The Spurgle Convention

This is the first story I sold after I started writing again. It was published by Raconteur Press in He Was Dead When I Got There. It is an Andrew Spurgle story. The conceit, for those who don’t know, is that “Andrew Spurgle” must appear in the story and cause some sort of disaster. Spurgle must be arrogant, incompetent, unlikable, “a total clownshoe.”

I think the jokes turned out well in this story, but it does meander a bit. Anyway, here it is for you to enjoy.

The Spurgle Convention

Andrew Spurgle couldn't hold his nose with a martini in one hand and his suitcase in the other. He couldn't hold his mouth, either. Why should he? It wasn't his fault the Legal Official's Southeastern Retreat had to share the Springfield Convention Center with a plumbers' convention – plumbers! – and something called SpringCon even though it was October. Usually they shared the space with weddings or a bunch of frat boys. Fun stuff, you know?

The delay at the hotel check-in was bad enough, but he had to wait in line behind grown men wearing jeans and t-shirts. No, he couldn't actually smell them, but he felt he ought to hold his nose anyway. They were plumbers, right? They had the feel of stench about them. But when the plumbers gave up on the line, he took a couple steps forward and bumped into an old guy in a bathrobe carrying a giant glowstick. Spurgle's martini spilled all down his second best shirt.

"Oh, excuse me," the man said. He was with a guy in a ratty trenchcoat with a tree branch, a woman in fur underwear with a foam sword on her back, and a cow. Who would wear that in public? Surely there was some public decency law. He'd do a Lexis search when he finally got to his room.

As the hotel clerk said for the thousandth time that she was very sorry, but the computer system was down, and it would surely be up again any minute now, Andrew couldn't take it anymore. "I didn't know there was a Chick-fil-A convention this weekend," he said.

The weirdos' irrelevant chatter stopped. They all turned to stare at him. "Holsteins," said the cow.

"What?"

"Holsteins," the cow repeated. "The Chick-fil-A cows are Holsteins. I'm a minotaur."

"We're here for SpringCon," the woman said, with pesky enthusiasm. "This is our fifth year! We're officially the longest running sci-fi con in Springfield!"

"And what are you two supposed to be?" Spurgle asked.

"I'm a wizard."

"Is my costume that bad?" asked the old man in the bathrobe. Spurgle just looked at him. The old man waved the big glowstick around, making a "voom voom" sort of noise. "I'm a Jedi," he said. Spurgle kept looking at him. "Do you really not know what a Jedi is?" Spurgle hated it when someone could tell he didn't know a word like Jedi or Holstein.

"Do you read any books?" the woman asked.

"Sure," Andrew said, "I always pick up a book at the airport on a trip like this." Andrew put down his suitcase and reached around in it until he took out his latest find, the incredibly awesome Fatal Carnage. The old man started laughing. Laughing! "What's so funny?"

"Zachariah Lawrence," the old man said. "Fatal Carnage by Zachariah Lawrence. That's a pen name of Wendell Cobb, the Guest of Honor this year. He writes science fiction under his real name. Maybe you'd like some of his other books."

"A pen name?" Andrew Spurgle looked at the book he was holding. He didn't pay much attention to the author when selecting a book. He could always pick out a good book by the cover. "This Zachariah Lawrence is going to be here this weekend?"

"His real name is Wendell Cobb," said the old man, "and yeah, he's the Guest of Honor."

"I bet a signed copy would be worth something," Spurgle said. If nothing else, it would be a good break room story after he got back. "How would I meet him?"

"Well," said the old man, "you could buy a ticket to the convention and attend his autograph session. Or try to find him between panels. He really likes cosplay, so if you got a good costume, he might come up to you and ask for a photo. I got a photo with him at EverCon four years ago."

"Dressed like that?" Spurgle asked.

"Yeah, Wendell loved it."

Wendell wrote Fatal Carnage. He wasn't one of these losers. There's no way he'd ask for a photo with some guy in a bathrobe over someone dressed as Moses Byrd, the kick-ass hero of Fatal Carnage. And if there was one thing Andrew Spurgle wasn't, it was a loser. Andrew had a plan now. A mission. Just like Moses Byrd. He had it all figured out before he finally checked in to the hotel and got to his room.

He tried it the easy way first.

