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  “Ah! Fuck! You little bitch!” they hissed, their eyes closed tight, green spray paint dripping down their cheeks.

  The next guy that lumbered towards her was a little more hesitant after seeing his buddies get their asses handed to them by a woman that probably topped out at 110 pounds, and it cost him. Jolita was merciless, after faking spraying him in the face, he put his hands up, and that’s when she blasted him square in the kiwis with a kick that could have hit a 40-yard field goal. The guy let out a crazy squeal and curled up like a pillbug.

  Jolita stepped past him and came right over to me. Her plump lips caught the glint of the LA sun. “Eddie, you’re better than this. Than them. Don’t do this.”

  Even if she was right, I still had a gnawing in my stomach and bills to pay and I couldn’t just throw away this job—as shitty as it was—for someone I didn’t even know. I couldn’t look at her. “I can’t. You don’t know how it is. Please... leave.”

  She pushed me back with enough force that my head snapped up to make eye contact with her again. “You are just like them.”

  “It’s just a job!” I shouted back. “And I need it. I’m broke. I got no friends, no family, no food in my stomach. It’s fine for you to run around with your pack of followers and do whatever you want, but I have to live in the real world and that means work. I’m sorry about your artwork...but I gotta do what I gotta do.”

  I couldn’t believe I was doing it, but I pointed the power washer at her. She had practically kicked the nuts off a guy right in front of me—I didn’t want to be next.

  A series of emotions played out on Jolita’s face in an instant, from surprise to anger to sympathy. She turned to run away and help her friends, who at this point were mocking the three guys she had dusted and heckling my other co-workers who were standing around trying to figure out what to do next, but she paused and turned her head back to look at me one last time. “You could be somebody, Eddie Vance, if you just stopped letting yourself be nobody.”

  Her words cut me to the bone and I felt ashamed of myself, truly deeply ashamed of who I was in that moment and the path my life had taken.

  When the sounds of distant police sirens started blaring, Jolita and her pack scrambled away in ten different directions, like mice scurrying away as a kitchen light is turned on. I felt like I made a huge mistake, like maybe this was one of those moments in life where I was supposed to make a decision, to choose between two possible futures, and I chose the wrong one.

  My stomach was a knot. I had to squint to fight back the tears as I resignedly picked up my gear and moved closer to the wall with Jolita’s mural on it. It was beautiful, and not just for graffiti art; if it were on canvas, it could have hung in any art museum in the world. I opened up the pressure valve and put my hand on the nozzle and slowly opened it up just enough to let out a fine mist of water and chemical vapor and then paused to look back over my shoulder.

  She was gone, and I half-wished I had gone with her.

  “It’s about time you guys showed up,” my foreman said to one of the police officers while she was still exiting her squad car. Only two cars and four officers showed up, but the way the sirens echoed off of the buildings all around made it sound like an entire precinct was caravaning to our location. “When are you gonna get off your asses and do something about these damned street rats? Bad enough they tag up the city, but they assaulted three of my guys.”

  I looked at the mural again. Really looked at it.

  Jolita was wrong about me, just like everyone else in my life who told me that I was a “dreamer” and that I “would never amount to anything” if I didn’t get “a real job.” I wasn’t a nobody. I was an artist.

  I picked up my gear and walked over to my foreman, who was still giving the cops a hard time.

  “I’m not washing that mural off the wall.” I thrust the pressure washer rod into his hands. My arms dropped, letting the rest of the gear tumble to the ground. I stood there to see what he would say. He couldn’t kill me, not with the police standing there.

  “You little shit! Pick up that gear, get back over there and wipe that wall clean! Or you can forget about getting out of here on time today, or any other day!” It didn’t seem to matter to him that the police were standing right there. He just continued acting like the same bullying asshole he had always been.

  Some people never change. Others do. No matter what came, I would always be the second kind. I started to make my change when I got the hell out of Wisconsin and moved to California to become an artist. I got a little sidetracked along the way, but I was getting back on track and nothing was going to stop me. I was an artist, a storyteller, a creator of worlds. Like my chrome-skinned warrior Chromar, the hero of Crystalia, who rose up to fight the deadly crystalline hordes of the evil tyrant Obsidius Vex, I was not going to let anything get in my way.

