Futureproof by N Frank Daniels Page A

but, I mean, everybody’s got their own issues. And onthe plus side of that dork coin, Trizden has some kind of insider dork connection. He got us the passes for free. The passes don’t cover a room, they only get us into the convention. He hands us flyers that detail when and where all the main events are taking place. There are autograph signings and Japanimation screenings, live bands and a speaker symposium featuring that “Tune in, Turn on, Drop out” guy from the ’60s that my mother told me about one night not too long ago while drunkenly reliving her hippie days. We decide that we won’t be throwing down the two hundred bucks a night to rent a room. We’ll stay awake, hopefully assisted in that pursuit by a healthy dosage of LSD.
    A black guy approaches us as we walk to the elevators. He asks if we know anything about the role-play gaming schedule. There will be a whole bunch of losers here playing real-time games where they pretend to have god-like powers and run around acting like they’re saving the world from other losers just like them who, conversely, want to destroy all that is pure and good. This is called role-playing. And it isn’t just three fourteen-year-olds sitting around in their parents’ basements playing Dungeons & Dragons anymore. There are scores of different games for every kind of desperate imagination.
    The black guy is obviously into the vampire sect of role-playing. We can tell because he’s wearing a set of “handcrafted” eyeteeth that look like fangs.
    â€œNice teeth, man. You pick up many girls like that?” I ask.
    â€œYou’d be surprised,” he says.
    â€œYou can’t be serious.”
    â€œHey, Luke,” Michelle interjects, slugging me in the arm, “there is nothing more romantic than a vampire. He is one with the night. He has superhuman speed and strength and must search infinitely for his perfect bride, the one who will spend the rest of eternity with him. You can’t get any more romantic than that.”
    â€œOne with the night?” I say.
    â€œWhat did you say you were doing later?” Blacula asks Michelle, leaning down to kiss her hand. He lingers over it in that way really suave guys do in movies based on Jane Austen novels.
    â€œI don’t think so, man,” I say.
    â€œJust kidding, dude,” he says. “My name’s Splinter.”
    He offers his hand and I hesitate, but then shake it anyway.
    â€œI’m Luke. This is Trizden, and my girlfriend here, whose hand you’ve already acquainted yourself with, is Michelle.”
    â€œMichelle’s a great name,” he says.
    Is she blushing?
    â€œDude, are you still hitting on my girlfriend?”
    â€œSorry, man,” Splinter says. “I’m like my name: I get under people’s skin.” Great. A guy with a catchphrase. I grab Michelle’s hand and pull her toward the elevator.
    â€œJesus, he’s touchy,” Splinter says to Michelle.
    â€œYou should see him drunk,” Trizden says.
    Â 
    Trizden, Splinter, Michelle, and I spend the rest of the day people-watching. These people want to be watched. They are dressed in superhero costumes complete with prosthetic pectoral muscles and bulging codpieces. They are wearing makeup that looks like it took hours to apply. They have alter egos with names like Cthulu the Wanderer and Cable the Mysterious. Just being around them makes me want to get high. But Trizden keeps saying we have to put off any kind of serious intoxication until dark.
    Trizden’s a great friend to have around when you’re fucked up and need a watchful eye to keep you out of trouble. I’ve taken to calling him Animal Mother, in reference to the Kubrick movie Full Metal Jacket , one of my all-time favorites. Because Trizden’s definitely an Animal Mother, always taking care of us when we’re out of our minds.
    We decide to peruse the tables in the main