He got a SpringCon badge. Not by buying one, of course. He was watching the registration table, trying to come up with a plan, when the only person at the table got engaged in a conversation with two old women covered in glitter and a big thing with tentacles and eyes all over it. Andrew made sure no one was paying attention, and he walked past and palmed a badge and a schedule. As easy as that. He was in.

Once he was a safe distance away, he looked at the schedule and saw that Wendell Cobb's autograph session was about three hours from now. He set an alarm on his phone and walked back to the LOSR side of the Convention Center. He picked a panel at random and sat down at an empty table in the back. Andrew let the speaker's advice on contract law wash over him. The trick was to appear attentive, but not pay enough attention that you had to think. He stayed in that room for two panels, only getting up a couple times to get a drink at the open bar. He was sitting there, happily not listening, when his lack of thought was rudely interrupted.

"Hey, Andy, old buddy, long time no see, how you been?"

Spurgle looked up to an outstretched hand, then further up to a perfect face with the sort of smile you only get with lots of modern dentistry. Spurgle struggled internally and won, shaking the hand and forcing out a few words. "Jim. How. Are you doing. You still with. Wolfe. Wolfe. And Black." If not for his bad luck, Andrew would still be there and on the fast track to success.

Jim sat down and his smile just grew and grew. "You're looking at the latest junior partner, my friend. Shame about that case you got stuck with. You know, with that grandma judge. What's her name. And the armadillo."

Spurgle managed an almost polite nod.

"You know, Andy, I told Wolfe Senior they shouldn't have fired you over that. No one could have won that case. Well, I could. But it still wasn't fair. There were your clients, just trying to earn a living. Heck, one of them was in the backseat, measuring and vacuum sealing while the other was driving. Real work ethic, you know? Too bad the vacuum sealer malfunctioned. But that was hardly his fault, right? The cocaine just flew all over the car. What a waste. Then they had that wreck because they couldn't see out of the window. And then they tried to hijack that school bus. Not to mention the armadillo. Can't talk your way out of something like that, right? I mean, they were going to do some time, even if that judge hadn't taken such a dislike to you. But that's life, you know? So where are you now?"

Spurgle coughed. "Slope and Gamby."

"Never heard of them. They local?"

"Atlanta. They're a...small firm," Spurgle said, adjusting his tie. "Very...specialized."

Jim looked down and saw the SpringCon badge lying on the table. "What's this? Oh, yeah, the people in the funny costumes. That yours, Andy?"

"No, I...uh...found it. I thought I'd bring it back to them after this panel."

"Well, that's very nice of you, Andy."

Andrew's phone alarm went off. "Sorry," he said to Jim, "I have to take this."

He picked up the SpringCon badge and pretended to talk on the phone until he was out of the room. With a sigh of relief, he walked from the LOSR side of the Convention Center to the SpringCon side and put on the badge. Guys like Jim have all the luck, but Andrew just couldn't seem to catch a break.

He walked past a huge line of weirdos twice before realizing it was the line for the autograph session. He looked at his phone. It was 2:10. Andrew got a good spot in line. He felt a vice grip on his shoulder and turned to see an old guy, one who had no business having a grip that strong, pointing him to the back of the line. Spurgle decided to plead no low contender. He put his hands up and went to the back of the line. He took a couple steps forward. He looked at this phone. 2:14. He took another couple steps forward and looked at his phone. 2:17. He looked at the line, then back at his phone. This wasn't going to work.

He was about to get out of the line when some woman walked up to him and said, "Uh...Melanie?"

"You've got the wrong guy," Spurgle muttered.

"Then you've got the wrong badge!" she said.

He looked at the badge he'd palmed. The name on the badge was Melanie Pruett. Damn! There was always some silly little detail that ruined everything.

"I was hoping I'd run into you! I knew someone else must have gotten her badge. Follow me back to registration and we'll get you all sorted out." She turned around and walked off. She didn't suspect anything yet, but she would when there was no Andrew Spurgle registered. Spurgle followed her a short ways, ditched the badge in a potted plant, and ditched the woman by dodging into a stairwell.

He'd have to do it the hard way. Just like Moses Byrd.

