Mr. Wizard World: Victor Dandridge

photo courtesy Victor Dandridge and Vantage:Inhouse Productions

Capes Kafe in downtown Des Moines, is a small coffee/comic book shop with shelves of colorful comics and comic book trades next to the counter, where coffee is ordered. Victor Dandridge sat relaxed, with a small bag of comics set to the side; purchases he made prior to my arrival. The day was gray and drizzle misted the downtown Des Moines buildings outside, but Victor paid it no mind as he stood up and shook my hand. I had known Victor for sometime but this was the first time we had been able to sit down and talk.

Dandridge is a content-generating force in the indie comic world. The Ohio native owns and manages his own production house, Vantage:Inhouse Productions. He wields the pen, with award nominated expertise, on his created titles, The Trouble with Love, The Samaritan, and Origins Unknown. His comic book reach also extends beyond writing. Dandridge has helped educate and guide younger aspiring comics writers and artists with his U Cre-8 Comics line of educational tools.

Victor found his love of writing early in his adolescence. At 13, he created a binder of over 200 original characters and by 16 he had plotted out 150 issues of story arcs using those characters. That comes to about 15 years worth of comic book stories.

From there he pursued his dream of comic making by attending the Columbus College of Art and Design. While he thought his art was the key to making it in the comic industry, He quickly learned something about himself while attending school. "The school wasn't providing me what I needed in terms of encouragement towards the art or maintaining my passion. That's where I found out where I'd really rather write. I can say I'm a happy dropout." Even though school might not have been for him, it did give him the opportunity to meet several of his collaborators on his future projects, such as The Samaritan artist Ren McKinzie and Ol' Crazy & the 40oz of Death artist Bryan Moss.

Using pixel art and moving on to his own books, Dandridge was into the convention scene early in his career. After not finding much success at a smaller con in Cincinnati, he came home to Columbus and asked around at a Wizard World after party on how to get a table at the Wizard World Columbus show. While walking to his table the next morning, his girlfriend, Adrianna brought up the U Cre-8 Comics program to the Wizard World higher ups. Once the Program Director heard about it, Wizard World wanted in. After securing a 3 show run, Victor, debuted the program at Wizard World Philadelphia. He said, "We had so much fun in that room! The room was packed. There was a Marvel Panel going on at the same time across the hall. And I guess people were leaving the Marvel Panel to come to mine." Both he and Wizard World considered it a success and a partnership was forged.

He continued to have a table at each show. His charisma and ever-present smile helped him get into hosting panels for the A-List talent that the Wizard World shows brought to town. While in Des Moines, Victor would be hosting the VIP Meet and Greet for comic book royalty. "Stan Lee! Come on! It doesn't get better than that. Man, I can't wait to hang out with Stan the Man." Victor clapped and laughed. Victor is so pervasive in the Wizard World culture with his hosting, consistent appearances with his books, and untiring work promoting the cons that he has been dubbed Mr. Wizard World.

Even with all his collaborations in the con world, he didn't get comfortable in his new found accomplishment. Once, when making plans for Wizard World Reno, Victor made the bold move of only securing a one way ticket to the show. "My whole point was I'm going to fly out there and earn back the money to fly home. This kept me hungry and challenged me to not get lazy."

It was through Wizard World that I first met Dandridge. Two years ago, I attended my first large scale comic con when Wizard World made a stop in Des Moines. The con was electric with a buzzing energy that could be felt as soon as I walked through the show doors. I spent three days taking my time talking with artists and creators; talking about their work and comic book experiences. I stopped at a corner table with a black and white book called, The Samaritan.Victor and I talked and I walked away with a great appreciation of him and his work.

I asked him how he connects with the casual fan who approaches his table. Victor answered, "The first thing is how well do I create an experience? I have to figure out what I have that you might like. Its not how to get you to like what I have, it's to find out if I have something you might like. Which is very, very different. I ask what things are you reading right now. What things are you a fan of? What things are you NOT a fan of? How can I pitch whatever I have to fit that model? I'm not trying to turn you into a comic book fan...I'm trying to see if you'd be interested in my product. The key is figure out what you like and see if I fit that. If I don't, do I know people who have something that fits your style? It's all about building this culture, this community be you a fan, creator, peer, family or whatever. We have to build this community."

Knowing that the fans and his work were the brick and mortar for building this community, I asked him, "Where do you want all of this to be in five years?"

Victor sat back in his seat. "Wow..." He thought for a moment and a smile flashed across his face. "I want Vantage:Inhouse to be one of the premier indie publishers in terms of content. I want our stories to be on the 100 Greatest Graphic Novels list. I want to knock somebody off that list. It doesn't have to be the top spot but I want it to be in the top 100."

With that we stood up, shook hands and wandered our separate ways in the drizzle of that grey Iowa morning. I looked around at the downtown skyline and hoped that Des Moines was good to Victor Dandridge at Wizard World. He has worked hard to be good to all of us.

For info about ordering one of his books, his con schedule or even to reach out and contact him, Victor can be found at:
Vantage:Inhouse website: vantageinhouse.blogspot.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/victor.dandridgejr
Twitter: @vantageinhouse

The Hartford's Daughter

Between the time when ING drank Aetna, and the rise of Sammons Annuity Group, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Carney, destined to wear the jeweled crown of Voya upon a troubled brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga. Let me tell you of the days of extreme data processing!

The clangor of the battle had died away, the shouting of the keyboards was hushed; silence lay on the blood and coffee-stained processing floor. The bleak pale sun that glittered so blindingly from the iced windows and the snow-covered roof tops of buildings across the street struck sheens of silver from rent ID badges and broken 3 ring binders, where the dead lay as they had fallen. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken marker; coiffed heads back-drawn in the death-throes, tilted red hipster beards grimly upward, as if in last invocation to the Most Interesting Man in the World, god of the hipster race. 

Across the red pools and business casual-clad forms, two figures glared at each other. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky was over them, the white light reflected off the neighboring building around them, the dead men at their feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as Monday ghosts might come to for coffee through the shambles of a weekend dead world. In the brooding silence they stood face to face. 

Both were tall men, built like tigers. Their binders were gone, their work shirts battered and torn. Blood dried on their khakis. One was beardless and black-maned. His stapler stained red. The locks and beard of the other were red as the blood on the sunlit carpet. “Man,” said he, “tell me your name, so that my brothers at The Hartford may know who was the last of your team lead's band to fall before the Mavis Beacon honed skills of Steven.” 

“Not at The Hartford,” growled the black-haired processor, “but in Hell will you tell your brothers that you met Carney of Marshall.” 

Steven roared and leaped, and his keyboard flashed in deathly arc. Carney staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the singing keyboard crashed on his spiky hair, shivering into bits as letters exploded into the air. But as he reeled, Carney thrust with all the power of his broad shoulders behind the humming stapler. The sharp points of his Singer's sting tore through brass work shirt buttons and bones and heart, and the red-haired processor died at Carney’s feet. 

The Marshallian stood upright, trailing his stapler, a sudden sick weariness assailing him. The glare of the sun through the windows cut his eyes like a knife and the ceiling lights seemed shrunken and strangely apart. He turned away from the trampled expanse where red-bearded Hartford processors lay locked with the analysts and processors in the embrace of death. A few steps he took, and the glare of the winter sun was suddenly dimmed. A rushing wave of blindness engulfed him and he sank down to the carpet, supporting himself on one long sleeved arm, seeking to shake the blindness out of his eyes as a lion might shake his mane.

 A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight cleared slowly. He looked up; there was a strangeness about all the office space that he could not place or define - an unfamiliar tinge to desks and lighting. But he did not think long of this. Before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind, stood a woman. Her body was like ivory to his dazed gaze, and save for a light veil of gossamer, she was naked as the day. Her slender bare feet were whiter than the snow outside. She laughed down at the bewildered warrior. Her laughter was sweeter than the rippling of silvery fountains, and poisonous with cruel mockery. 

“Who are you?” asked the Marshallian. “Whence come you?” 

“What matter?” Her voice was more musical than a silver-stringed harp, but it was edged with cruelty. 

“Call up your men,” said he, grasping his stapler. “Yet though my strength fail me, they shall not take me alive. I see that you are of the Corporate.” 

“Have I said so?” His gaze went again to her unruly locks, which at first glance he had thought to be red. Now he saw that they were neither red nor yellow but a glorious compound of both colors. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was like elfin-gold; the office lighting struck it so dazzlingly that he could scarcely bear to look upon it. Her eyes were likewise neither wholly blue nor wholly grey, but of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not define. Her full red lips smiled, and from her slender feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair, her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of a god. Carney’s pulse hammered in his temples. 

“I can not tell,” said he, “whether you are of The Hartford and mine enemy, or of ING and my friend. Far have I wandered, but a woman like you I have never seen. Your locks blind me with their brightness. Never have I seen such hair, not even among the fairest daughters of Charles Schwab. By Corporate -"

“Who are you to swear by Corporate?” she mocked. “What know you of the gods of management and meetings, you who have come from the north-east to process among an alien people?” 

