Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [182]
“Wow,” she said, and grabbed his ass again.
All the fuss, unfortunately, drew the attention of security, and as a couple of larger gentlemen in blue blazers set after us, we raced for the exits. They were hot on Morgan’s heels, calling into walkie-talkies, and I knew there would be many more on us soon.
The good thing about dressing like an idiot and running for your life through a crowded convention center is that no one wants to be in your way. The downside about dressing like an idiot and running for your life through a crowded convention center is that when enough people try to get out of your way simultaneously, they end up displaying their poor athletic ability by falling over one another and creating blood clots in the venous system of traffic flow. Wendy and I had come to one of these now, as herds of people fell, and screamed, and rolled over one another between packed tables and jammed booths on either side of the aisle.
Behind us we saw Morgan nabbed by one of two approaching security guys, and Sophie stopped to kick the man in the shins. The second by-passed her and headed straight for us, knowing we were trapped against the fleshy bubble of conventioneers.
I nodded to Waboombas, and she knew what I was thinking without my having to say it. We leaped up on a nearby table and raced across several portfolios of artwork laid before review editors at the Marvel table, hopped over the heads of stunned artists and down into the booth beyond, not stopping to look back as everyone called after us angrily.
Behind me, I thought I heard Marvel’s Editor In Chief say, “I hope we’re not paying that guy.”
Skirting attendees and booth workers, Wendy and I dove across a second table on the other side of the Marvel area, scattering some giveaway items—buttons, posters, stickers—and sending them flying into an unsuspecting line of autograph seekers waiting patiently for one of Marvel’s more popular writers to sign their boxes full of comics. As the most recent, highly revered chronicler of Marvel’s most popular characters, the author was being fawned over, and spoke to the crowd from behind his table, absently signing his name one letter at a time. Many of the fans were clearly awed and inspired by his genius, listening intently to whatever he was pontificating about. Or at least they pretended to be.
“I have seen a vision,” the writer explained serenely, and in a British accent, “that showed me America’s world dominance will come to an end in the coming months, when the president and his minions declare martial law, eliminate congress, and take complete control of this country. This act will reduce your nation to chaos.”
Who cares, I thought. I’ll be in an alternate dimension.
Hopefully.
Not far ahead, moving more slowly than we super-powered superheroes through the massive crowd, I saw the Boones, River, and Wisper just reaching the exit. They were flanked by their rent-a-thugs who were paying more attention to the convention and its attendees than they were to their clients. I decided I would have to take advantage of their lack of focus. I jabbed a finger in their general direction, and Wendy snarled an acknowledgement that she too had seen them.
We picked up the pace, but it wasn’t fast enough for me as there was still a good distance between the escapees and us, and because the aisles were still horribly crowded. We decided the fastest way to get where we needed to be was to ruin some very valuable artwork at Mitzi Abromowitz Graphic Collectibles booth by leaping onto her tables and running over them with our bare, painted feet.
“Hey, hey, HEY!” Mitzi called out, understandably annoyed.
“Sorry, Mitz!” I yelled, skipping over a Ron Garney two-page spread. “I’m in a hurry. Send me the bill!”
“Corky?” she asked, clearly startled.
So much for my secret identity.
“Yep. Loved the Whitcomb you sold me last month. You