First, he'd need a disguise. He took the elevator up to his hotel room and looked up costume shops. After a few annoying phone calls, he drove to one and picked up his costume. No, not a costume. Only losers wore costumes, and only as long as it took to realize they didn't need one for Halloween. People would give you candy even if you just wore street clothes. Some of them just left a bucket outside and you got a free bucket, too.

No, this was a disguise, a uniform. Moses Byrd wore a uniform. He got out the uniform and admired it. A tactical vest, a tactical belt, tactical boots, tactical pants, tactical everything. It was all black with lots of pockets, Velcro straps, and metal rings. When Andrew put it on, he looked intimidating as hell. He tried a few moves in the bathroom mirror – a wry smile, a casual lean on the towel rack, finger guns. Yeah, Wendell was going to love this. He did a couple karate chops, then pretended to hold up a gun. "Freeze!" he shouted at the mirror. Then he did a roundhouse kick, but the tip of his shoe hit the mirror, and it cracked and started falling forward. Spurgle managed to catch it and lean it back towards the wall.

The uniform needed a few finishing touches. All these pouches and straps were empty. He asked at the costume shop for some accessories, but they cost twice as much to rent as the uniform. He had a multi-tool he packed out of habit. It was stuck closed, but that had to be part of the uniform. He had a little black flashlight, which was both a flashlight and black, so obviously that got strapped on. He had a pair of handcuffs – long story – so he strapped those on, too. If he took the blades off his electric razor, it looked kind of cool, like maybe a taser or something, so he put that in a pouch. He spotted a large, black bottle next to the sink. It turned out to be scented bubble bath, but the bottle looked cool, so he turned it label-side-in and strapped it on. It could be mace or tear gas. No one would know. He took down the paracord he had hung up between the closet and the fire sprinkler to dry his second best shirt off, wrapped it up, and strapped it on. His phone was black, so he put that in a pocket where it was partly visible. Finally, he put Fatal Carnage in the largest pouch.

He was about to leave when he had a terrible thought. What if he found this Wendell and he didn't have a pen? So he grabbed a hotel pen and put it in the pouch with Fatal Carnage. It felt good to be so well prepared. Nothing could go wrong. He gave himself one last, admiring look in the cracked mirror and set off.

Wendell wasn't easy to find. Somehow SpringCon was even bigger than LOSR, and Wendell wasn't on the schedule this evening. He'd have to search for clues. After a half hour, forcing himself to talk to these losers, he only had one clue. Everyone said Wendell Cobb always went to the costume contest, which was this evening. It seemed that was his only option.

He went to the costume prep room where a staff member gave him a couple forms to fill out. They just wanted his name – Moses Byrd, obviously – and to not sue for any blah blah. He didn't bother reading it. He was a lawyer, after all. A little deniable squiggle and he was in. Contestant #31. This was going to be easy. This was going to work. Wendell would see this bad boy on the stage and beg to sign his book.

Waiting in the costume prep room was dull. He was surrounded by robots and fairies and who knows what. He started feeling thirsty and kept thinking of the open bar at LOSR. He wondered what he was even doing at SpringCon, but he couldn't give up now. He had a mission. He had to get that autograph.

Fifteen minutes before the contest, a staff member clapped and whistled until the room quieted down. "Hey everyone," she said. "My name is Joan, and I'll be taking your badges and keeping and eye on things in this room during the contest. So you can leave your stuff here if you want. I'm going to come collect the badges in just a moment, so let me know if you need anything when I come around to you, okay?"

No one told him this would happen. When Joan got to him, he said he left his badge in his room.

"Oh dear," Joan said. "You have to wear the badge everywhere in the Con, you know. You have time to go up to your room and get it. Just come by here and drop it off. I'll point you to the stage entrance once you get back."

Andrew left, defeated. How could he get another badge? One with his own name on it? Or, better, one with "Moses Byrd" on it? He glanced surreptitiously at people's badges as he trudged to the elevators. There was a logo in color at the top with the person's name just under it. They looked simple. They were laminated, of course. He remembered that story Wolfe Senior told every week about having to do an art project to explain something to a jury and how he managed to get glue, construction paper, markers, and everything else from the hotel. So he went to the front desk and asked if the hotel had a printer and a laminator.

They did. Any guest could use their small "office" space. In a half hour he copied the logo from SpringCon's website, printed a few fake badges until he was happy with their look, and laminated the last one. He clipped his shiny new badge to one of the metal rings on his uniform.

