THE SUNDAY HANGOVER

005

WARREN ELLIS

Dinner tonight? Scotch and Pringles, by the look of things. I'm in San Diego, it's Saturday night, and I go onstage at the San Diego Comic-Con International in less than two hours. The Red Bull Company have delivered me five pallets' worth of cans. I've seen Wil Wheaton for a sum total of about one minute. I saw Zoetica for about thirty seconds -- she's currently across town and mostly naked at the Dr Sketchy's gig, while I'm here in my hotel room banging this out. One may suggest that my priorities are a little skewed.



All I've seen of San Diego this time is the view from my hotel room. The Convention Center itself, which looks like it was made by two architects and a kid with a bucket of Lego while spending an afternoon ripped to the gizzard on Ritalin. And the bay, which has featured military vessels from time to time. I may have occasionally stood at the window with a small drink in my hand exhorting them to turn their guns on the con center. Because you can't trust those furries. Any one of them could be Osama. Open up the big cannons on the fuckers and let their yiffy god sort them out.



They always worry me when they pass wherever I'm signing. They never bring books -- I guess I don't appeal to that crowd. But I still get a little shudder. An actress acquaintance of mine once got shot by a costumed fan. He was a mass of fur, a human-sized Tribble from Star Trek. He asked the actress to pose for a photo with him, which she duly did. And as she put an arm around his hairy bulk, an air pistol nosed out of his side, and fired a pellet into her ribs. Turned her black with bruising all up her side. Obviously, an actual gun would have killed her instantly. The guy apparently leapt back and yelled "you've been morphed!" before he was brought down. So I always have armed security to hand at converntion signings. And I give the furries a wide berth.



My actress acquaintance would come off the convention floor of an evening, go straight to the hotel bar, do a shot in one, look at her hand to see if it was steady, and go up to her room to "wash them off me." She did several cons a year, selling signed photos.



Me? After watching her take that shaky shot every day, I decided I'd hold it down to one show a year. Familiarity, after all, breeds contempt. And also, apparently, armed furbags who want to morth women to death.

-- Warren Ellis