  “Find someone else to do it. I quit.”

  I tore off my goggles, gloves, rubber boots and coveralls and left them lying in a heap next to the work truck. I grabbed my portfolio from the spot against the wall where I had stashed it. Then I slung it over my shoulder, hopped on my skateboard and pumped for all I was worth for my date with destiny at Marvel Comics (West Coast).

  Chapter Three

  Skateboard wheels made a loud grinding sound as I wove through LA traffic. Horns honked, and I got “fuck yous!” in just about every language (No, I don’t really know any other language, but you can always tell when someone’s verbally flipping you the bird). I skitched onto a big old truck, my knuckles going white as I held onto the back hinge. Exhaust fumes swirled around me, but I wasn’t letting go.

  “Pendejo!” someone yelled as they drove by. “Lunatic!” another one said. I must have skitched on the back of that truck for a good half mile before I let go, leaned down onto my skateboard and let gravity speed me downhill onto a shortcut. I slowed down, my board scraping the asphalt, just enough that I caught a lightpost and used it to swing myself and went allying up a sidewalk. Then, I got back onto a major road, whizzing past pedestrians. Some dude’s fries went flying as he ducked back to avoid me.

  “Sorry dude! I’m going to work at Marvel!” I hollered back. “I’ll get you later!”

  I don't know how I did it, but even after all of that craziness at the work site, I made it to the Marvel building with just a few minutes to spare. On a typical day like this, after 3:00, it’s an hour drive, easy, from Long Beach Boulevard to Laurel Canyon, two hours by bus, and I made the trip in 50 minutes on my skateboard. I was making moves that I never would have attempted before—dangerous shit—with no fear or hesitation. Everything went my way, even the lights seemed to change to green on cue whenever I got near an intersection. I was fulfilling my purpose and the universe was rewarding my decision. That power of visualization shit really worked!

  The Marvel building is big, huge even, for this part of the Valley, but it’s still kind of nondescript. It’s blue glass and tan facade blend into the sky and the dry, dusty hills that ring the horizon, making the building almost seem like a mirage or an illusion, if not for the imposing red block “MARVEL” sign at the top, floating over Hollywood like the true box office overlords they have become. I couldn’t wait to meet one of those overlords… and then become one! I could just picture myself looking out from a window at the top of the high rise, my lanky arms pumping over my head, shouting, “Yeah motherfuckers!!! Who’s a loser now?!!!”

  It wasn’t all a jerkoff desire. I wanted to tell stories, awesome stories, that reached the widest audience possible. They were not going to just publish my Chromar story right out of the gate, I knew that. But I figured they would start me on a small book like The Glorious Adventures of Goldballs and they would see what a great job I did with a hero like that and eventually give me X-Men or Avengers. I would rock the world drawing those books for six months, traveling the world hitting all of the cons, hooking up with Marvel groupies and cosplay girls left and right, maybe cultivating my own fan following, and then, then they would ask me what I wanted to do next and I would drop Chromar, Hero of Crystalia on them. BOOM! Smash hit! Multiple reprints with variant cover artists and foil, die-cut and plastic crystal cover enhancements, worldwide phenomena, movie deal, the works!

  As I glided through the extra-high, double-wide automatic doors and into the lobby of Marvel—MARVEL!—I knew that I had made the right decision leaving that power washing job to come here. This was my place. These were my people. I belonged here, surrounded by superhero artwork and posters and statues and holograms and…

  “Chris Hemsworth’s jockstrap from Thor: Ragnarok, boys and girls. That’s right, the one that actually held his godly man twinkie in place during the scene in which he rumbles with the mighty mocapped Hulk.” The tour guide speaking, adjusted his huge rimmed glasses. He bore such a striking resemblance to Stan Lee doing his best Willie Lumpkin impression that I had to do a double-take as I rushed across the lobby toward the elevator bank. “Those sticklers from the Motion Picture Association expect superheroes to be formless, bulgeless Ken Dolls, so even a little movement from the God of Thunder’s little hammer can get the movie saddled with an R-rating and that’s a headache Marvel doesn’t need.”

