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Yes, her elbow was confused! All of her was confused, actually!

Don’t get picky with my grammar at a difficult time like this!

Overlooking the convention floor were hospitality suites with large, glass windows facing outward over the chaos, specifically designed so publishers and distributors could quickly and easily get away from the madding crowd and mingle in highly visible privacy. The rooms were comfortably furnished, surprisingly quiet, and had tables of catered food available to any who found their way in, intentionally or otherwise.

The mayor ushered us up a flight of stairs, and into one of these pseudo-plush rooms, offering us seats in the plastic, and metal chairs. None of us took one, but the elder Boone made himself comfortable nonetheless, while Washburne moved over to a table and made grunting sounds as he attempted to open a can of mixed nuts.

“It’s so annoying the way they move the dates for this convention around, every year,” Mayor Boone said, looking out the glass windows and over the crowd. “I’d much rather be home for the Festival, but…business calls.”

Plastered all along the walls were covers of Nuderman, Flashyman, Nudegirl, and a host of others, all variations on popular superheroes wearing only masks and other kinky accoutrement, but very little actual clothes. An enlarged cover of my favorite comic, along with a dawning truth, stared me in the face at roughly eye level, mocking me.

“You brought these from your world,” I said, slowly sussing things out, “and sold them here.”

“That’s right,” mayor Boone oozed, obviously quite proud of his evil brilliance and his growing status as my arch villain. “All the work is done, and takes very little effort, or money on my part, to make it marketable here. I have the things re-lettered a bit for the dissimilar market, but mostly I simply convey it over as is. No unnecessary expenditure to creators, no royalties—cash for printing isn’t even required, if I use the exact versions as sold back home with new covers. Obscenely profitable, all things considered.”

“I imagine it’s pretty unlikely anyone will ever stumble through that dimensional hole and discover your secret,” I said, admiring his darkness.

“I’m certainly counting on it, as you might well imagine,” he agreed.

“Good money in stealing other people’s property?”

He shrugged. “Sales of what you people consider ‘porn’ in this world isn’t quite what I had hoped,” he sighed. “But it’s enough to turn a healthy profit and reinvest in other, more lucrative business.”

“Comics, as a business in general, isn’t really all the lucrative,” I said.

Sales on all the main superhero titles had dropped off significantly over the years for various reasons to a point where major characters like Superman only sold tens of thousands globally. Cat Fancy magazine sells more than seven million every month. Hell, Independent Sawmill, and Woodlot Management magazine sells almost a hundred times better than Superman. American comics, contrary to popular belief, were waaaaaay down on the bottom of the totem pole as far as return on investment. Their actual value, and importance in the world, is largely overestimated as the characters from inside their pages can be found on every cereal box, theater marquee, and television screen the world over. The comics themselves very few people really care about. Even the fans mostly hated them if you believe what they say online.

“Apparently,” Boone said, sighing. “I was sadly misled by the attention and notoriety the superhero enjoys in this world. Ah, well. It was still an evident opportunity, one I took advantage of. I certainly didn’t lose any money.”

“But you’re done now,” I said, getting a feeling from his general tone.

“I am. I’ve sold a significant percentage of my business, and created enough wealth from other areas of investment to continue the life of grand leisure I, and my children, enjoy.” And the next he said more meaningfully to Wisper.