As we approached the area of disturbance, I began bargaining with The Almighty. I promised to do everything from work with Habitat for Humanity (hey, I can swing a paintbrush with the best of 'em) to giving up cruising naughty web sites if he just wouldn't let the convention be canceled. I knew I'd get my money back, but that wasn't the point. I wanted the experience.

Oddly enough, it wasn't raining. Usually with thunder heads that big, it would be Great Flood time. I'm talking be on the lookout for an old man in a big boat with lots of animals. But there wasn't a drop. However, the static electricity in the air made my already curly hair stand up like dandelion fluff. Charming. Since I view hair mousse as roughly the equivalent of toxic waste, all I could do was wave it out of my eyes occasionally.

It still hadn't rained when we reached the bus station, and the lack of rain was beginning to make me even more nervous than a downpour would have. It just wasn't natural. I got a taxi and rode to the hotel. There was thunder accompanying the flashes now. It rolled, rumbled, and boomed, making me feel rather tense as we drove down glass lined canyons. I could imagine sheets of glass a dozen or so stories up shivering in their frames.

We made it to the hotel without incident, and I checked into my room. Not bad. Better than the roadside motels I'd experienced on trips when I was a child. After stowing my things, I went down to the lobby to look around. The convention didn't start till early the next morning. I intended to be one of the first in line, so I hoped to scope out the layout that evening.

There was a bigger crowd in the hotel than I had expected, and I found out why. They were running a DCcon, ending that evening with a costume contest. I checked my funds. Hm, not exactly extensive. Still, it looked interesting, so I put a pass on my VISA and went in.

Most of the booths had closed down, but there were still a few. I browsed, window shopping. The traders all recognized me as a lookiloo, and didn't try to press me to buy. Some of the less valuable comics were on open display. I studied them closely. When the attendant gave me the fish eye, I pointedly tucked my hands behind my back, to indicate that I knew not to touch. He relaxed.

There was an array of all the super titles from the fifties and sixties. I'd been born near the end of the fifties, so that was my time period. They'd kind of lost me when they got into the 'angst' period, when the drawing became more stylized and less, well, comicbookish. I surveyed the titles.

Superman, of course. Then Superboy, Supergirl, Jimmy Olsen, and Lois Lane. I'd never been interested in the funny animal, or teen age hijinx type comics. I'd been a super hero fan all the way. It was such a cool universe. Totally illogical, of course. I mean, Superman's disguise as Clark Kent consisted of a pair of horn rims and combing his hair different. Please.

I examined one old issue of Lois Lane longingly. It had always been one of my favorites. Aside from her one blind spot about Superman and Clark, she was one smart cookie. She was tough, energetic, and wouldn't let anyone stop her from getting her story. *If you were alive today, Lois babe,* I thought, *you'd be on Sixty Minutes or 20/20. Why were you always panting after Superman? Anyone who looked could see he was never going to make a commitment.*

They announced the costume contest, and I went into the main room. I managed to work my way around to one side of the stage, right in front of an exit door. I had a good view from there, as everyone else was clustering near the front. Beyond the door behind me, I heard a hissing, slashing sound. It seemed like the rain had finally arrived, damn it.

The crowd on stage was as thick as the one down on the floor. The contestants jostled each other. I'd never seen so many tights in my life. Who'd have believed you could get that much spandex in one room outside an aerobics class?

The third prize went to someone in a Catwoman costume. I had to applaud her stamina. It restricted my breathing just looking at her costume. I think it was the whip that won it for her. I believe one of the judges was a closet submissive.

Any way, second place went to a big... actually, a very big guy dressed as Superman. I have to admit, it was the best Superman costume I'd ever seen, even counting the one's in the movies and television shows. I mean, that baby clung. It hugged an almost obscenely perfect body like a tattoo. Did I just say obscene? Yeah, it hugged in the crotch, too. When the judge, a twittery little fellow, went to pin the red ribbon on him, he shuffled his boots in becoming modesty.

There seemed to be some difficulty. I heard the judge grumble, "Say, fellow, what is that made of? It snapped the pin right in half."

"Must be a defective pin," Superman rumbled, taking the ribbon.

"And now, the first prize winner..."

A kid in an orangish short pants suit and matching bowler bounced out of the crowd and started taking bows. A flower nodded on the brim of the hat. "Thank you, thank you! You all have such good judgement! I'm happy to accept! The engraving on the cup should read..." He started reeling off a string of letters, mostly consonants. Was he Czechoslovakian? Then I remembered.