  I couldn’t help myself and stopped to get a better look when he moved on from Thor’s dingyman-thong to a ten-inch flap of wrinkly pink latex that looked like something you might see hanging from a hook in a serial killer’s abattoir. “This right here is the synthetic ‘homely skin’ that Scarlett ‘Black Widow’ Johansson voluntarily wore over her face during all in-frame shots with Iron Man himself, Robert Downey, Jr., so that her drop-dead gorgeous looks wouldn’t distract from his brilliant performances. And over here is Chris Evans’ beard from Avengers: Infinity War. Here’s a little known
fact: it was made from the hide of Bubo, one of the real raccoons that inspired Rocket in the Guardians of the Galaxy movies...”

  As much as I wanted to follow Stan Lumpkin around and devour every scrap of Marvel minutiae (as I dreamed of owning —and probably wearing—all three of those pieces of historic memorabilia once I became a famous artist) I had to get back on track and find the right elevator for that famous artist part to have a chance of happening. I wasn’t going to be late. Not this time.

  Thankfully, I spied another tour guide who didn’t have a group with him and made a beeline toward him. This tour guide was dressed as Happy Hogan from the Iron Man Movies but a version of the character that seemed to have developed a small drug problem and an aversion to shaving. “Hey, Happy, can you tell me which elevator goes to the Marvel Comics offices?”

  The tour guide wheeled around quickly and bore holes through me with his eyes. “I’m not… I’m not Happy, okay.” He attempted to smooth his tangled graying locks back off of his broad forehead. “It’s that one right over there, kid, the one with Thor’s face over it. Forty-second floor. I’m going there too.”

  I sprang into action, walked hurriedly alongside this Happy Hogan tour guide. “Thanks for showing me the way! That’s a perfect Happy Hogan. You look just like Jon Favreau.”

  “I am Jon Favreau,” he spat as we made our way to the elevator. Then he slapped his hand on the up button so hard that it startled me into dropping my skateboard. When I bent over to pick it up, I felt an uncomfortable wetness seep down the back of my shorts that filled me with dread. What the hell?

  The elevator was packed with dudes about my age, most of them with pained or stunned looks on their faces, who shuffled out of the elevator so slowly that I let decorum fall by the wayside and started to weave my way through them to get inside. I didn’t pause to think about the silent march of the dead dudes walking, I just hammered the button for the 42nd floor with my skateboard and then frantically checked myself with my free hand to feel why I was wet. I couldn’t find anything, so just figured it was sweat. I had raced across LA like my life depended on it, which, from the explosive growling in my stomach, it did. So it made sense I had worked up a sweat.

  The elevator shot skyward so fast that I was at the 42nd floor before Happy finished his next insistence that he really was Jon Favreau and how everywhere he went people thought he was just some chubby limo driver and it was really starting to piss him off.

  The doors opened and a pleasant metallic voice said, “Forty-second floor. Marvel Comics offices (west coast). World’s mightiest comic book publisher (west coast).”

  I stepped out of the elevator to find a scene I was not expecting. For some reason, I had always pictured Marvel like an old-school open bullpen with no walls or offices, just rows and rows of cubicles filled with writers and artists. Everyone would have their cubicles decorated with artwork and toys and they would be sharing artwork over their cubicle walls and famous artists like Rob Liefeld would drop by to give tips on drawing tiny feet.

  In reality, there were no cubicles or famous artists, just a couple chairs opposite the elevator—tan, like the carpeting and wallpaper—a few potted plants and an imposing front desk at least twelve feet long that was staffed by a really mean looking old lady with a crazy high collar that looked as if it were made of doilies. There were a few pieces of very neatly framed artwork hanging here and there, but it was hardly the comic book mecca I had imagined it would be.