The costume contest was almost over when he got back, so he waited outside the room until the audience started leaving. Wendell Cobb was sure to spot him and beg to autograph the book. Yeah, any one of these people. Any minute now. Maybe that cool looking guy? Or maybe the military looking guy? Yeah, that was probably Wendell. He tried to make himself noticed without making himself too noticed, but soon the audience was gone and no one had approached him.

So he went to the hotel office again and looked up Wendell Cobb. He was a chubby, balding, middle-aged guy with thick glasses and a big gray beard. He didn't look a thing like the sort of man who'd write Fatal Carnage. He looked like a Mall Santa. Armed with this knowledge, Spurgle returned to the convention. He had his costume, his badge, and he knew what Wendell looked like. This time, he was ready.

There were lots of SpringCon people in the hotel lobby. He was getting pretty good at spotting them. He mingled. He tried to make conversation, but they were all weirdos, and he couldn't seem to talk to any of them for more than a couple minutes. No one seemed to know where Wendell Cobb was.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and saw someone he almost recognized. "Hey! Remember me? From check in? How are you enjoying the Con? I see you got a costume." And then it hit him. She was the woman in fur underwear, only now she was dressed in green, had pointy ears, and wore a quiver of foam arrows on her back.

"Yeah, I got a...a...costume. Say, you wouldn't know where to find Wendell Cobb, would you?"

"Oh, knowing Wendell, he's either here in the lobby, the gaming room, or one of the room parties."

"Thanks," Spurgle said. He looked at the schedule he swiped earlier. The gaming room was closest. Ballroom 2. He'd try there first.

There were quite a few men in the gaming room who could get a job as a Mall Santa. He tried to wander around and read all the likely candidates' badges, but no go. Most of the badges were flipped the wrong way. Andrew shouldn't have wasted all that time making a badge. He should have just laminated a blank page. The rest of the badges were hidden behind hands of cards or fanny packs. Or their owner was hunched over a table with a bunch of tanks or little people. Andrew shook his head. This wasn't the cool party. Wendell Cobb wouldn't be here.

Then he had an inspiration. SpringCon clearly needed some help making this thing fun, and maybe there was something he could do to help them out. He looked around for some way to spice the party up. There was a stage on one side of the room. It was partly torn down, but it had colored spotlights, big speakers, a couple disco balls, and stuff like that. Yeah, that would work. He just needed to turn it on. He wandered around the stage a bit and followed some of the power cords back to their sockets. They were plugged in. One socket had a sticky note that said "BR 2 – 5,7,9". Hm. He remembered seeing a room marked "Electrical" earlier and strode over to it. Sure enough, it was unlocked. He opened a half dozen panels before he found ones labeled "Ballroom 2" and 5, 7, and 9 were flipped off. He flipped them on. Then he flipped off all the ones marked as lights, except for something called "Uplights." He liked the sound of that, so he flipped that one on.

Someone would come "fix" this, and make everything dull again. So he took out the handcuffs on his uniform, closed the panel, and clipped them through the panel lock. Yeah, that would keep the party going. This was some real Moses Byrd stuff. He'd have a great story to tell when he got back to Atlanta.

He went back to the gaming room to see how it looked. Blue lights all around the walls, music playing, and spotlights moving around. Perfect. But no one was dancing. Everyone was just standing there, talking to each other. If anything, they seemed upset. Well, you just can't help some people.

He went back to the lobby next and looked around to see if Wendell Cobb was there. There were a few Mall Santas to check out, and at least out here it was easy to read their badges when they weren't flipped the wrong way. Wendell Cobb wasn't here, either. There was plenty of drinking going on. Indeed, some of the SpringCon people here had clearly been drinking for some time. But there was no dancing, no joy day veev. "It's just not a party atmosphere," he said out loud.

And then he had another inspiration. At the center of the hotel lobby was a water fountain. He sauntered over to the fountain, drew the large scented bubble bath from his tactical pouch, popped the top off with one hand, and poured the entire thing into the fountain. He popped the cap back on and holstered it. Like a pro. The fountain started to bubble and foam. Yeah, that was more like it.

Spurgle looked at his schedule again. All the Room Parties were on level 18 of the hotel, so his next stop was the elevators. There was a crowd, and he couldn't take the first elevator that arrived or the second. Finally, he got on one with a bunch of weirdos.

Someone dressed like a belly dancer looked at his costume and said, "Who are you going as?"

"Moses Byrd," Spurgle replied. "From Fatal Carnage. You know by Wendell Cobb."

"Oh, I haven't read that one."

"So who are you going as," Spurgle asked.

"Uh...Leia?" Someone else on the elevator stifled a chuckle. Spurgle felt he was being mocked again, silently, by everyone on the elevator. Eventually the girl asked, "So what's Fatal Carnage about?"

"Oh, it's great," Spurgle began. "I read it on the flight here. So this guy, Moses Byrd, he's just an awesome, kick-ass guy, the kind that works for the government. And there's a bad guy, of course. Really there are five bad guys, but there's one bad guy who throws Moses out of the plane. Oh, so it starts on an airplane, right? And there's the bad guy on the airplane, and he's wanted, you know, trying to get out of the country. But Moses doesn't know he's on the plane. I mean, he knows that he's on the plane, but not that the other guy is. I mean, he knows by the time the bad guy throws him off the plane, but not at first. So Moses is just going on vacation, but he makes the bad guy."

"It sounds a bit complicated," the girl said.

Spurgle was caught up in the moment and forged ahead. "No, it's a real simple, tight novel. I guess I should explain that Moses has a great memory for faces. That's part of what makes him so awesome. So he makes the bad guy. But the bad guy, the first bad guy that is, doesn't know he's been made. There's two bad guys on the plane, but Moses only knows about one of them. So Moses goes to the bathroom. Well, he doesn't really go, he just pretends to go, and he writes a note in there and passes it to the stewardess. But she misreads it and thinks Moses is the bad guy. So the stewardess tells the captain and gives him the note. And the captain knows there a sky marshal on board, so he gives the stewardess the note. You know, a different note. But the bad guy, the first bad guy, realizes something's up and he switches seats with this other guy who turns out to be the bad guy. You know, the second bad guy. So the marshal thinks this other passenger is the bad guy and the stewardess thinks Moses is the bad guy. I mean, he is. I mean, the second bad guy is, not Moses, but Moses was talking about the first guy, so when the sky marshal comes up—"

"Yeah," the girl interrupts again, "I can tell it's a good book. Good costume. Excuse me." She pushed past him and got off the elevator.

The elevator stopped a few times while he was describing the book, so Spurgle looked to see what floor they were on. They should have been at the party floor by now. But the elevator showed 14...12...11. He must have missed the 18th floor in his excitement. Well, he'd just have to wait it out. The elevator went all the way down and started going back up with a whole new crop of weirdos.

"I don't recognize your costume," said a guy in a frumpy hat and really, really long scarf. "What's it from?"

Spurgle was tired of everyone asking that. "It's not a costume," he said. "It's a uniform."

"Oh," one of the other guys on the elevator said, "is there some kind of threat?"

The elevator dinged. Finally, the 18th floor. Andrew remembered one of Moses Byrd's great lines from Fatal Carnage.

"Me," Spurgle said, "I'm the threat."

He strode out of the elevator and down the hall, looking for room parties. He paid no attention to the odd looks everyone on the elevator gave him.

He tried to get into the first room party, but the room was full – fire code violation full. So he went to the second one. He barely managed to squeeze into the door. He was trying too hard to read a Mall Santa's badge when he bumped into someone.

"Hey, Andy! What are you doing here?" Jim said.

"Uh, Jim. I'm trying to get an autograph. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know," Jim said, "there's not many options this year, if you know what I mean, so I thought I'd buy a membership to this SpringCon and try my luck here."

"Try your luck?"

"Yeah, get lucky, man. There's not many hot chicks at SpringCon, but,
Jim waves his arm at the room, "look at the competition. I'm a nine, at least, but I'm a SpringCon twenty. You get me?"

Spurgle clearly did not get him. "Usually there's a wedding or something," Jim explained. "You know, some place with lots of chicks. Remember three years ago when we were here the same time as that high school cheerleading competition? I didn't sleep a wink that whole weekend. What? Age of consent is fifteen in this state. I looked it up."

"That's, uh, that's great Jim," Andrew said. "You haven't run across Wendell Cobb, have you?"

"Sorry, I don't know who that is. You haven't seen a chick in green leather with pointy ears and a longbow have you?"

"Oh yeah, I did. Downstairs in the lobby."

"Thanks, man, you're a real bud. I'm glad you don't hold a grudge over what happened with Wolfe, Wolfe, and Black. You ever want a reference or anything, I'm you're man." Jim squeezed his way out of the room.

Andrew asked a few more people about Wendell Cobb until one of them said, "If you're looking for Wendell, he's at the VIP party. Guests and Staff only. It's in the big suite at the end of the hall. You could wait there for him to come out."

Andrew thanked him and slowly made his way out of the room. He walked up to the door of the suite, but it was well guarded. There were a couple staff members there. One of them had a shirt that said 'SECURITY' on it. It shouldn't have been more intimidating than his uniform, but he sized the guy up and didn't like his chances. Spurgle managed to peek through the door and saw that the suite had a big balcony and a bunch of people were out there, having as good of a time as anyone at SpringCon.

That gave him an idea. A brilliant idea. He'd descend from the roof, just like Moses Byrd! That would show them he was a VIP! He was sure to impress Wendell Cobb with a trick like that.

Spurgle ducked into a little room off the main hallway with some vending machines, and an ice maker. He looked at the schedule and the map of the hotel. He should be able to get down to the balcony from the roof, right? Once he was there, no one would be checking badges or anything. It would be easy; there were just two floors to rappel down. The hotel map said there was a fire exit right near this little room, but he didn't see it. As he was looking for it, some people stopped right outside the door. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying with the ice maker going.

"...on the elevator and acting really weird, so she called security…"

"...got off on this floor, but that was maybe twenty minutes ago..."

"...like some really fake SWAT team costume or a…"

"...hotel's looking for a guy, too, from their security footage, dressed all in black…"

"...fountain cleaning is going to ruin next years' contract if we can't prove…"

"...real terrorist wouldn't do something like that, right? He's probably just drunk or..."

They moved on down the hallway.

"Sounds like they're looking for someone," Spurgle whispered. "I hope they find him before it gets serious. I'd better hurry."

Spurgle found the fire exit hiding on the other side of the vending machines. It had an electronic lock. He tried his hotel card, but no go, it just beeped and a little light on the lock flashed red. There was a sign to the left of the door, just above a fire alarm. "Door Unlocks Automatically in Case of Fire," it said. Well, there's no fire. What would Moses Byrd do?

You can pick key locks, right? There must be a way to pick electric locks. He started trying to pull the cover off the lock, but nothing he tried worked. He got out his multi-tool, but it was stuck, as usual. He had to take his gloves off, and broke two nails trying to get the knife blade open. Once he did, he made short work of the cover. He tried to close the knife, but gave up and slid it into his pocket. But now what? The door panel was just some green plastic with some metal lines and some wires. There was some stuff written on it, but it wasn't words, just nonsense like "C6 S1 R2" and "MC74HC."

Would it short out and unlock if he put some electricity through it? Spurgle had seen something like that in a movie once. He got out his electric razor and pulled the battery out. He lined the battery terminals up with some of the metal stuff and pressed it into place.

A little smoke came out of the lock. That was promising. He tried the door, but it still wouldn't open. He put the battery back, in a different place. The battery was getting hot, really hot! He dropped it and took a couple steps back, just before it exploded up with loud pop. He kicked the little flaming ball under the vending machine. Well, now what? He tried to think. Did he have anything else that could make electricity? Maybe he could use his flashlight.

Then the fire alarm went off. He tried the door and it opened! Nice! Luck was on his side.

The door led to a fire escape. The stairs down were unobstructed, but Spurgle didn't want to go down. He wanted to get on the roof. There was a ladder up to the roof, but there was some kind of cage around it and a padlock. Another obstacle! But what was one more obstacle to Moses Byrd? Spurgle was no stranger to climbing, so he tried climbing up the side of the ladder. He managed to climb just high enough to grab onto the roof and pull himself up and over.

He walked around the building, looking over the edge until he spotted the balcony where the party was going on. It looked like everyone was leaving. He'd better hurry.

