"But it was a stupid shirt," Doug added. "They can’t expect anybody to actually pay for a shirt that says, ‘I (picture of an elephant) the San Diego Zoo.’ What does that even mean?"

"Oh, man," said Jay. "Look at that line."

Doug looked up, but his glasses went foggy from the smoke suddenly rising off his cheeks.

"AAH! Dammit!"

"Sorry."

It was still ten minutes until the doors opened, but they walked to the front of a grumbling line of fanboys, cosplayers, furries, goths, and a smattering of girlfriends that were there out of curiosity, or there to be supportive of their boyfriends, or maybe there because they had assumed they’d be a singularity — the only queen in the anthill, with all the power that implied. This last type was easy to spot, dressed in clothes so brazenly revealing they could pass for Halloween costumes. Doug knew there would be a lot of girls here who genuinely liked comics, too, though they never seemed to like the same kind he did. Still, it gave him hope that he’d eventually get lucky. He’d be at his local comic shop or maybe (why not?) even at this very convention. He and some beautiful girl would reach for the same back issue of Young X-Men at the same time. They’d have a laugh about it. They’d get to talking and discover they shared a great love of anime and customized action figures. Then they’d have sex on the fucking Batmobile or something.

"No cutting!" shouted Doctor Doom, or someone dressed just like him.

"That’s a really good Doctor Doom costume," said Jay. "Look at those rivets."

"Movie or comics version?" asked Doug.

"Comics."

"Hold on," said a large bald man whose costume was a simple black T-shirt that said his job (or name or personal motto) was Security. "Are you an exhibitor?"

"No—"

"Do you have an exhibitor’s badge?"

They didn’t.