“By the dark gods of my own company!” he cried in anger. “Though I am not of the crimson haired Hartford, none has been more forward in office supply-play! This day I have seen four score men fall, and I alone have survived the field where Phil's reavers met the wolves of Jefferson. Tell me, woman, have you seen the flash of work shirts out across the drenched carpets, or seen armed men moving upon the tiled floor?” 

“I have seen the computer monitors glittering in the sun,” she answered. “I have heard the wind whispering across the break rooms.” 

He shook his head with a sigh. “Dennis should have come up with us before the battle joined. I fear he and his data entry men have been ambushed. Chad and his warriors lie dead. I had thought there was no office within many leagues of this spot, for the battle carried us far, but you can not have come a great distance over these desks and cubes, naked as you are. Lead me to your Supervisor, if you are of ING, for I am faint with blows and the weariness of strife.”

“My Supervisor is further than you can walk, Carney of Marshal,” she laughed. Spreading her arms wide, she swayed before him, her golden head lolling sensuously, her scintillant eyes half shadowed beneath their long silken lashes. “Am I not beautiful, oh man?” 

“Like Dawn running naked through a call center,” he muttered, his eyes burning like those of a wolf. 

“Then why do you not rise and follow me? Who is the strong processor who falls down before me?” she chanted in maddening mockery. “Lie down and die on the carpet with the other fools, Carney of the black hair. You can not follow where I would lead.” 

With an oath, the Marshallian heaved himself up on his feet, his brown eyes blazing, his dark scarred face contorted. Rage shook his soul, but desire for the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples and drove his wild blood fiercely through his veins. Passion, fierce as physical agony flooded his whole being, so that floor and cubicles were red to his dizzy gaze. In the madness that swept upon him, weariness and faintness were swept away. 

He spoke no word as he drove at her, fingers spread to grip her soft flesh. With a shriek of laughter she leaped back and ran, laughing at him over her white shoulder. With a low growl Carney followed. He had forgotten the fight, forgotten the business casual warriors who lay in their blood, forgotten Phil and the reavers who had failed to reach the fight. He had thought only for the slender white shape which seemed to float rather than run before him. 

Out across the processing floors the chase led. The trampled red and coffee stained floor fell out of sight behind him as the stairwell door closed, but still Carney kept on with the silent tenacity of his service level. His Sketchered feet squeezed upon break room linoleum; clipped on tile floor hallways but still he fought forward through sheer strength. But the girl danced across the floor light as a feather floating across a pool; her naked feet barely left their imprint on the dark carpets or tile. In spite of the fire in his veins, the cold 68 degree office air bit through his tattered processor's business shirt and Dockers; but the girl in her gossamer veil ran as lightly: as gaily as if she danced through the palm and rose gardens of a Vegas hotel on a June day. 

On and on she led, and Carney followed. Black curses drooled through the Marshallian’s parched lips. The great veins in his temples swelled and throbbed and his teeth gnashed. “You can not escape me!” he roared. “Lead me into a trap and I’ll pile the heads of your middle managers at your feet! Hide from me and I’ll tear apart your corporate headquarters to find you! I’ll follow you to hell!” Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from his processor’s lips. Further and further into the building she led him. The floors changed; the wide plains of cubicles gave way to open floor space pock marked with wide ornate desks and long meeting tables. Far out the windows he caught a glimpse of towering building tops, hazy with the distance and white with the snows. Above these buildings shone the flaring rays of the afternoon sun.

Above him the ceiling panels glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams. The LED bulbs shone weirdly, now frosty blue, now cinnamon crimson, now a royal silver. Through a shimmering realm of enchantment, Carney plunged doggedly onward, in an office maze where the only reality was the white body dancing across the glittering tile beyond his reach - ever beyond his reach. 

He did not wonder at the strangeness of it all, not even when two gigantic figures rose up to bar his way. The collars of their white work shirts were creased sharply and freshly pressed; their hair and their glasses gleamed like mirrored ice. Grey sprinkled their manicured hair; in their beards were dabs of scented oils, their eyes were cold as the lights that streamed above them.

“Brothers!” cried the girl, dancing between them. “Look who follows! I have brought you a man to write up! Let your paperwork take his heart that we may lay it smoking on our Manager' board!” 

The giants answered with roars like the grinding of coffee beans and heaved up their shining expensive pens to HR approved disciplinary forms as the maddened Marshallian hurled himself upon them. An expensive pen tip flashed before his eyes, blinding him with its brightness, and he gave back a terrible stroke of the stapler that sheared through his foe’s dress panted thigh. With a groan the victim fell, and at the instant Carney was dashed into a nearby dry erase board, his left shoulder numb from the blow of the survivor, from which the Marshallian’s own ruined work shirt had barely saved his life. Carney saw the remaining HR giant looming high above him like a colossus carved of a Men's Wearhouse catalog, etched against the silver glowing lighting. The HR pen fell, to sink through the carpet and deep into the cement of the floor as Carney hurled himself aside and leaped to his feet. The giant roared and wrenched his pen free, but even as he did, Carney’s stapler sang down. The giant’s knees bent and he sank slowly to the carpet, which turned crimson with the blood that gushed from his half- severed neck. 

Carney wheeled, to see the girl standing a short distance away, staring at him in wide-eyed horror, all the mockery gone from her face. He cried out fiercely and the blood-drops flew from his stapler as his hand shook in the intensity of his passion. 

“Call the rest of your brothers!” he cried. “I’ll give their hearts to the mail room wolves! You can not escape me - “ 

With a cry of fright she turned and ran fleetly. She did not laugh now, nor mock him over her white shoulder. She ran as for her life, and though he strained every nerve and thew, until his temples were like to burst and the floor swam red to his gaze, she drew away from him, dwindling in the witch-fire of the office lights, until she was a figure no bigger than a child, then a dancing white flame, then a dim blur in the distance. But grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums, he reeled on, and he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame, and the flame to a figure big as a child; and then she was running less than a hundred paces ahead of him, and slowly the space narrowed, foot by foot. 

She was running with effort now, her golden locks blowing free; he heard the quick panting of her breath, and saw a flash of fear in the look she cast over her white shoulder. The grim endurance of the processor had served him well. The speed ebbed from her flashing white legs; she reeled in her gait. In his untamed soul leaped up the fires of hell she had fanned so well. With an inhuman roar he closed in on her, just as she wheeled with a haunting cry and flung out her arms to fend him off.

His stapler fell to the floor as he crushed her to him. Her lithe body bent backward as she fought with desperate frenzy in his iron arms. Her golden hair flew about his face, blinding him with its sheen; the feel of her slender body twisting in his shirted arms drove him to blinder madness. His strong fingers sank deep into her smooth flesh; and that flesh was cold as ice. It was as if he embraced not a woman of human flesh and blood, but a woman of flaming ice. She writhed her golden head aside, striving to avoid the fierce kisses that bruised her red lips. 

“You are cold as the snows outside,” he mumbled dazedly. “I will warm you with the fire in my own blood-“ 

With a scream and a desperate wrench she slipped from his arms, leaving her single gossamer garment in his grasp. She sprang back and faced him, her golden locks in wild disarray, her white bosom heaving, her beautiful eyes blazing with terror. For an instant he stood frozen, awed by her terrible beauty as she posed naked against the glass windows. 

And in that instant she flung her arms toward the lights that glowed from the ceiling above her and cried out in a voice that rang in Carney’s ears for ever after: “Stag of The Hartford! Oh, my father, save me!” 

Carney was leaping forward, arms spread to seize her, when with a crack like the breaking of an office chair, the whole skies leaped into silvery LED fire. The girl’s ivory body was suddenly enveloped in a cold blue flame so blinding that the Marshallian threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the intolerable blaze. A fleeting instant, ceiling and receptionist desks were bathed in crackling white flames, blue darts of icy light, and cinnamon crimson fires. Then Carney staggered and cried out. The girl was gone. The glowing floor lay empty and bare; high above his head the witch-lights flashed and played in a tiled ceiling gone mad, and among the filing cabinets there sounded a rolling thunder as of a gigantic stag whose frantic hoofs struck lightening across the office floor. 

Then suddenly the ceiling tiles, the receptionist desks and the blazing office lights reeled drunkenly to Carney’s sight; thousands of fire-balls burst with showers of sparks, and the ceiling itself became a titanic wheel which rained stars as it spun. Under his feet the patches of carpet heaved up like a wave, and the Marshallian crumpled to the floor to lie motionless.

In a cold dark universe, whose sun was extinguished eons ago, Carney felt the movement of life, alien and unguessed. An earthquake had him in its grip and was shaking him to and fro, at the same time chafing his hands and feet until he yelled in pain and fury and groped for his sword. 

“He’s coming to, Jorge,” said a voice. “Haste - we must rub salve and ointments into his carpet burned limbs, if he’s ever to wield stapler again.”

“He won’t open his left hand,” growled another. “He’s clutching something - “

Carney opened his eyes and stared into the bearded faces that bent over him. He was surrounded by the brown faces of a cleaning crew clad in brown uniforms.

“Carney! You live!”

“By Salvatore,” gasped the Marshallian. "Am I alive, or are we all dead and in Valhalla?"

“We live,” grunted the cleaning man, busy over Carney’s half-chaffed hands. “We had to clean our way through your leavings, or we would have met up with you before the battle was over. The corpses were scarce cold when we came upon your work several floors down. We did not find you among the dead, so we followed the bloody foot prints you left in your wake. In Upper Management’s name, Carney, why did you wander off into the wastes of the upper floors? We have followed your tracks for hours. Had another cleaning crew come up and cleaned them, we had never found you, by Management!”

“Swear not so often by Management,” uneasily muttered another cleaning worker, glancing at the empty conference rooms. “This is Their land and the gods bide among yonder cabinets and desks, the legends say.”

“I saw a woman,” Carney answered hazily. “We met Steven of Hartford's men near the call center. I know not how long we fought. I alone lived. I was dizzy and faint. The floor lay like a dream before me. Only now do all things seem natural and familiar. The woman came and taunted me. She was beautiful as a blonde flame from hell. A strange madness fell upon me when I looked at her, so I forgot all else in the world. I followed her. Did you not find her tracks? Or the giants with perfectly creased collars I slew?”

Jorge shook his head. “We found only your tracks; bloody tracks, Carney.”

“Then it may be I am mad,” said Carney dazedly. “Yet you yourself are no more real to me than was the golden-locked witch who fled naked across the floors before me. Yet from under my very hands she vanished in LED flame.”

“He is delirious,” whispered the other crewman.

“Not so!” cried an older man, whose eyes were wild and weird. “It was Sandy, the daughter of Upper Management, the Hartford Stag! To the floors of the hourly wages she comes, and shows herself to the dying! Myself when a boy I saw her, when I lay half-slain on the bloody floor of a Principle mail room. I saw her walk among the dead in the mail, her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair unbearably bright in the dusky mail room light. I lay and howled like a dying dog because I could not crawl after her. She lures men from stricken battles into the waste lands of management offices to be slain by her brothers, the HR Giants, who lay men’s red hearts smoking with HR write ups. The Marshallian has seen Sandy, the Stag's daughter!”

“Bah!” grunted Jorge. “Old Frank’s mind was touched in his youth by a falling parcel to the head. That's why he cleans the very buildings he used to work in. Carney was delirious from the fury of battle - look how his spiky is dinted. Any of those blows might have addled his brain. It was an hallucination he followed into the upper floors. He is from the north east; what does he know of Sandy?” 

“You speak truth, perhaps,” muttered Carney. “It was all strange and weird - by Salvatore!” He broke off, glaring at the object that still dangled from his clenched left fist; the others gaped silently at the veil he held up - a wisp of gossamer that was never spun by human hands.

Many wars and feuds did Carney fight. Honor and fear were heaped upon his name and, in time, he became a king by his own hand. But that is another story...

   

 ******

This is a spoof  of the Robert E. Howard story, The Frost-Giant's Daughter. It is a Conan story about how Conan follows the daughter of a war god only to be so savage as to ruin her trap that she set for him. Several years ago, I worked at ING. I spent four years there and forged a lasting friendship. That friend is the basis for Carney. His love of Conan is legendary and I thought it fitting to place him in the lead roll of Carney the Processor. 

Several of the words are Howard's that I spun into a modern day corporate building during a hostile take over of ING by The Hartford. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I did creating it.

The original story can be found here: http://www.hyborien.nu/original-stories/The%20Frost-Giant's%20Daughter.pdf

Comic Con Chronicles: Brandon Routh and Dean Cain

           My phone buzzed with a message from Mitch on Facebook Messenger. “Heard on the radio, Brandon Routh will be at the Iowa Historical Museum at noonish then they’re doing a showing of Supes Returns.”

I yelped a, “Yes!” and with shaking fingers wrote back, “Do you want to go?” While waiting for his response, I looked up the Museum’s website and confirmed that Routh would indeed be there at 1:00 in the afternoon.

The celebs were pouring into Des Moines for the inaugural Wizard World Comic Con. Des Moines had hosted smaller events in the past with local comic book clubs planning the cons, but this was the first national franchise event. Friday through Sunday, June 12th through 14th; three days of solid nerdiness. And I had purchased a three day pass to revel in the festivities.

The months leading up to the event had been spent going over the website again and again to see what celebrities were announced to attend the con. On one of my trips to the site, I saw that Brandon Routh, Superman in Superman Returns and Ray Palmer (The Atom) in Arrow and The Flash, would be attending. I called out to my oldest daughter to come look. “Hannah, Brandon Routh is going to Comic Con!”

She smiled and asked, “Can I meet him, Daddy?”

“I’m going to make sure you do.”

“Can I have my picture taken with him like you did?”

“I think we can do that.” I patted her on the back.

She put her hands on her hips. “I hope so. It’s no fair you got a picture with him and I didn’t.”

In June of 2006, My wife was pregnant with Hannah and Superman Returns debuted in theaters. Brandon is a native of Norwalk, Iowa, which isn’t that far from where I grew up in Prairie City. Because of his Iowa heritage, he arranged a red carpet premier of the movie at Jordan Creek Mall in West Des Moines. Not having a ticket for the event, I was one of a few hundred people that waited by the red velvet ropes next to the carpet for him to arrive. When he stepped on to the carpet, the place went crazy with cheers, whistles and yelling. Brandon worked his way down the carpet, signing items and taking photos with fans. When he stepped up to me, I had him sign a Superman hat and got a photo with him. He was gracious, signing for all who wanted an autograph and posing for pictures. It was a moment that I have always cherished. With him attending the con, it was my chance to share a moment like that with Hannah and my youngest daughter, Allison.

I pointed my car towards Des Moines and sped off after Mitch confirmed that he wanted to see Brandon. My hands shook on the wheel and made it difficult to pull up the Superman Returns soundtrack on my touch screen radio. The brass tones of the Superman theme did little to calm my nerves. Instead, its fanfare tickled goosebumps across my arms and a shivered a sweet chill up my spine. I kept checking the clock, feeling like I was late, but all was well, even when I pulled up to the museum.

I ran inside and after a brief conversation with the information desk, I found my way into the dark auditorium. It had stadium seating framed by steep steps that led to a bright stage. The stage was made to look like a hardwood floor and it was adorned with an area rug, two chairs and a small table. Displayed on the back wall was a vibrant projected logo for Produce Iowa, the State Office of Media Production. I took my seat and bounced my leg as I waited for the ceremony to begin.

While I waited, I texted Mitch to let him know I had seats for him and his son, Deacon. Looking around, I was surprised the auditorium was only half full. I thought for sure this would be a huge draw, especially with Brandon being an Iowa boy. Finally, a man walked out on stage to make some announcements. The minute he began talking a tsunami of school children hit the aisles and started flooding the open seats. In a matter of seconds, the auditorium was to capacity and I lost Mitch’s seats. I kept looking around to see if I spotted him but I couldn’t find him through the thick jungle of children’s faces so I him know with a quick text.. He replied back, “No worries.”

I turned back to the stage just as Brandon was walking out. The place erupted into a symphony of applause and he gave a wave and wide smile. On the side of the stage was a small table with a clay block that was going to be used to capture Brandon’s hand prints and signature but before they could get to that, a well dressed woman that had come on stage with him held up a framed document. “My name is Liz Gilman and I am the Executive Producer for Produce Iowa. This is from Governor Terry Branstad.” She went on to read about how the office of the governor recognized Brandon for his acting and his constant work with charitable organizations. “It is stated, by the power of the Governor, that today, June 12th 2015, is Brandon Routh Day.” Another round of roaring applause thundered through the auditorium as Brandon looked at the frame with shock and a sheepish smile.

“Thank you so much. It is quite unexpected!” He posed for photos then looked at it again, confirming it was real.

He was lead over to the block of hardened clay. Liz told him to put his hands on it and push as hard as he could. Brandon set his hands on the block, braced himself and pushed. His eyes went wide and he started laughing, “This is harder than it looks!” With Liz telling him to push harder, he gave another great heave to little avail. The audience started laughing with him as he quipped, “I should have gone to the gym first.”

Liz finally relented and let him ease up. She had him use a stick to trace his hands and then to sign his name. Once that was done, they walked to the chairs set up in the middle of the stage. Liz began to interview him by asking about his early life and his fascination with Superman. “I used to jump around with a Superman cape. The night I first watched the movie I worked myself up so hard, I ended up throwing up. I was so excited to see the movie.” Brandon’s baritone voice echoed through the hushed auditorium. “I’ve always loved the character and when the opportunity came up to play Superman, I had to go for it.”

The interview wove in and out of his life growing up, attending the University of Iowa (which brought some yells of approval from a few rabid Hawkeye fans), his family and finally what he’s working on currently. After his interview, Liz opened it up to some Q&A. One man asked, “What was it like to see yourself in the Superman suit for the first time.”

Brandon thought for a moment and said, “The first time I tried it on, I felt pretty silly. It was for fittings and to take note of changes to be made to the suit to make sure it fit in all the right spots. However, the first time I walked on to set in costume, I really felt like I had made it. That was quite exciting. It was for a scene ultimately not used in the movie where Clark changes in a closet before saving Lois in the airplane. I had to look in a mirror and seeing myself as Superman was great.”

I held my hand up to ask about the score for Superman Returns. Imbedded on the cd was a music video showing the scoring stage as the symphony orchestra recorded the Superman Theme for the opening credits. In it, Brandon can be seen visiting the stage and even playing a trumpet. While talking about his childhood, he had mentioned loving music. I wanted to ask what it was like as a music aficionado and as a fan to visit the scoring stage while they were playing the theme. Unfortunately, I was not picked and my question went unanswered.

With small pomp, Routh’s interview came to a close. He exited the stage with one final smile and wave. I was hoping that he’d maybe hang around and talk to fans but it was understandable that he left. I can only imagine what it would be like to be mobbed by fans thirsting for some one on one time with him. I left the auditorium knowing I’d get a few moments with him when I took the girls to Comic Con.

“Dad, where’s our capes?” Allison and Hannah looked at me with wide eyes.

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to look.” I got up from my chair and started looking around in their closet. In my pouring over the Wizard World website, I had been amazed to discover that Dean Cain was going to be at the event as well. The girls hadn’t ever watched Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, so I explained to them that it was a show on ABC that ran from 1994-97 and Dean Cain starred as the Man of Steel, Superman. I had loved the show growing up, even if it was a bit imbalanced in its campy quality. I made sure the girls watched the pilot episode and it made them want to play Superman with their capes on.

I found the capes among princess dresses and dance costumes. They were ripped out of my hands and the girls wrapped them around their necks. They took off running around the house with arms outstretched, making whooshing noises as their imaginations had them soaring thousands of feet in the air. Laughing at their exploits, I pulled out my phone to take some photos. Hannah, 8, stood over her 4 year old sister, Allison, as they raised their fists in the air for a heroic take off. I snapped the photos and they sat on my lap to look at them. Hannah looked at me and asked, “Daddy, can you send these to the real Superman?”

“Sure, Hannah, I can do that.”  They took off to go play and I pulled up Twitter. With the message, “Girls asked me to send this to the real Superman. Brandon and Dean here you go. C U @ Wizard World,” I attached the photo and sent it.

While the kids were still running around, I got a notification from Twitter. Dean Cain had favorited the photo. “Hannah! Allison! Look! Dean Cain favorited your photo.” Hannah beamed as she looked at Dean’s picture. “He liked you girls in your capes.” Allison was unphased but Hannah was giddy as she pranced around the house with renewed vigor in her cape.

The red carpeted aisles at the convention were filled with people as they shuffled around from table to table to check out the comic book inspired wares. Batmans, Storm Troopers and Ghostbusters were peppered into the crowd of comic lovers. Spider-Man walked past us and Allison pulled on my hand, “Look, Daddy! Spider-Man!”

I squeezed her hand back. “It sure is!”

Hannah asked, “Are we going to meet Superman?”

I knelt down to look at them. The girls were sporting their capes with Superman tshirts. I matched them with my Man of Steel S shirt. “We sure are. Let’s go get in line.” We headed towards the rear of the event hall. Through the crowd, past the hairy wagon from Dumb and Dumber and around the artist booths was the entrance to the celebrity hall. Holding hands, we left the madness of the main floor behind us and walked into the wide open hall which spread out before us. It was filled with tables that were framed with tall black curtains making each table a booth for celebrities to meet with fans. We barely walked in and Allison yelled, “HULK!” I looked over where she was pointing and there sat Lou Ferrigno. He was all dark hair, quick smiles and veiny, large biceps, not bad for 63 years old. I picked Allison up so she could get a better look. “Daddy, can we stay here and watch him?”

I laughed and said, “You can look at him for a minute but we need to get in line for to see Brandon Routh and Dean Cain.” I tugged at her cape. “They are going to want to see you dressed up.” She giggled as I set her down. A few nights prior, I had discovered that a group photo with Dean Cain and Brandon Routh was being offered. The girls could meet two actors who had played Superman AND get their picture with them. The plan was perfect.

We purchased our ticket then got in the queue line for the photo. Time crept by as I fidgeted with the girls hair and kept straightening their capes. Allie kept trying to sit on the floor but I told her it would get her cape dirty so she whined a bit but kept standing. Hannah kept herself busy by watching people. While we were talking and I was adjusting their capes for the thirty seventh time, the people at the front of the line started clapping and hollering. The three of us looked up to see Brandon striding to the photo area. He was escorted by two guys in black shirts and khakis, but he paused a moment to wave at us and flash his smile again. Then he was shepherded into the photo booth. Both girls looked up at me with terrific smiles spread across their faces.  “That was him girls. That was Brandon Routh.” Hannah started clapping and hopping up and down.

The line pitched forward and the photo session was on. We inched closer, guided to the photo booth with lines of tape stuck to the floor. The curtain flap to the booth was left open as fans were getting their pictures taken. I watched and noticed that other than a quick, “hello” and handshake, not much was going on in the way of talking to the pair. It was a slick process of, step in, pose, flash of the camera, get out. My smile started to evaporate as my daydreams of the girls having a moment with Dean and Brandon started to turn black and white then fade altogether. Hannah and Allison were going to have long enough to smile with Dean and Brandon, then be shoved out the back of the booth so the next schlubs could get their ten seconds of interaction. I sighed and realized this was probably a tremendous waste of money and time.

We walked into the booth and Brandon, tall and broad shouldered, greeted us. His eyes lit up as he saw the girls. He knelt down with a great beaming smile and said, “Wow, you girls look great! I love the capes.” He held his hands out for each girl to give them a high five. He talked with them for a moment more. Laughing at one of their responses, he stood up and held out his hand for me to shake.
I grabbed it and said, “Brandon. Thank you.” He nodded and waved me to the mark on the floor for the photos.

Dean stood next to the mark. He was a bit shorter than Brandon but quite a bit more stout. He had the classic barrel chest and arms that made his black short sleeves question their effectiveness. “Oh look at you girls. We’ve got some fans here.” He patted Hannah on the shoulder. I shook his hand and traded hellos with him.

We posed for the photo then the handlers ushered us towards the exit while telling us where we could pick up the picture on our way out of the photo area. I stopped and said, “Dean, you remember the tweet the other night of the two girls playing Superman?” He nodded as I pointed at Hannah and Allison. “These are those girls.” Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise then put his hand up at the next people coming into the booth to hold them back a second.

“Come back here kids.” They walked up to him. Dean knelt down to them and held his hand up for them to high five. “You girls look amazing! You did a great job.” While he talked to them, I looked over at Brandon. He had his arms crossed over his chest and with broad grin on his face. He was enjoying this as much as I was. Dean stood and patted each one of them on the shoulders then looked over at me. He smiled as we exchanged nods then the girls and I walked out as the next people finally got their turn.

I wiped away a tear at the corner of my eye as we walked to the photo printer. Superman has always been a large part of my life starting with Christopher Reeve. I suppose its probably because, growing up, I didn’t have a central father figure other than my grandpa. Superman had that great S on his chest, was always noble and good, and flew around to some pretty great music. What better person to latch on to as a father figure than the Man of Steel? Times have changed and no matter how iconic he was, Superman has moved on from Christopher Reeve. I’ve moved on too. Dean was Superman for the era of the 90’s; pulpy and colorful yet still moral and wholesome. Brandon brought Superman back to the silver screen with all the trimmings of Christopher Reeve, even the music. I know they are just actors who played a fictitious character, but both of them earned my respect by adding their own brick and mortar to the great wall that is the Superman mythos. And these two men treated my daughters with absolute kindness and wonderful generosity.

The girls looked back at me as they giggled and skipped to get our photo. I stepped up to the counter and retrieved our portrait. We walked over to a table, where I set it down and the three of us studied the picture.  “There we are girls. You finally got to meet Superman. And not just one, but two of them. And we all look terrific.”  

“They were really nice,” Hannah said.

Allie looked at the picture and squeaked, “Superman liked my cape.”

            We may have only had the briefest of moments with Brandon and Dean, but in that small sample of time, they managed to live up to their silver screen alter egos. Even after a weekend of hand shaking, forced smiles and dozens, if not hundreds, of fans, these guys created a genuine moment; welcoming Hannah and Allison as if they were the only fans they were meeting. The picture will always serve as a reminder of that because, to me, the picture isn’t “That time we met two Supermen,” it will always be, “The time Brandon and Dean made my girls smile.” 

A Creepy-crawly Tale for Halloween

It is that time of year where the air gets crisp, the leaves change colors and the days get shorter. With this comes the fun holiday, Halloween. To help celebrate this year, I have written a tale to make your skin crawl. It isn't a typical ghost or monster story but it will be enough to make you shudder in the sweet agony of a good scary story. Turn the lights down low, curl up with a blanket and enjoy. Happy Halloween!

    The white foamy water slopped around the sink as I wiped the dishcloth across the dirty plate. I rinsed the suds off of it then set it in drying rack next to the sink. I reached over to my left to grab another dirty plate and noticed a fuzzy piece of lint floating next to the counter. It hung, suspended in air, at the corner of where the counter meets the wall, next to a window. As I went to grab a glass, I looked at the lint again and it had gained a friend; there were two pieces floating there. I set the glass down, peering at the two lint blobs. They were moving but only ever so slightly toward the window, as if riding a whisper of a breeze. The pieces of lint looked like they were spinning or had some sort of motion to them. Most lint is a grayish color but this stuff was a greasy yellow like crusted mustard. I leaned it to see they weren’t floating. They were suspended on a near microscopic thread of webbing. So these lint balls hand landed on a cobweb.  I leaned back and a third piece of lint had joined the first two. I knelt down and got face level with the yellow, spinning blobs as they edged its way closer to the window.

    The lint wasn't really spinning. It was using its legs to creep its way across the silver thread of webbing. My eyes shot wide open as I realized my face was less than an inch away from three tiny spiders! I whipped my head back from the spiders so hard I landed on my butt. I barked an “Oh shit!” as I stood up. Six! No, ten! No, twenty spiders were crawling around on lines of webbing in the corner. I looked over at the blinds because they had to be coming in from outside. No, they were crawling towards the window. They were coming from the counter.

    I snapped my head around and glared at the counter. Up against the wall rested the toaster, a knife block and a deep ceramic container that held a bouquet of spatulas, ladles and wooden spoons. I glanced back to the window and traced the lines of webbing from the sill back to the ceramic container. The wood, black and white tops of the utensils were undulating with a choppy sea of small spiders. Hundreds of them were flowing out of the top of the ceramic container like foam out of a shaken beer bottle.

    “Jesus Christ!” I sprung back from the counter.

    “What is going on?” My wife, Ellie, yelled from the living room as she stormed into the kitchen.

    “Don't come in here!”
    “Why?” She came around the kitchen table.
    “Um, because.” I gawked at the mess of spiders spilling out the container. “You won't like what you see.”

    “Why?” She repeated as she stood next to me.

    “We have a bit of a problem.” I pointed at the arachnid army.

    She screeched, “Oh my God!” then put a hand up to her mouth. She slowly turned her head to look at me. “You have to kill them.”
    “What?!”

    “Kill them, Caden!” She hit me on the arm.

    “Uh, okay?”

    How was I going to pull this off? They were legion and I need to end this quick. I could spray them! But with what? Would Windex kill a spider or would it just piss it off? I could smash them! No, it would take me all night to play whack-a-mole with all of them; plus it would make a tremendous mess of spider innards and corpses.

    Ellie screamed, “Hurry up! They're everywhere!”

    I felt a tingle on my wrist. I flicked my arm out and yelped, positive the invading arachnid forces had made it to my hand. All I found was the dissolving suds from doing dishes. The sink was still full of water. Water! I snatched the ceramic container and lobbed it into the dry side of the sink. Spoons and spatulas clattered as the bottom of the sink was peppered with baby spiders. I turned on the water and grabbed the sprayer from the back of the sink. I fired water at the baby spiders like cops using a fire hose on a rioting crowd. Water circled around the drain, pulling the bugs down with it. I rinsed the outside of the ceramic container and and kept the water moving on the utensils. After several minutes of rinsing, the spiders appeared to be all gone. I unrolled some paper towels and wiped up all the webs with the remaining baby spiders that were crawling towards the window.

    Ellie whispered, “Are they all dead?” After close inspection of the blinds, window sill and remaining counter space, I assured her that they were. I wadded up the paper towels and threw them into the trash.

    I watched the water from the faucet cascade on to the ceramic container and the utensils. I picked up the container. I jostled around some of the straggling spoons still nested in the container while I examined it. A cotton ball of webbing, the egg sac, was still attached inside. I poked at it with the a wooden spoon handle and it appeared to be empty.

    I moved the last straggling spoon. Behind it was a spider, however this one was about the size of a grown man's thumb, it was a sickly snot yellow with black spots for feet. It must have sensed my eyes upon it because it shot up the handle at my hand. Screaming, I flung the spoon at the back of the sink, where it hit that wall the came to a rattling rest by the container.
    “What the hell?” Ellie asked.
    “I just found the mama.”
    “What?! Is it dead too?”
    “I don't know. I threw the spoon before I could kill it.”
    Ellie bolted out of the kitchen and poked her head into the door from the living room. “Find it. Kill it!”

    I nodded at her and examined the bottom of the sink. The spoons and spatulas lay like drift wood over the drain. The container was standing up straight on it's bottom. No spider. Behind the faucet, the back splash was bare of arachnids as well. My eyes traveled up the wall to the dark wood cabinets hanging above the sink. The spider was slowly crawling up the cabinet door; passed the golden door handle. As soon as my eyes hit it, the damned thing stopped moving. It looked like a tumor with legs. I reached into the sink and pulled up a large metal spatula. We made eye contact and I felt ice roll up my spine as I reared back with a gentle precision as to not scare it then blasted an attack like a tennis player dealing a game winning serve. The instant before the spatula struck the spider, it flung itself off the cabinet door. I was sure it was aiming for my face but I heard it land with a wump! in the dishes stacked up next to the sink. “Sonofabitch!” I shrieked.

    “Is it dead? What happened?” Ellie's head was still poked into the kitchen.
    I just stood, to shocked to move. “Uh, it jumped. It's in the dishes.”
    “Oh my God. You have to find it. I'm not sure I can sleep knowing it's still running around.”

    I used the spatula wedge up a plate and looked under it. No spider.“Um, I can't find it. I'll have to keep looking.”

    “I'm glad you're not afraid of spiders. My skin might crawl off my bones just thinking about it being in there. “

    I laughed, “Yeah, but this is different. I think this spider might actually be pissed. I've never seen one out for revenge but this spider might be..”

    With that, Ellie ran into the living room, threw herself into a recliner and pulled a blanket over her head. I shook my head and started moving dishes from the counter into the sink. I examined each dish thoroughly before picking it up. I might not be afraid of spiders, but having this ugly one scamper across my hand might make me piss my pants.

    I was about to give up when I found it between two bowls at the bottom of the pile. As soon as I uncovered it, the spider scurried up one of the bowls. Adult spider or not, it could drown just like the small ones. I reached out to toss the bowl into the dishwater but it must have read my mind because it jumped from the bowl a full two feet across the counter and ran for the wall. I grabbed and launched the soaking wet dish cloth at the spider. It must have lost contact with my mind because before it could jump away, the dish cloth plopped down on top of it. My fist quickly followed as I hammered the cloth praying I was delivering a coup de grace to that ugly bastard.

The dish cloth was a fabric island in a  sea of white counter top. I reached for it. My fingers clasped the cool, wet edge and slowly lifted. I peeked under the cloth, sucked in a breath and held it. Nothing. I pealed more of the cloth back. More nothing. Finally, I lifted the whole cloth up and the counter top was empty. The spider had got away again. A small jerking movement pulled my attention back to the cloth. On the bottom of it was a smear that had once been the spider with one twitching leg stuck out in revolt like an angry weed bobbing in the wind. With a triumphant, “Yeah!” I ran the cloth under the faucet, rinsing the spider remnant off of it.  

    Ellie rustled her head out from under the blanket. “Is it dead?”
    “Yeah, it's dead.  It's over.”

    She padded her way back into the kitchen and hugged me. “Thank you. That was horrible.”

    I agreed with her.

    Running the events through my mind while laying in bed, I remembered that I had seen one of those sickly looking spiders before. I had been getting a glass of water and just as the jet of water from the front of the fridge splashed into my glass, a glob of mucus fell on my hand. The mucus sprang up, took off across my hand  then dropped to the floor. Before I could even flinch, the spider had run under the fridge. Needless to say, I didn't drink that glass of water. I fell asleep wondering if it was the same spider I had just killed.

    The next day at work, the spider and its young nagged at me. Finally, I pushed aside my work and started scouring the Internet; trying to gather information about that type of spider. The words, “yellow spider” brought up several pictures of odd and unique looking specimens. Some had star shaped abdomens while others were black with yellow stripes. Finally, I found a picture of a spider that matched the one from the kitchen. I followed the link of the picture to a college anthropology web page that discussed all sorts of spiders from the Midwest.  I spotted one that resembled mine and clicked on it.
    “The Yellow Sac Spider belongs to the genus Cheiracanthium and is a prominent spider world wide. It can commonly be found outdoors in gardens, wood piles and brush piles. Sac Spiders are also found indoors. They reside during the day in small web pouches, thus the name Sac Spider.

    The Yellow Sac Spider has a necrotic venom that contains a cytotoxin. The bite is most commonly compared to that of a Brown Recluse Spider. The bite is moderately  painful and can become swollen. A blister may form and, once it has popped, will form an open lesion that can take several weeks to heal.”

    Great, I thought to myself, Not only are they disgusting to look at but their bite is horrible as well. All I needed was one them to surprise attack me in my sleep and I would have a lesion in my flesh that looked like a golf divot.

    On my way home from work, I stopped at a store to browse through their insecticide section. A gray jug's label said it worked great out doors but not safe for indoor use. A white jug said it was potent on ants but did very little for any other annoying insects. Finally, a red jug said it was designed for indoor use against spiders and other household pests. I paid cash.

    “Is that stuff safe?” Ellie asked as I presented her with my solution to future spiders.
    “Of course it is! I mean, I think it is. It says it is.” I read over the directions. “It says, 'spray around floor boards and doorways to prevent pests from entering your home and establishing nests. Safe for pets and children.' See, nothing to worry about.”
    Ellie reluctantly agreed then helped me move the furniture away from the walls. I spent over two hours spraying every floor board and door jam just like the jug instructed. I made sure to double spray everything; creating a chemical barrier to protect my home from those ugly snot-yellow bastards. The gallon jug was nearly empty.

    That night, Ellie snuggled up to me in bed and whispered, “You did good today.”
    “Yeah?”

    “Yeah. I don't feel like I have hundreds of little legs crawling all over me knowing that the house has been sprayed.” She gave me a hugging squeeze then nestled her face into my shoulder.
    With her warmth on my chest, I heaved a sigh of content and closed my eyes.

    I awoke the next morning to a shrill scream. The fog of sleep immediately burned off my brain as I heard the scream again. I looked over at Ellie's side of the bed. It was empty. I leaped to the stairwell leading downstairs to find her standing on the last stair. She looked back at me as I bulldozed my way toward her. Her hand was over her mouth, eyes like saucers and her face had gone beyond porcelain pale. She fell into my arms and started sobbing into my shoulder, “They're everywhere!”

    I rubbed her back, “What's everywhere?”

    “They are! The spiders!” She shoved her way passed me and stomped her way up the stairs and into our room. Still sobbing, she slammed the door behind her.

    I looked out into the living room from the door frame of the stairwell. The floor was a sickly yellow sea of spider corpses. There were hundreds of them along the baseboards where the dead spiders formed piles like ghastly snow drifts. Some were still twitch in their death throes while most laid still. The spray had done its work but I had underestimated our problem.

    I spent the morning using a shop vac to clean up the spider grave yard. Other rooms in our house had bodies in them too but the majority of the carcases were in the living room and kitchen. Most of the spiders hand been no bigger than a thumb nail but a few dozen had been bigger than a quarter. All of them were the Yellow Sac Spiders.

    I dumped the last vacuum full of corpses into the outside garbage can by my garage. I watched the last withered body fall into the trashcan like a demonic snowflake. The garbage can was nearly half full of nothing but dead spiders. I looked over at my house. It loomed over me, less like a home and more like a temple for necrotic venomed arachnids.

    Ellie called her mom and left me alone at the house with the stirring words:“You need to figure this out.” Figure this out? The spray had worked! It worked really well; however, she was right. I couldn't do this alone though. I had used my one good idea for a solution by spraying the house.

            .

    “This is Steve. How can I help you?” Steve's voice was all grit and gravel.
    “Yes,” I barked into my cell phone, “This is Caden Reilly. I found you on the Internet and I have some questions for you.”

    “Well, Caden, us guys at Roosevelt Pest Control love answering questions.”

    Steve listened quietly as I spent the next several minutes explaining the spider situation. Once I was through, Steve sat quietly for a moment and grumbled a, “Hmmm,” into the phone. “Well, obviously you have an infestation, although I've never heard of one this, uh, extreme before. I'll tell ya what, kid, I'll come out and take a look for you, if you'd like. We'll see what we can see and then we'll talk. How does that sound?”

    “That sounds great, Steve. Can you be here today?”

    “With a case like this, I can be there within the hour.”

    I was sitting on the front step when a white pick-up pulled into my drive way with a decorative Roosevelt Pest Control stenciled in red on the door. From his deep, construction worker voice, I expected Steve to be an overweight guy with thick black push-broom mustache, a matching mop of black hair and chomping a cigar; like a grizzled Super Mario. Instead, the guy that stood up out of the truck was a tall, lanky middle aged man with a grey flat top and steel wool eye brows. He glanced at the house and then gave me a curt wave as he walked up the drive. He offered me a crushing hand shake in his large hand and said, “I'm Steve Roosevelt. So this is the place, eh?”

    I turned around and gave a dramatic wave at the house, “Yeah, this is it. Grand Central Station for spiders, evidently.”

    The corner of Steve's mouth twitched into a lop sided grin, “Well, let's go see what we can see. Lead the way, buddy.”

    I let him into the house and showed him the living room and the kitchen. I retold my encounter with the baby spiders and then how I sprayed the place. He nodded his head and grunted a few times to show he was listening but his gun metal grey eyes surveyed the rooms. He would stop by a picture and pull it away from the wall to look behind it. He moved the shades and curtains too look at where they were mounted above the windowsill. Finally, after our walk through was done, Steve stopped in the middle of the the living room. He looked around again, then folded his arms across his chest. “Well, Caden, I'm not seeing to of evidence of Yellow Sac Spiders. I don't see any of their web pouches in the areas they like to make them.”

    “Okay, what does that mean?”
    “It means that they might be nesting somewhere else in the home. You said you didn't have any sign of them upstairs, correct?” I told him that was correct. “That only leaves one other direction, kid. Do you have a basement?” He asked as he tapped his boot on the floor.

    “No we don't. This house was moved from the country to town nearly 100 years ago. It only has a crawl space.”

    The lop sided grin etched his face again as he arched one of his steel wool eyebrows. “Show me.”

    Whenever I open up the crumbling wooden hatch door to the crawl space, I always expect there to be a chorus and symphony music to start at a low beat and build to a blasting crescendo as I pull open the hatch. Nothing that dramatic ever happens and this time was no exception. Steve, clad in navy  blue overalls he slipped on over his work attire, shined a flashlight into the hatch and looked around. Sheets of cobwebs hung from the floor joists and a rich earthy smell billowed out of the two foot by two foot hole. Steve pulled the hood of his overalls up over his hair and said, “I've seen worse.” He lurched himself into hole.

    I sat in the grass next to the hatch waiting to hear him start screaming. He would come out of the crawl space covered in spider bites and foaming at the mouth. I'd have to call 911 and get him help before he had a seizure that hit so hard his spine would shatter from the spastic convulsions. Instead, there was silence. Every now and again, I could see the beam of his flash light dance off the cobwebs as he moved around. In about ten minutes time, he pulled himself out of the hole and up through the hatch. He was covered in dirt and cobwebs and hadn't suffered any bites.

    Steve pulled the hood off his head and started to run his fingers through his short hair. “Well, buddy, I've got good news and I've got bad news. The bad news is there are several egg sacks down there. But the good news is most of them are empty.”

    “Wait, they are empty? How is that good news?”

    He was stepping out of his overalls.“That means they aren't new nests and I'm guessing you killed the lot of them the other night.”

    “Oh. So, I killed them all?”

    “Maybe not all of them, but a considerable amount. I didn't see any traces of baby ones down there like you described. You might see a few more around the house but they won't be like they are down there.”

    “Like they are down there? How bad was it down there?”

    His gun metal eyes met mine. “Kid, I'm not going to lie to you. There were hundreds of egg sacks down there. They were crammed everywhere. To be honest, I'm not sure how such a large population survived down there because they would have a food source. I'm sure they have resorted to cannibalism, which also helps you. I can say you shouldn't have a problem with crickets or ants any time soon.” He let out a chuckle that sounded like a muffler being drug behind a car. “That is also why you are seeing larger numbers in the house. They are starving so they are branching out from their home to find more food. Plus it is spring time. The warm weather gets them moving again after being dormant for most the winter.”

    I considered that for a moment. It made sense but something occurred to me. “When dogs are starved, they become aggressive and attack people. Will spiders do that?”

    He grinned again, “Good question, kid, but no. They will just try to find more to eat. These spiders really aren't aggressive to begin with. Sure, if you piss with one, it might nail you but leave them alone and they will leave you alone. They are way uglier than their personalities.”

    “That is news my wife will like to hear. But you should check this out.” I walked him around the house to the trash bin. I whipped the lid open and had him look all the dead spiders.
    “Jesus Christ, kid! You weren't kidding about it, were ya? This is good though. They are nocturnal so they mostly hunt at night. So last night the majority of them went out to hunt, crossed your poison and that's all she wrote.”
    “Did you see many spiders in the crawl space? You said you saw the empty sacks but you didn't say anything about the spiders.”

    We walked over to his truck. “Yeah you had some down there so I'm going to bomb the crawlspace and spray around the house, inside and out,  for you.” He pulled out some canisters that looked like friendly versions of grenades and a garden sprayer that sloshed with liquid as he walked.  

    While he put together the tools of his trade we discussed price. He had me throw him a number of what I was willing to pay for such a service. I was afraid to insult him so I blurted out a number I thought was reasonable. He laughed his muffler laugh again and said, “How about we take thirty percent off that price.” Before I could agree, he set to work.

    In less than an hour, he was done. He gave me follow up instructions, “Seeing dead ones is a good thing but if you starts seeing several alive or find another egg sack that hatches, you let me know. I'll come back on my dollar to take care of it.” He handed me his card, “Also, if your wife has any questions or concerns or you find something we haven't talked about, call me. My personal number is on there so give me a call day or night. This is a bit of an extreme case and some times those need a bit more attention.” We shook hands again and he left.    

    I looked back at the house. I felt like a person who had their house cleansed by a paranormal group to rid it of poltergeist activity. The white of the siding shined a little brighter and the windows sparkled a bit clearer as I stepped inside the door of my home.

    I worked it out with Ellie that she would stay with her parents a few more night just in case we had another mass die off like we did the night before. I went to bed wondering what the next morning would bring. Would I find dead spiders across my floors like sand at a beach or did Steve get them all?

    I awoke the next morning and sat up in bed. I glanced around the room and didn't find any spiders. I thought to myself that it was a good sign but the real litmus test would be as soon as I went downstairs so, with a groan, I pulled myself out of bed and plodded down the stairs. I found the floors did, indeed, have dead spiders on them again.  This time, they only peppered the floor instead of covering it completely. I found only about two dozen in the kitchen. After some quick work with the shop vac, I had them cleaned up and I left for work. When I got home that night I had a handful of dead spiders in the living room and that was it. The next few days I found less and less spiders.

    In four days time, I awoke to find no spiders on any of the floors. I smiled and let out a big sigh of relief. The first thing I did was call Ellie to tell her the news. She said, “I can finally come home.” And come home, she did.

    The rest of the spring and summer was amazing. We didn't see a single spider in the house. We occasionally saw a wolf spider in the landscaping rocks around the house and a few house spiders in the garage but the ugly yellow monsters were gone. At parties and get-togethers, we'd tell the story of how our house had become infested. I particularly liked telling the story and watching people worm around in their seats. It became something we could all laugh about, even Ellie.  

   

    The weather cooled and Ellie and I spent our evenings inside now that the season had changed. A nice, crisp fall night, Ellie and I were watching TV when she pointed at one of the corners and said, “Oh no. I think the wall paper is starting to peel over there.”
    I looked over at her, “Ellie, we don't have wall paper in here.”
    I stood up from my recliner and walked over the corner. Indeed, it did look like the paper had folded over until I got closer. It was just a trick of the light because instead of wallpaper, I found a wad of yellow snot with eight legs inside a webbed sac. The shadow coming off the sack looked like a tear in wall paper. “Oh shit.”

    “What is it?” Ellie asked.

    “Uh, it's one of those yellow bastards.”
    “Again?! They are all dead.”

    “They are supposed to be.” I grabbed a can of bug spray from under the sink in the kitchen and unloaded a generous portion of poison all over the spider and its webbing. In a matter of moments, the spider started to flail around, then fired itself out of the web sack. It twitched and sputtered along the wall for a few feet then fell to floor in its death throws. I used a shoe to end its life.

    After using a paper towel to throw away the smushed remains, I told Ellie I would call Steve. Her response was, “I'm going to my parent's again. I don't think I can handle this again.”

    “That might be an overreaction.”

    “Caden, with those things, anything short of burning down the house isn't a big enough reaction. I'm going to pack my bag.” She stomped up the stairs.

    I yelled up after her, “You better check your bag to make sure there aren't any spiders.”

    “Not funny!” She slammed the door.

    After seeing her off, I called Steve on his private number.

    His grit-and-gravel voice met my ear. “Hey kid, how ya doing?”

    “Hey, Steve. Look, I just found another Yellow Sac Spider in my living room. A live one. I thought we killed them all in the spring.”

    “There is no way to guarantee 100% that we got them all, buddy. The stuff you bought will last about a month but ours, that we lay down,  is a barrier to keep them out and kill the ones inside. It lasts about six months before you need another coating. It's just time for another coating.”

    “This one was an adult, Steve. It wasn't a little one. How did it live that long to get that big with all the poison around here?”

    “Caden, it's fall. They are going to be coming in the house as a means to stay warm. If the poison has worn off, it won't kill them as they enter the house. “I'll be over tomorrow with more stuff and we will get it taken care of before it become as a big problem like last time.”
    That was good enough for me. I hung up, then immediately called Ellie and told her what he said. “I'm going to stay here tonight since I'm here but maybe I'll come home tomorrow after he's been there.” I agreed with her and hung up.

    I didn't sleep well that night. I was tense thinking about how my house had an illness; one I thought I had cured earlier. I dreamt of spiders all night. In my dreams, they climbed all over my body and I couldn't do anything about it as their eight legs brushed my skin while they skittered around. I woke up in a horrible sweat and all the sheets were on the floor from my nightmare induced thrashing.

    I got up and took a shower. My neck and shoulders hurt like hell from being tense all night and the hot water helped a bit. I called into work so I could meet with Steve later that morning. I sat in my living room with the TV off as I my mind wandered about the situation. Spiders never bothered me. I didn't have a phobia about them like most people but Ellie was deathly afraid of them. I could see where people were afraid of them. Eight legs skittering across the floor as they darted here and there. Plus, they had fangs designed for one thing: injecting venom through bites. I realized as I sat in the silence that I had a low, throbbing head ache.

    I rubbed my temples and itched a spot on my back as I heard a truck pull into my driveway. I stood up out of my chair to see it was Steve in his company truck. The tension hadn't left my joints because they screamed when I stood up to meet Steve at the door.

    “Hey, kid.”

    “Hi, Steve.” I said, still itching my back.

    “Let's have us a look-see, shall we.” I stood back to let him in the house. He walked around looking in all the same spots again. He looked above the curtains and used the sprayer he had brought in with him. Two spiders fell and hit the floor, seized a few times then curled up into small balls.

    “Got a few sitting around this time.” Steve's voice reverberated off the walls of the quiet house and the inside of my skull. My headache increased ten fold and I broke out into a sweat. I itched my back again.

    “Kid, are you ok?”

    “Yeah, I've just got a headache.” Another itch nagged at my back so I ran my nails across it. “I slept wrong too. My neck and shoulders hurt.”

    Steve cocked an eyebrow at me. “Jesus, Caden, you're pale. Pull up your shirt, I want to see something.” I did as I was told. “That's what I thought.”
    “What? What is it?”

    “You've got a bite. You didn't sleep wrong, you're body is fighting off the venom. And you're itching the bite.” He grabbed my hand and pulled it behind my back like he was trying to arrest me. “Here, feel right there.” There was a small lump on my back at the epicenter of the itching and it was hot as a blast furnace.

    I yelled, “It's hot! Am I going to be ok? Is it infected?”

    “No it's just because of the venom. It causes flu-like symptoms but you'll be ok in a few hours. Kid, I'd go see a doctor to make sure it doesn't get infected, especially with the way you're itching at it.”

    I scratched at it again then pulled my shirt down. “So what are you going to do?”

    Steve's brow furrowed as the thought a moment. “Well, I could spray and bomb again. That seemed to work last time.” He pulled a picture away from the wally and sprayed behind it again. Another dead spider fell to the floor. “But, you seem to have a lot more activity this time, buddy. I think you need to have the entire house bombed.”

    “What does that entail?”
    “We would tarp off the outside of your house and pump in the same gas that is in our smaller bug bombs but at much higher levels. We would leave it like that twenty four hours then ventilate the house. You and your wife will have to stay somewhere else for a few days because this will pretty much kill any living thing in your home.”

    “After that do you do any sort of treatment to stop anything from coming back in the house?”

    “You bet I do, Kid. I don't want anything like this happening again at your house. Now that you've been bitten, the stakes have been raised and I'm making it my mission to stop this for you.” His lop sided grin spread across his face and he clapped me on the shoulder.

    I smiled then shook his monstrous hand in appreciation. We set up the bombing appointment for two days later and he stuck around to insure that I made a doctor appointment for my bite.

    I stayed with Ellie at her parents' house while our house was gassed. Steve had talked to Ellie and I together telling us that after they ventilated the house, his crew would clean up anything dead that they found. He assured us that we had nothing to worry about and wouldn't have to lift a finger to ward off spiders again. I went to the doctor and got on some heavy duty antibiotics for my bite. We did stop by to look at the place while the crew set up. Our house looked like a tent for a 3 ring circus as guys in white plastic zip-up overalls came in and out of the tent flaps that hung over our front door.

    Two days later, the tent was gone and the house looked like its old self. Steve opened the door for us and we all stepped into the living room. Steve swept an arm out, “See, good as new. You won't even notice a smell from the gas.” After a few moments, he lowered his eyes to us and said, “I'm not going to beat around the bush here. We only found a few dead spiders.”

    Ellie's face went ashen and she said, “Did you get them all?”
    Steve boomed a laugh and said, “Yeah, I think we did. That's why we let the poison sit for twenty four hours, so it can permeate all the nooks and crannies of your house and weed out those suckers.”

    Ellie visibly relaxed and Steve said, “And don't worry about anything else. I've personally sprayed your house again and planted bait traps in the ground around the perimeter of your house. You now have fantastic defenses against any other pest trying to get into your house.”

    Ellie started to lightly cry as she hugged Steve and said, “Thank you,” over and over again. When she finally let him go, I pulled him into a hug. He clapped my back three times. All of us were smiling like the Cheshire Cat. He bid us farewell and left us to a house we no longer had to share with yellow sac spider. Like a doctor, Steve had killed the illness.  

    I awoke the next morning from a dream where glass was being shoved into my knees, elbows and shoulders. The pain in the dream woke me up from the nightmare but as the images of faceless torturers faded, the pain did not. My whole body was screaming in agony as I attempted to move my arm. Mustering up all my strength, I rolled over. Several lumps crunched under me and my eyes snapped open. The pain was forgotten as I threw the sheets off of Ellie and me. Our bed was covered in dead spiders. I looked over at Ellie and her body was covered in angry red lumps like a relief map of a Martian mountain chain. I discovered I was covered with horrible red welts too. At seeing the welts, pain shot through my joints again. It was like lightening mixed with broken glass and battery acid had been injected into my body. Even through the agony, I vaulted out of bed. The floor was covered in dead spiders too. As I walked over them to Ellie's side of the bed, they crunched like I was walking across corn flakes.

    I yelled, “Ellie! You have to get up!” I shook her hard. She was always hard to wake up and this time was no different. “Ellie! Come on, we have to get up.” I shook her hard again. She didn't move. A lump formed in my throat and I started to panic. “Ellie! Come on, now! You have to get up!” I started lightly smacking her face. She still didn't move. “Ellie!” I screamed her name and a lump formed in my throat.

    She stirred a bit and cracked her eyes open, “What?” I pulled her into a hug, “Caden, you're crushing me and I already don't feel good. I hurt all over.”

    “I know, sweet heart. You have to get up. We have a problem. The spiders attacked us last night and we've been bitten several times. You're laying in a bunch of dead ones. He have to go.”

    “No way!” She groaned as her joints caught fire from her sitting up in bed. She looked at the bed and saw the dozens of dead spiders. Some had been smeared across the sheets from me getting out of bed. “What the hell, Caden?! I thought we killed them all.” She looked at me and started screaming, “You have bites all over you!”

    “You do too and we have to go, now. We have to get to a hospital or something.”

    Ellie jumped out of bed then heard the crunch of spiders under foot. She shrieked and ran for the closet. She grabbed a hooded sweat shirt and a pair of jeans then flew out the door. I pulled on a pair of jeans and tshirt and followed her. She shrieked the whole way out. The entire upstairs was flooded with dead spiders. I stumbled down the stairs as my joints flared; the venom was taking hold..

    The downstairs was the same as upstairs, spider bodies everywhere. I shook out my shoes, a few dead spiders fell out, and I pulled them on the ducked out the door. Ellie had collapsed in the front yard sobbing in pain and pure disgust. I slumped down next to her and put an arm over her shoulders.

    A neighbor came running over to see if we were alright. After explaining to them that we had been attacked by spiders, they agreed to give us a ride to the hospital.

    After being looked over in the ER, we were admitted into the hospital. We were given pain relievers, antibiotics and a hefty dose of steroids to reduce the itching of the bites. The necrotic nature of the venom took hold on a couple bites on my legs and they deteriorated into lesions. Ellie fared much better and only had one on her arm become a lesion. We were released and we went straight to Ellie's parents house.

    I called Steve and told him what happened. He showed up less than an hour later. We sat at the kitchen table because my legs hurt to bad to walk. A cup of hot coffee sat on the table in front of Steve as I held a beer. Ellie's mom had said I shouldn't mix my pain meds with alcohol but I ignored her protests.
    “What the hell is going on, Steve? I thought you said you fixed this!”
    Steve's voice was still the rumbling gravel I had come to trust, but it's hushed tones had me lean forward to hear him. “I'm sorry, Caden. I'm not sure what happened.” He looked up from his coffee. “I have never seen anything like this. I have never seen a yellow sac spider attack people like this. Honestly, I don't think they sought out to attack you. I think they were in your bed and you two rolled around in your sleep. They bit out of defense.”

    “I don't give a shit how or why they attacked us, Steve. They never should have been there in the first place! What the hell happened?! Why were there any alive to be in our bed, let alone collect in the house like that?” I pulled a drink from the beer bottle. “You're lucky Ellie is taking a nap right now or you'd have to deal with her.”

    “Kid, listen, I am going to fix this and I'm going to cover your hospital bills. I have a guy at your house right now looking around to find out what happened. We are going to make this right.”
    The beer and pain killer cocktail was taking hold and I mellowed a bit. “Steve, this has got to end.” I itched at one of the bites. “I can't live like this and I can't stay married to Ellie if I try to live like this. I have to know what is going on. All of our money is tied up in that house and we can't move. I wouldn't sell the house to people knowing this might happen to them if they bought it.” I looked him dead in the eye. “We need a solution.”
    “I understand, Caden, and I'm looking into it.”

    Steve sipped his coffee as the medically induced fog of relaxation started to fall over my limbs. I was about to ask him to leave so I could rest when his phone rang. Steve reached to pick it up and said, “There's my guy now.” He answered the phone. “Yeah?! Uh huh. What? Seriously?” He looked up at me and I arched an drunken eye brow, silently questioning him. “Thanks, Barry. I'll be there right away.” He hung up the phone and stood up. “Caden, they found something. I'm going to run over there and take a look for myself. I'll call you when I verify what is going on.”
    I slurred, “What did you find out?”
    “Caden, go rest. By the time you wake up, I'll have answers.” With that, he walked out of the house.

    I really couldn't argue with him. I got up and hobbled my way into the bedroom to doze off next to Ellie.

    When I woke up, it was dark and I was alone in bed. My legs ached and I got out of bed to get more pain pills. I got out to the kitchen where Ellie and her family sat talking while a small TV on the counter flickered some late night talk show. Ellie looked up and said, “Your phone has been buzzing all night.” I nodded at her. I had missed several calls from Steve and he had left a voice message, “Hey, Caden. It's Steve. Give me a call back ASAP. Bye.”

    I walked into another room and dialed his number. On the second ring he picked up. “Caden! Thank God you called. We figured out what is going on.”

    “Yeah? What is it?”

    “My guy, Barry, looked all around your house and couldn't find anything. Nothing under your shelves, behind pictures or even in your closets. Nothing. So he looked in your crawlspace and found it teeming with spiders. He said the whole place was moving. The walls, the ground, everything. When he pulled open the hatch, he said they spilled out out of there and ran off every which way. He said the place looked like it was alive because of all the movement.”

    I said, “That doesn't make sense. You looked down there and saw a bunch of egg sacks but no spiders. Why are they down there now?”

    “I wondered the same thing, buddy, and I think I figured it out. When we put up the tent, we didn't pump gas into the crawlspace. I think they went down there to escape the gas and that was where they were hanging out. I believe they were living in the walls and when the gas was pumped in the house, it started to enter the walls through outlets and vents so they were herded to the crawlspace. The reason they were all over your house when you woke up, and in your bed, was they had raced out to reclaim their territory but they ran across my spray barrier and died. The natural course was to head upstairs to avoid the poison, where they found you. The crawlspace still holds those that didn't leave Well, I mean, it did. Barry and I sprayed and bombed the crawlspace. It took us several hours but I'm pretty sure it clear.”

    I processed this for a bit. “But that means there had to be millions of spiders there even after all of them that died after your first two rounds of spraying. What is so special about my place that they would stay there?”

    “I did some research on the Yellow Sac Spider to see if I could find anything about them. They eat normal bugs and your place show now signs of any other infestation that could support those numbers. I would think they would become cannibalistic after the food source was gone and Nature would even out their numbers but that didn't happen at your house.” Steve paused for a moment then said,”I don't really know why they grew to such large numbers. If this were a movie, I would say they were sprayed with an experimental bug spray that mutated them or they bred with a new species of spider and the hybrid was what infested your house. Hell, it might even be that your house is cursed. The truth is, I don't know. We may never know. I collected a few of the dead ones and will send them to the state university for further study. We will see if that pans out.”

    I thanked him and hung up. I walked back into the kitchen and told Ellie and her family what Steve had told me. “We are moving out,” Ellie barked. I agreed with her. The next day, Ellie and her family packed up our belongings and brought them to her parents house. We stored our furniture and the boxes of our belongings in their garage. We started looking for a new house.

    A couple of weeks later Steve called us back to say he heard from the college. “They say that nothing is unusual about the spiders but they are conducting further studies. This might be one of those head scratchers that never gets answered, kid.”

“Steve, is it possible for spiders to feel a need for revenge? What if I pissed them off by killing of that fist egg sac?”

I could hear Steve scratching his beard on the other end of he phone and he slowly exhaled, “Kid, I’ve been in this business for 30 years. I worked with my dad and took over after he died. I have seen several odd things from bugs. I have seen ants that will only attack people that wear a certain type of cologne. I have seen a house so infested with bees that the walls cried honey. Heck, I have even heard of a venomous butterfly, but kid, I don’t think I have ever heard of or seen a spider look for revenge. But that’s not to say they couldn’t. I don’t think any of us will know what happened or why.” After agreeing to keep in touch, I thanked him and hung up.

    Ellie and I found a new home on the other side of town not much longer after that. We put the other house up for sale after Steve told us he was confident the problem had been dealt with. We took comfort in that. After we got settled in, I was watching TV when Ellie shrieked from the bedroom and I came running in to find her pointing at a spider on the wall screaming, “Kill it! Kill it!” I ripped the shoe off my foot and smashed it; splattering its guts all over the wall. I leaned in to look at what was left of it.“You can relax, Ellie, It's not one of 'them.' It is a black one.”

    She sobbed, “I don't care. They all need to die.”

    I looked back at the smear mark on he wall and rubbed one of my legs where the lesion was still healing. I pulled her into a hug and said, “I couldn't agree with you more.”