He still had the roll of paracord he always brought on trips, but where could he tie it? There wasn't much up here, other than some big metal boxes with pipes coming out. Spurgle walked up to one of the boxes, which was humming ominously, and tugged at some of the pipes. They seemed sturdy enough, even if some of them felt hot, so he started tying one end of his paracord to the pipe. "Let's see, does the snake go up and over or around and through?" He wrapped the cord around a few times and made something that might technically be considered a knot. Then he threw the rest of the cord down to the balcony.

The fire alarm was really starting to get on his nerves, and now there were sirens, a dozen or more, all going off down in the hotel parking lot. "What the hell," Andrew said. He looked over the roof and gave his paracord a little tug. It was only a couple floors down, and the cord was long enough, making a nice little pile on the balcony. He grabbed the cord tight and swung over the side. He was suddenly very thankful that his uniform had gloves. He thought he'd put his feet on the windows and sort of rappel down the side like in the movies, but his shoes kept slipping and he ended up just hanging there.

What would Moses Byrd do? Spurgle didn't have an answer this time, so he started going down the paracord, one hand over the other. It was much harder than he had thought it would be. Even with the gloves, he struggled to grab the cord tight enough. His hands started cramping, and he kept slipping a little. "I must be nearly there by now," he said and looked down. He was still twenty feet up. He tried going hand over hand some more.

He saw lights weaving around on the wall in front of him and looked down. There were guys down there dressed just like him, pointing flashlights right in his eyes. "Hey, no fair!" he shouted down at them. "Wendell Cobb belongs to me!"

One of the guys shouted something back at him. "What?!" Spurgle said.

The guy repeated himself. It sounded like, "Just keep coming down slowly."

Spurgle started trying to go hand over hand down the paracord again. He looked down at the guys. Were they pointing guns at him? Two ropes fell next to him, one on each side. Spurgle looked up to see two guys rappelling, actually rappelling, down the windows. Andrew didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. These guys were showing him up. He started going hand over hand faster, but it was at this point his cramping hands slipped and he fell. He landed right on top of one of the guys.

The guy he landed on shouted right in his ear and suddenly he was face-first on the ground with what felt like a dozen arms and legs all over him. Andrew's first thought was that their costumes were better. Then he slowly began to realize they weren't in costume. He tried to explain. He told them about the autograph, about his mission, about Fatal Carnage, about how the handcuffs were too tight. They weren't listening at all.

Some of those ambulance guys showed up. They didn't do a thing for Andrew. They were treating the guy he fell on for a broken rib and a stab wound. No one seemed to know how it happened. Then he felt someone messing around with his pockets. He heard cloth tearing and a guy saying, "He had a knife in his pocket."

"Well, yeah," said the guy who was stabbed, "it's a pocket knife."

Again, Andrew tried to explain that it was old and just wouldn't open or close, but no one seemed to care. Spurgle was a good citizen. He paid his taxes. He had a law degree! He shouldn't be treated like a common criminal. Even worse, after they emptied his pockets into a little pile, he could see his phone screen was cracked and the hotel pen had broken and leaked all over Fatal Carnage.

Needless to say, he spent the rest of the weekend in jail. Early Monday morning, the police fetched him down to a courtroom for his bail hearing.

"Mm. Mm-hmm. Andrew Spurgle," the judge said. Andrew remembered her. How could he forget? Fortunately, she didn't recognize him.

The judge rustled a stack of paper in front of her and began leafing through them, looking down through her bifocals. "Mm-hmm. Let's see. You're charged with trespassing, breaking and entering, mmm, vandalism, destruction of property, arson, battery, reckless conduct...wow, there's a lot of charges here. Lots of plaintiffs, too. Officer Lewis?!" The elderly judge scanned the page. "Stabbed! How is he doing?"

"He's stable," said the Bailiff. "Jones and I are collecting cards and gifts. We're visiting him tomorrow night."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. I'm good for twenty. Where were we? Oh, yes, the plaintiffs. The hotel, the convention center, Wendell Cobb – no, really, the author? What's the Springfield Fictional Charity Association?"

Then Spurgle made a terrible mistake. He stood up and said, "Your honor, I can explain."

At the sound of his voice the judge looked at him over her glasses. Recognition slowly dawned in her eyes. "Oh no," she said, "not you again! Please tell me there's no armadillo."