When Dreams Turn Into Motor City Nightmares

 Memo from the Sports Desk-

   I wake up, a small victory, and it is Sunday, and I just close my eyes but Sebastian Owl is pestering me on the house intercom from the other side of the JCMsTown Compound, and I...just...can't...get...any...sleep.

   The house communication system was installed by Wang, the Asian bass player, and the only Asian that I know (currently I should say because there was that one girl from 2007 who was a big Dallas Mavericks fan, and worked with me, and wanted to watch the playoffs, so I naturally suggested a hotel, which turned into a motel but whatever, and at the start of the 3rd quarter she tells me she's seventeen). Anyway, the house intercom system that Wang installed is a series of cups connected by some type of high quality electrical cord, or maybe string, and they are everywhere throughout the crawlspaces. Really ominous shit.

   "Are you awake? Alive? You really should go to that Motor City Nightmares convention today," Owl says. I completely forgot it was this weekend. It is already noon. Everybody I know is "out" for it, Kentucky Pete (money), the band (domesticated), E First (in that 'hanging out with boring people' phase). Pointless.

   But then I started thinking. Owl made a great point. I really should go. I've had some great memories at these conventions, my favorite being around 2015 when I was wandering around the very same Motor City Nightmares and ran into partially famous actress/Cinemax babe Misty Mundae (but call me "Erin"). She confessed to me that she was six beers deep (it was 4pm; just my type), and I countered that I was only one behind her, a lie, it was Two. She proceeded to inform me that I was "Okay," a small victory, and that nearly everyone here was "pretty awful"

   "'Nearly' everyone?" I replied and we shared a laugh because I might have been right and even though I was "just okay" I was not completely awful. Naturally, I asked if she wanted another drink which kind of proves there are more ways than one to be completely awful. Actually, if the lights had gone out, but there were still random blacklights, one would have seen my eyes glowing a blood red.

   After getting her (and myself) another drink, I decided to give up looking for my companion at the time, not exactly ditching her, but just a temporary thing. Deal with it, rock and roll. The companion actually would have been into this, but in a trash way, and actually was left out of the equation because, as much as it sucks to say, was inexcusably sort of a boring person. At some point during this entire exchange the vendor next to her said, "She was even worse yesterday," and I kind of felt a tinge of fear and apprehension but that obviously faded into exhilaration, and then [REDACTED]. Later that night during the afterparty she was still wandering around, living it up, tossed me a smile, a drunken wave, and it was 2015 before things stopped being Too Much Fun.

   Flash, jump cut to the present. I race out of the daydream and use the elaborate intercom to tell Owl, "I never asked her if she knew how to play tambourine."

   "What are you talking about?" Owl asks.

   "Nevermind, I'm in. Going solo." And we're off...

   I arrive at the Sheraton Novi as soon as humanly possible, a small victory. I made sure to load up on all of my press passes: Metro Times (ha ha), Hour Detroit, Astronomicon, even last year's Hamtramck Music Festival wristband. During the gap in the narrative, Kentucky Pete said that he would meet me there, but had no intention of going in, which confused me. I decided to give it a test run and get my official Fiend title belt signed by Tom Savini, famous make-up dude, actor, Sex Machine. The title belt was an inexplicable, and very pricy gift from -jr who was probably on a bender at the time. This was an opportunity I could not pass up and had no intention of paying to get in.

   I stop at the main desk. Checkpoint 1. You need to establish yourself if you plan on any type of savage burn. Since it was the last day of the Con, the workers were predictably tired. Perfect.

   "Yep, here all weekend myself," I lie, "Metro Times. Pay is non-existent but it gets me to cover things like this," I half-lie as I wave the bogus press passes around. The Metro Times one is even modified to include "Dr. Bryan Metro", the "Dr" being just one more middle finger in a sea of middle fingers. It gets me in everywhere, and every day I chuckle. Thanks a lot fucko's!

Once inside I spend way too much time being an awful human being but as an unofficial employee of the Metro Times, I can write it off.

   After a few minor distractions, I head over to Savini and hit the home run. (Cracking up at the press pass).

On cue, I get a message from Kentucky Pete that he is almost there so I race out back to the car. Even though it is only $20 on Sunday, the same price as a worthless Hamtramck Music Festival wristband, you have to understand that sneaking yourself in is one task, but dragging this guy in, who obviously does NOT work for Metro Times is going to be a challenge. I take a hit of acid and try to time everything perfectly. Don't bet on it.

   K Pete arrives with a grab bag of Fun and we decide the best bet would be to get completely primed, and for me to keep the Metro Times bootleg press pass because I have already been "established" and that he use the Hamtramck Music Festival wristband which is not the same color as the Sunday bands. No issue because we modify it.

