Futureproof by N Frank Daniels Page B

conference room on the seventeenth floor to see which washed-up actors are offering autographed 5" x 8" snapshots—for a small fee, of course. In the far left corner is the dude who played Spider-Man on a short-lived TV series during the ’70s. Then there’s Tom Savini, who among the gore crowd is some kind of god for his innovative special effects techniques. Nobody can show a human face being sawed in half lengthwise more realistically. In one corner is the British guy who did the voice for C-3PO in Star Wars . There are infinite lines to see all these people. To the faithful they are immortal. They have found their niche. But there’s no way in hell I’m standing in line for an hour so I can pay five bucks just to shake Swamp Thing’s hand (ten bucks for an autograph). Michelle and Trizden say they’ll wait it out, so I take off with Splinter to find some real action.
    We stop at the bathroom and he asks me if I want to hit a joint. Usually I hesitate at engaging in illicit drug use in public, but as soon as we open the bathroom door we are hit with a wall of the previous occupants’ pot smoke.
    â€œDude,” Splinter says, firing the joint, “there’s nothing to worry about here, man. There’s no cops and the fifteenth through seventeenth floors are completely reserved for Dragon*Con attendees. This is our playground.”
    â€œCan you hook up some Acid?”
    â€œI’m working on it,” he squeaks, holding in a hit.
    We exit the bathroom happy and red-eyed just as some Young Republican is on his way in. He’s holding a bag full of T-shirts.
    â€œWant a shirt?”
    â€œWhat do they say?”
    He holds one up. There’s a cartoon of a regal, all-powerful eagle swooping down over some cowering Arab caricatures wearing turbans and sporting push-broom mustaches. It reads OPERATION DESERT STORM in a military font.
    â€œDidn’t we already win that war?” I ask.
    â€œOf course we already won. It was one of the fastest, most overwhelming military victories in the history of warfare.”
    â€œWhat’s the point of the shirt then?”
    â€œThe point of the shirt is to take pride in your country, take pride in the greatest military the world has ever known,” the Young Republican says incredulously.
    â€œFuck taking pride in this country,” Splinter says. “We never would have been trying to ‘liberate’ Kuwait if not for all their fucking oil.”
    I laugh and then Splinter starts laughing, too. Laughing and laughing. Idiots laughing in the face of political discourse.
    We grab two shirts just as the guy pushes open the restroom door. I know what’s coming so I grab Splinter’s arm and hurry down the hall.
    â€œJeez!” the Young Republican yells after us. “Why can’t you people do this shit in the privacy of your own rooms?”
    We bust out laughing. Again. Klingons and Wookies stare at us as we stagger past.
    â€œHey, man, do you have a permanent Magic Marker?” Splinter says.
    â€œDo I have a permanent Magic Marker? Let me check in my ass.”
    â€œCome on, dude, I’m serious.”
    â€œAsk that dork over there.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    Laughing and laughing.
    We finally procure a marker and Splinter writes IS BULLSHIT in block letters beneath the OPERATION DESERT STORM logo. On theback he scrawls, I DON ’ T SUPPORT OIL WARS . I opt for the much more succinct FUCK above the logo.
    We pull the shirts on and head back to the autograph tables to find Michelle and Animal Mother. They’re talking to a girl with a shaved head. She has incredibly large brown eyes, like Sinead O’Connor. She’s wearing punk garb: black-and-white-striped tights, fifteen-hole combat boots, black leather jacket decorated with safety pins and snide buttons with slogans like PROMOTE WORLD PEACE: KILL EVERYONE and I’D RATHER BE MASTURBATING . Trizden’s already