  Even with “MARVEL” in huge gold block letters on the wall behind the desk, I quickly ducked my head back inside the elevator to see what floor was being displayed, because I had the wrong floor.

  “Portfolio review?” croaked the receptionist from somewhere out of sight.

  I took one short shuffle step out of the elevator to see a pair of hawk-like eyes peering just over the top of the desk at me. “Uh, I think...so. I’m…I’m supposed to meet with, um, Albert Jefferson, about my art.” There was no movement from the crone as I stumbled toward the desk. I felt too weird just talking to eyes, a weathered forehead and a tall gray pincushion of hair with at least five pens sticking out of it. “He called me.”

  “I’m sure he did.” She scrunched up her face to look me over, hesitating a bit too long on my portfolio before looking off to her right while gesturing down the hallway in the opposite direction with her gnarled crow’s foot of a left hand. “Room 427. Don’t bother signing in.” As she said this last part, she slowly rested her taloned hand on the visitor log on the desk and dragged it away from me.

  “Uh, is there a bathroom I can use first?” I didn’t want to ask, but I wanted to make sure my shirt was just sweaty and not some other weird thing.

  Without looking up again, the receptionist extended a single bony digit down the hallway in the same direction as my meeting. “It’s on the way.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I did my best to sound professional then fast-walked past the desk and broke out into a healthy jog as I ignored my urges to inspect every piece of artwork that lined the similarly-tan hallway and swivel-headed my way to the restroom.

  I was in luck. The restroom had a large vanity area with a mirror so big it seemed like it was another universe. I took off my shirt, and other than a faint wetness on my pasty white back, there wasn’t anything else.

  The restroom had old-style hand dryers refurbished to look like the chest and head of a suit of Iron Man armor which was just what I needed to speed-dry some of the wetness off my back. Instead of a typical button, you push the arc reactor in the chest armor and air blows out of the mouth slit in the helmet, which swivels comically. I almost laughed out loud as a multitude of bad jokes about Iron Man blowing things sprang to mind.

  My back dry, I dashed for the door, rushed down the hallway toward Room 427. Despite the creepy crone and quitting my job, the outright violence of the protesters, I still had a very good feeling about the meeting and slowed my pace to a stroll as the room numbers ticked up and my destination approached. No, my destiny approached.

  The newfound confidence that allowed me to stand up to my boss, quit my job and break a half-dozen traffic laws in my mad dash across Los Angeles evaporated instantly when I reached Room 427. It wasn’t the office I imagined. It wasn't an office at all.

  Chapter Four

  The room was just a big bare conference room with rows of cheap stackable chairs all along the walls and a single folding table at the far end where a huge man with a scrappy goatee and limp ponytail was presiding. Normally, I would have sized this guy up as your typical, run-of-the-mill fanboy in a blue t-shirt that was ready to burst at the gut, but knowing his position, his righteous authority, he radiated a lording vibe like Thanos himself. Here he was, looming over his desk, over my future—my destiny, and I was about to present him with my infinity stones, my art.

  I stepped in and swallowed nervously.

  All along the walls, artist after artist just like me was seated. A scrawny dude with glasses so thick they looked like they were about to tip his head over, a built black dude with a Captain America shirt, an asian guy dressed to the tees with a patterned shirt buttoned all the way up, and a cute as hell red-head with a high ponytail and the faintest freckles along her commercial-actress cheeks. These were just the ones that stood out to me, but there were at least ten more of us artists.

  We all gave each other those flitting awkward stares that fellow interviewees give one another. I sat. My attention zoomed over to the desk where Albert Editor Guy was rifling through the oversized pages of an artist, a pudgy blond guy.

  “Yeah, see this is my drawing of pyslocke.” The blond artist wiped sweat from his brow nervously. “She’s my favorite character, Mr. Jefferson, Editor Guy, sir.”

  Editor Guy’s eyelids were heavy with the detachment of a judgemental god. He sighed. “I will give the anatomy of this pseudo-asian assassin a B-, the coloring a C-, and the rendering of her bosom a D-.”