt have been piled around to make way for new buildings of some kind that we’d be sure to see begin to spout up within the next couple years or so. It certainly used to be an actual field years ago. Now it’s more of a vacant lot. We sit in a circle and my acquaintance, who calls himself Red (I assume because of the red circular sunglasses he always wears), begins preparing different types of grass. 

    He finishes wrapping a particularly fat blunt and looks up. “This is Purple Panther and another one of my personal favorites wrapped together in a blueberry flavored blunt wrap. Please, enjoy.”

    The blunt was passed, and so were a few bowls. Before long I found myself flattened against my chair. I could viscerally feel the cannabis move through my body: throat first, then eyebrows, nose, across my back, etc. Stimulating and completely debilitating at the same time. Powerful stuff. 

    One of the Boston boys chimes in, “You know, in some parts of China some people wipe with their hands.”

    “Bullshit,” said Red’s compatriot.

    “No, really,” he insisted, “TP doesn't exist in those parts.”

    All I could do was listen. It must not have hit them yet, I thought, because I was practically crippled. Red explained that the reason he missed most of PortCon was because he went to a camping festival that weekend. He called it Harry Brown’s Hoedown. Apparently it’s a cannabis farm that exists upstate. A private place that holds events during the summer. Red claimed that he almost stepped right into the middle of an orgy on several occasions and that people were selling grass left and right. I must make plans to go next summer. That will likely be my next journalistic excursion. 

    The walk back was hell. I knew I had to return to make sure I was on the same page with the other staffers about the end of the con, but I had no idea where to begin. The field (turned vacant lot) became the Sahara Desert. Crossing it took what felt like hours. The heat. The dirt. The stumbling, shuffling footprints. I ran into some people I knew in the parking lot as well. We talked for so long I lost track of time. I was gone to the world. Finally I arrived back at the hotel just in time to see Brick Nosh on his way to the IHOP for the celebratory meal that concludes the event. 

    I nodded that I’d meet him there. When I turned around I noticed that there was a giant uHaul truck positioned at the back entrance. Fuck, I thought. If someone sees me before I make it to The Beast I’m done for. I’ll surely be roped into packing up this bastard convention. I quickly made my way into the bushes and slunk through the sparse trees that exist in the middle of the lot to my car. No one spotted me. I made it. The Beast made it’s familiar chirp as I unlocked it. I hopped in and gunned in out of the parking lot. I forgot where I was going momentarily because of the excitement of making a getaway. I only remembered when I saw the sign for IHOP on the left. 

    “OH SHIT THAT’S RIGHT,” I said as I dangerously jack-knifed through oncoming traffic into the IHOP parking lot.

    I entered the building and quickly found my way into a corner booth, far from the wandering eyes of other staffers whom I didn't recognize. The grass was still heavily affecting me. I began writing, here are some samples:

    “I’m drinking coffee in the back of the IHOP on ME Mall Rd. Staff Pie begins soonish. I spent the better part of today outside with friends, usually high. It’s still on me. I think this coffee is helping to pull me out of it.”

    “The world just stopped for a moment. I was deaf and I stared into a darkness. Then I came back to life. Almost like I entered Nirvana if only briefly. That, or maybe my brain was just having a small stroke.”

    “Some shameful animal just meekly wandered into the room.”

    Finally Brick and a couple other acquaintances joined me at the table just as the grass was wearing off. Two of them were Boff Staff. One kept telling perverted stories about his “best friend’s” sexual experiences.

    “She asked him to drink Coca Cola out of her pussy. He said he used Mountain Dew instead.” The pervert cackled.

    Excellent, I thought.

    The event was long, but the pie was good. By the time I finished eating the grass had completely worn out and I eventually found my way outside and back in The Beast. 

*    *    *

    When I arrived back home I stood on the porch with my briefcase and looked into the twilight sky. I flipped through my notebook and smiled at all of the accounts.

    I lit a Dunhill and said, “Mission accomplished. Now time for some sleep. I’ll probably be dead to the world for the next forty-eight hours at least.”