He was dressed as that little interdemensional annoyance dude, Mr. M... Hell, I couldn't remember. I'd always mentally pronounced it 'Mixedpickles'. I took a closer look. He really did fit the image, at least as well as the Superman clone. He wasn't a kid, like I'd first thought. He was a midget, with a balding pate and a pudgy, bulldog face. Clev-er.

He was dancing a jig in front of the big guy in blue and red. He was, in fact, sticking out his tongue and waggling his fingers in his ears. "I told you!" he crowed. "I told you that I'd win and you'd lose! They don't even think you're a creditable imitation of yourself! I won, and you have to stay here now."

"Oh dear," stammered the judge. "Look, sonny, you're mistaken. You haven't won."

The imp stopped in mid hop. I'm telling you, the little booger hung in mid air for a full two seconds. before he dropped down. Not even Mikhail Baryshnikov had lift like that in his heyday. Something weird was going on. But surrounded by so much other weirdness, no one but me seemed to notice. "What do you mean? I won. I have to win. I not only look the most like myself, I am myself."

"Oh, now don't get upset," soothed the judge, in a smarmy tone that made me want to hit him. "It's a very nice effort, but just not quite right."

Stamping of feet faster than a seasoned flamenco dancer. "But it can't not be right!" he insisted. "It's me!"

"Well, with that attitude and your height, you should bulk up and try as Wolverine next time. In any case, the winner of first place is the ever lovely...Sheena!"

A Shannon Tweed lookalike in a leopard skin thong, rawhide strips, and two strategically placed scallop shells started bouncing up and down and squealing, threatening to take her costume from R to NC-17.

"Nooooooooo!" Mr. Mixedpickles did another float, kicking and thrashing.

The Superman stepped toward him, hand outstretched. "All right, Mr. Mixedpickles" *He got it right, but I'll be damned if I try to spell it.* "You lost--you didn't win first prize. Now, return us to Metropolis."

The crowd howled with glee. Convention crowds love skits. I'd have been laughing along with them, if it wasn't for the levitation bit. Two characters who looked too damn perfect, a costume that was safety pin resistant, levitation... It looked like it was Alternate Universe time. Comic characters visit the real world. I wondered if they had comics back wherever they came from featuring...who? Who did we have who qualified as a hero? For the life of me, I couldn't come up with a single person who kicked butt for the forces of Good on a regular basis. Walker, Texas Ranger? Mr. Mixedpickles avoided Superman's grasp. *How the heck did he do that, with ol' Supe's super speed? Musta got a shot of red kryptonite, or something*. He snatched the tiny gold cup and blue ribbon out of the hands of the judge, earning an indignant squeal from Sheena. This made her chest swell to the point that one shell popped loose, and the audience went nuts. Horny comic collectors swarmed the stage.

In the confusion, Mixedpickles darted toward the nearest exit--which just happened to be behind me. I suppose he expected me to throw myself to the side as he pelted toward me. To quote Bugs Bunny, "He don't know me vewy well, do he?" I stepped square into his path, crouched slightly, arms spread like a basketball player covering his man at the hoop. I've never been athletic, but I'm good at that. I've had taller players scream in frustration because I stayed on them like I'd been super glued, but I never earned a foul by touching them.

Almost to me, he saw that I wasn't moving, and started to pull that levitation shit. His feet left the stage and he started to angle up, running through the air. I guess he intended to go over my head. White girls can't jump, so I didn't wait for him to gain altitude. I lunged, and grabbed him in a flying tackle that brought both of us to the ground. Whatever the hell he was up to, I didn't want him getting away from old Blue Tights, who was probably the only being in this dimension who had a chance of curbing the little lunatic.

Ever try to hold on to a really pissed off five year old? Think about that, then add in adult strength and the disposition of a pit bull who'd just been informed that the operation at the vet's wasn't meant to repair a hernia. Mixedpickles was thumping me, and yelling words that never would have been allowed even before the Comics Code.

I saw a pair of red boots (damn things didn't seem to have a top opening, did he slide the whole thing on like Doctor Dentons 'jammies with footsies?) come to stop beside me. "Can you do something about this Bozo on crack?" I asked. Perfectly reasonable request, if you ask me.

"Yes. Thank you for your help, Miss." One Smithfield ham-size hand closed on Mr. Mixedpickles. The other gripped my shoulder, I assume in preparation to helping me up. "Come on, old boy. You lost the bargain, fair and square. Return me to Metropolis, then go back to your home dimension."

The squirming manikin went dead still, and an evil grin spread over his face as he glared first at Superman, then at me. *Uh oh. I do so not like that.*

He blurted, "Selkcipdexim!" Or words to that effect. And the auditorium was gone.

Scratch that. I'm sure the auditorium was still, to quote Feival, Somewhere, out there. I was gone.