Supanova 4: Ambiguously Hairy Genitals

Don't hate me because I am beautiful.

Don't hate me because I am beautiful.

After the sometimes traumatizing ordeals of the previous days, Sunday was a walk in the fly-infested park, to be sure.  I’m not even sure the day warrants a report, but I’ll see what I can dredge up from memory.

Seems my skin is highly allergic to peanuts being rubbed all over it, and the slight discomfort that I was feeling because of it later on Saturday had graduated to an extreme and revolting agony by Sunday morning.  My uneasy sleep filled with dreams of becoming an Elephant Man was a precursor to the ghastly sight that awaited me in the mirror upon waking.  I wept there, collapsed with grief on the cold bathroom floor tiles, wept and considered joining The Hatch in his mournful, raging travels.  What else was there for a wretched thing like myself, a thing that could only exist on the fringe of society, a beastly thing of knobs and swollen, fluid filled swellings?  Recalling how terribly ugly everyone at the convention had been so far, I cheered up, and got dressed.

Down on the street, the driver pointed at me and said “You’re so hideous and unpleasant to look at you must be going to Supanova.”  I nodded and slurped a response with my newly altered face, and he kicked me into the vehicle, slamming the door on my leg, the frame bending around my shattered bone, closing firm.

It was fitting for me to crawl from the car into the green room, leaving a trail of juices.  Over time, I learned to exert less effort, simply using the juices to slide upon with minimal bodily movement.

My Q&A panel went smoothly, with the main topic being the waning importance of organized religion as opposed to a self grown sense of spiritual morality in the decision making processes  of a functional society.  At least that’s what I think it was about.  It was hard to hear through all the growths in my ear canal.  I did find it curious that so many people wearing cat ears and ridiculously puffy Luigi costumes and would give a shit about anything like that, but gave them the benefit of the doubt.

I paused on my way back to the green room, listening to the hollow ticking sound coming from Katee Sackhoff, still spread out on the spot where she slid to a stop the day before.  A feral anime fangirl, portly and cosplaying as what I could only assume was a marshmallow with a sword, was pecking at Sackhoff’s ankle, threads of tendon and vines of vein still tethering the ankle to the fangirl’s mouth.  Fangirl heard me or sensed my presence, and, like a feeding vulture, warily lifted it’s head to look directly at me, it’s wild, dead eyes assessing the threat I posed.  The cardboard sword in it’s hand twitched slightly, signaling it’s readiness to defend itself and its meal.  I left it alone.

It’s very odd to be at a convention where I don’t know any of the artists.  Everyone here is here as part of their pre-built little groups, so I’m very much on the outside, observing, taking notes, noting weaknesses and so on.  The green room was where I really felt that the most, watching these people with their friends or spouses or hideous companions chattering about precisely the things that I have no interest in.  It could be that they were so disgusted by my terrible transformation to even look at me, but it had to be more than that.    I noticed they treated the  pile of remains that were left of Hayden Panetierre pretty much in the same way, so I didn’t feel entirely singled out.  Still, my visit to this new land has been incredibly quiet in a lot of ways.

I headed out for the signing sessions and noticed that the fangirl was no longer perched upon Sackhoff.  Replacing her was a terrible crimson splash across the floor where the chubby thing stood.  Sackhoff was still active and I knew it.  Everyone knew it, but this new development was more proof of it.  I hurried my squishy slide away from the scene, trying to go on with life as usual.

Ya know, often, while signing, one of the crew would lean over and say comment on how it must be to have so many girls wanting to meet me.  Must be great, they assume.  Really, considering the fact that I only look like a little kid and am actually 67 years old, the fact that only 13 year old girls want anything to do with me is hardly anything I can take advantage of since my stint in prison and years of psychological counseling.  It only enhances that sense of being isolated here on my overseas adventures.  I laugh at it, but underneath my enormous, tumorous face, a face not unlike that of the Brain Bug’s in Starship Troopers, tears of ichor form and burn at my cheek masses.

That night, Sly, a kindly priest working for the con took us all out for some damn fine Korean BBQ.  Quinny, another machine built specifically for convention purposes, revealed his ambiguously hairy genitals.  More on that later.

For now, I shall wander the streets in search of a place to belong.  Should you spy me in your vicinity, do not look harshly upon me.  Know only that it was the peanuts and the hatred that did this to me.

Peanuts…and hate.