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Into The Lion's Den: Sweat-Stained Secrets of the Mystic Tarantula The next morning I thumb through the phone book, eventually settling on a comic book store called The Mystic Tarantula, on the grounds that it is the least silly-sounding name of all the comic book stores in the area. I arrive at 10am, and am pleased to note a Punisher logo in the front window, next to a poster of a glowering Iron Man with a drawn-on word balloon reading "WELCOME TO THE MYSTIC TARANTULA." Once again my journalistic instincts have scored a touchdown. I sense immediately that a story lies within for the taking. I enter to the sound of a dingly bell attached to the door, but attempt to look dramatic and purposeful anyway, framed by the light of the doorway.
At the back of The Mystic Tarantula, perched over a folding card table, are Andrew, a lanky 36 year-old with glasses, a grey Batman T-shirt that fits him like a tarp, and a self-consciously stooped posture, giving him the look of someone composed entirely of elbows; Neil, a portly 27 year-old man with brown Chia Pet patches of beard, who owns both the store and the reeking smell I'd identified earlier; and some guy dressed up like Boba Fett, combing through the store for back issues of The Teen Titans. I move into the depths of The Tarantula slowly, weaving through boxes of comics and stacks of Anime pornography in the most non-threatening manner possible. "Can I help you?" Neil asks suspiciously, in between jumbo-sized slurps of Dr. Pepper. "You can," I say, sitting down on a folding chair. "I write for the most pre-eminent body of investigative cinematic journalism in the 20th century." I pause momentarily to allow the weight of this to sink in. "Here's my card." Neil gives the card a thorough going-over. "Trailer Trash."
"Never heard of you," he says. "We haven't published in print for a few years for tax purposes," I explain. "But we get some very respectable hit rates online." "My Mysteries of the Sith fanpage clears 600,000 hits a day," Neil says, giving me back my card. "How many do you get?" "Five million hits every half-hour," I lie. "It's absolutely fucking ridiculous." Neil remains unimpressed, and after an awkward silence, returns his attention to the card game he's playing with Andrew. My ears immediately prick at the sound of cards shuffling. "Say, what are you guys playing? Cards? Gambling cards? For gambling?" I ask chummily, trying to hide my shaking hands. Neil gives me a look of untrusting disdain a look I will get used to during my time here. "Magic: The Gathering," he answers with a sneer, like the name were stenciled on the wall and I just missed it. I look around me. As it turns out, it is stenciled into the wall, in several places. Well, to hell with them anyway. "You want to play?" asks Andrew, who's more giving in the friendliness department then Neil. This is more like it. Before I can stop myself, the craving to gamble hits me like a radio accidentally kneed into a bathtub. "You bet your cat's fat ass I want to play," I say, lighting a cigarette. I grab Neil's deck and, ignoring his mewling protests, begin shuffling it. "What's the betting limit? This like Texas Hold 'Em?" I query, palming a few cards up into my sleeves while shuffling. "Um. You don't play Magic: The Gathering for money."
There follows a long explanation I don't even attempt to understand, while I flip through cards with names like Ravenous Baloth and Tribal Forcemage. When Neil finally stops explaining, I stop pretending to listen and get down to the most pressing issue. "Right. So no betting?" "No betting." "You kids crack me up," I coo. I decide to get down to brass tacks. "Listen, fellas, I'm covering a story on the new Punisher teaser trailer. I want the real scoop from the people who know the most about it. So: You wanna see it?" My notepad flips open in a blur, my pen at the ready. "Hhnh!" grunt/laughs Neil, with a sound I don't particularly want to hear again. "Uhhhh... YEAH!" he adds sarcastically. "It's only gonna be the best comic-to-film movie ever. Punisher's way cooler than Spider-Man or Hulk." "Psshhht. Whatever, dude," refutes Andrew agreeing, apparently, to disagree. I scribble furiously. "Dolph Lundgren in the last Punisher? I think it's been pretty conclusively proven that Punisher simply does not transition well to film. His premise is most effective as a comic book, or perhaps as a graphic novel." Neil elects not to take this lying down. "Um, okay a little someone called Garth Ennis, Andrew?" he retorts, losing me completely. "The Preacher? His seminal work on the Punisher mini-series, and to a lesser extent the Punisher re-launch series itself? Do I have to explain how the latest incarnation of Punisher is far more adaptable as a cinematic medium?" It is precisely at this point that I spot the flaw in my plan. Namely, that I have indeed found the two people who know more about the Punisher than anyone else, and who are most qualified to discuss the merits of the upcoming film. Sadly, however, they are also the most annoying people on the planet. I slump into my chair in an advanced state of boredom as the debate rages on for twenty minutes. "I'm sorry to interrupt," I interrupt finally. "Why is that man wearing a Boba Fett costume?" I jerk a thumb at Boba. The curiosity has gotten to me. "He writes Boba Fett fan fiction," I am told. "Yes," I say sagely, not understanding a single word of the sentence. "I see." I maintain alert silence and wait for more. "Under the Boba Fett: Enemy of the Empire timeline," Neil adds simply to be as unhelpful as possible, I presume. I allow a half-minute to pass before responding. "You realize that explains nothing," I say, and decide to switch tactics. "Hey, you," I shout, calling over Boba Fett, who looks to be about the fattest bounty hunter in the galaxy. Whoever hires him better hope the bounty's either a twenty-foot jog away or a plate of cheeseburgers. "Why the holy hell are you wearing a Boba Fett costume, man?" "Because I am a bounty hunter," he responds simply, crossing his arms over his chest imperially. I note to my own private amusement that his breastplate expands considerabely to handle the breastload in question. "My name is Morgello Fett."
From underneath his faceplate I hear a weary sigh. It would seem I "just don't get it." Boba soon wanders elsewhere to look at Teen Titan comic books. I turn my attention back to Neil and Andrew. "Did he get that costume made special?" I ask. They don't respond, so I press further. "How much raw tin do you think he needed to make the stomach plate? The man would be hunted down like a dog in wartime." More silence. I sense I have offended, and decide to switch tactics. "Look, let me show you jokers how you're supposed to play Magical Gathering." "It's Magic: the Gath" "It's whatever the hell I say it is. Hey, Boba why don't you go bounty hunt us up a few six-packs of Heineken?" Several beer runs later, the boys and I are deep into a game of 5-Card Draw Magical Gathering at a five dollar minimum bet. They're quick learners, which works to my disadvantage; luckily, they're also kittens when it comes to confrontation, and I quickly discover I can challenge almost any hand and grab the pot. I decide to call. "I call," I say, calling. "Royal Flush!" Neil says triumphantly, fanning his cards out on the table. "What? No, that's bullshit," I maintain through a bleary haze of Heineken and whiskey. "You're retarded and you don't even know." Andrew surveys the cards. Festering Goblin, Graveborn Muse, Caller of the Claw, Possessed Centaur, and my White Godfather of Soul business card complete the flush. "Festering Goblins aren't Aces," I lie. "The Ace was the Sutured Ghoul. Of which," I add, fanning out my cards, "I have four." "I thought Sutured Ghouls were Threes," says Andrew doubtfully, looking at his own cards, which would be a Straight Flush if I wasn't cheating. "Sadly no, Andrew. But you're getting better. Alright, new hand. Are you in, Jeff?" Jeff sits at the other end of the table, munching a pretzel stick sadly. "...It took me years to make that costume," he whines. I adjust my sharp new Boba Fett mask. "I'm sure you'll win it back, man. You just need to roll with the cards. Your problem is you're not rolling with the cards. Here, watch this. Who am I right now? 'I want...HOOP-PAWWW!... to suck... HOOP-PAWW!... your blood!'" "Dracula?" asks Jeff, still stewing. "What? No, you fat pile of ass! I'm what's-his-face, Darth Vapor." "Darth Vader doesn't say 'I want to suck your blood,'" Andrew corrects me. "What? Really?" I rethink my strategy. "Okay, then I was Christopher Reeve. No no, I'll deal again. I don't mind." |
I
quickly find myself disoriented once inside. At first I blame this on
how exceptionally drunk I am but I soon realize this isn't the
cause at all: the store is still like a crypt; dark like a cemetary
at night, or also like a crypt, at night; and reeking, badly, like a
high school change room. My senses reel.
"THE
Trailer Trash. Yes," I say.
I
pause in mid-shuffle. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I begin to suspect I'm not the only one here who's really drunk. 
I
maintain alert silence and wait for more. Nothing is forthcoming, and
I look him in the visor. "Get out of town."