   There are probably three staffers working the entrance, not counting the people at the main desk who already know me. I break out the cell phone which has actually been dead for two hours, and pretend to have the infamous "fake argument" with my boss (ha ha) at the Metro Times and we just blow right in. After a few seconds of cackling and bumping into people, we make our way back to Savini so Kentucky Pete can get his official mask signed which he brought despite saying he had no intention of going.

   At this point, K Pete was predictably twisted and every time Savini asked him a question it was met with, "Yabba Dabba Doo!". We split that scene as people started to notice and ask questions and then really got to work. As expected, it was a mess. We must have knocked over four displays, not being assholes, actually charming, but the damn title belt kept swinging into things. After the convention Kentucky Pete said he was keeping count of how many total strangers I said, "Hey, great time. Whatever's right," to. He counted 46. At one point, K Pete had his sights set on a custom Michael Myers figure, a really beautiful piece.

   "That is one beautiful piece," I say, daring him, knowing we are both low on money.

   "I'd love to have it," he replies.

   "Just take it," I say, "Just walk the fuck out with it. Who's going to stop you? We're with the Metro Times. They can just blame them for sending two complete unprofessional psychos to cover this."

   "Hey man, you always say that we're the professionals," he says, thinking about it.

   "That's right. So take it! Let's go. My legs are cramping anyway and my allergies are acting up."

   Instead of boosting the Michael Myers figure Kentucky Pete inexplicable pops the head off of it with his finger as the vendor cringes.

   "Mother fucker, that was an original custom," the vendor yells, maybe even crying.

   "Hold on, I'll hit the ATM. Hold your horses," Kentucky Pete says, and that was when I noticed that he actually pocketed the figure's head.

   "That's an $80 figure," the vendor says.

   "ATM, I said. Be right back," K Pete says, and then under his breath, "Don't count on it."

   As we walk away he admits to stealing the head of the Myers figure so that he can do a scan of it and then make his own figure, and I decide that I need a drink so we head to the make-shift bar . By this time I have changed into one of my alternate outfits because I knew it would be this way and I run into the record store kid.

We finally make it to the make-shift bar and I gasp at the $6 charge for a single soft beer.

   "It's awful man. How they gouge us," K Pete says, eyebrow raised, a dare.

   "Damn right. But these are hard working people," I reply as I place a dollar into the tip jar but bring it back when the waitress is not looking.

   "Shameless man. Totally shameless," K Pete tells me as I watch him dip his hand into the jar and take out $5. He sees me see this.

   "For old time's sake," he says.

   "No! Not old time's! You pull this five spot gimmick every time!"

   "You're no saint," he mumbles.

   "You have at least three figures in your coat. I saw you. Plus that Michael Myers head. That's three figures and a head. In your coat! And who wears a coat in July?" I am frantic.

   "Can't prove it. I'm just a guest of you and the Metro Times. Don't judge me and my coat. I have poor circulation."

   "Good lord. We have snuck in, never paying, and you are already off the rails."

   "Hey man, you're the one with the beer."

   "Fair enough, but you destroyed that poor guy's custom figure..."

   "Accidents happen."

   "Listen, we should just leave while we are ahead. We actually turned a profit from the make-shift bar and you have three figures in your coat. That being said, I'm not ready to leave yet. Let's walk around," I say.

   "I like it. Hunt some slash," as people turn to look when somebody wearing a winter coat in July says something like "Hunt some slash". I look around to see if Misty Mundae is here this year so I can close the deal but she is not, but it's not quite the deal breaker because I will see her again. At this point too many people are following us so we decide to split. Sorry there was no real climax, but here are some other photos. Photo Blog!!

Amazing...personality....

This was probably when things started to unravel. The MT press pass is the gift that keeps on giving. At one point some woman asked, "Oh with Metro Times?" like it meant something bwahahahahaha.

Not....boring.

Jason Voorhees cosplayer eating a pizza in the lobby. He was muttering, "Too fucking hot in this shit. Hot so hot."

With a Silent Hill cosplayer. She could have been a hardbody but now that I look at the pic and her arms being much fitter than mine....concerned.

Here's a peter puffer for the ladies.

Here's a custom Michael mask that must have been from the deleted scene where somebody shit on his face.

Obviously on break from HQ or, even worse, Henry VIII's.

Somebody was actually selling a bag of dicks for $20. I almost scooped it up for Ryan Allen, or Milo, or somebody but not in my budget.

Cracking up at Creeper Kurt Angle in the background. Ahhh shit, it's late. All of the above was composed in the span of 3 hours, so no complaining allowed. I'm tired.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro