DexCon

jim_smith — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 04:36:41 GMT

So, uh, yeah, what exactly are we doing this weekend? Brucha and I are planning to get to Toronto Friday afternoon. Where do we need to go to find people?

Updates!

ferox — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 22:56:43 GMT

Alright, news:

CUT OFF DATE FOR REGISTRATION: Aug 1st. If we don't reach 15 persons by then, we throw up our hands and spend the whole weekend getting drunk* . I realise this is not very much different than the norm, but we would be lacking a Johnny, laptop time and calling it Dexcon in LJ updates. We'd probably keep the formal only because we found a really awesome restaurant and I want to wear a dress and get free tequila again.

PEOPLE WHO HAVE REGISTERED

- Jim Smith
- Heatherly
- Rossi
- Jen
- Brucha
- Dex**
- Doqz**
- Lauren and myself (y'duh)

* for those of you who have "clever" commentary on when the last Dexcon should have been, do yourself a favour and keep it to yourself
** have not actually registered but they don't really get a choice

Pitchers.

doqz — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 05:02:41 GMT

POLL!

ferox — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 18:05:59 GMT

As you may know, Dex has finally thrown his hands up in the air and can't find enough alcohol to willingly host us again but more likely because he's done it for ten something years, let's not tempt fate on that doesn't have an ulcer thing. This is a poll to gauge interest in Dexcon XIII: Revenge of the Laurens (now with more PowerPoint) involving, but not limited to: guest speakers, writing activities, prizes and general awesome. Please choose one of the following radio buttons.

View Poll: #1515938

We will be pimping this out through multiple channels and encourage you all to do the same; everyone is invited! I mean, it's the internet; everyone likes alcohol and writing on the internet. Keep an eye on this space for information and discussions, but feel free to get the ball rolling with ideas of what you'd like to see this year. I'm voting for name tags.

Love,
Laurens

Bed and breakfast locations near High Park

deathpixie — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 03:00:03 GMT

As Dex mentioned, there's some B&B places near High Park that are nice and reasonable-ish price-wise. The first one is the one my parents stayed at here. The other is this this one, actually almost on High Park itself.

Registration!

deathpixie — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 16:30:59 GMT

It's that time again! Dexcon Registration is now open. The Con itself will run July 31 to August 3, and registration fees will be dependant on how many people we get signed up. Come one, come all!

Pictures!

indiana_j — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 02:57:35 GMT

Clicky clicky

First batch of photos

nute — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:11:04 GMT

Here we go.

And yes, I did finally make it home. And should think about catching up on sleep.

Writing Workshop Fic

maureenans — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 23:46:18 GMT

The Last Holdout
by Brucha, Hex, & Maureen

Scene: The cavalry arrives in the climax of Thunderbolts #11, but they're being mind-controlled by the bad guy!

The war was going badly. The Empire was strong and the Rebel Alliance was splintering under the weight of the losses, and struggling to find the methodology of how best to accomplish their goals. They were too few in number and the resources of the Alliance's Supan Base were dwindling. If they could survive just a few more days, reinforcements would arrive. It wouldn't guarantee a win, but it would help lessen the loss. The most recent report had told them that the resupply ship Aardvark was only half a parsec away. If they could only endure a few more days, they could be resupplied with vital weapons, food and medicine needed to break the Imperial Forces and take them down a peg. It would be a hard won and critical victory.

General Lanta-Ol glanced at the radar showing where the Aardvark should be right now as it snuck through the blockade. It was still farther away than he preferred, but there was nothing he could do -- the ship could not use their hyperdrive engines while drifting through the Empire's fleet. "Status of the shields?" he barked at his lieutenant.

"Holding strong, sir," the lieutenant replied, his voice fatigued. He had been at his post for over 24 hours, refusing to leave. They had taken a lot of casualties in the course of the fighting and did not have enough people to do what needed to be done, much less change shifts. No one was complaining though, it needed to be done.

The lieutenant continued, "The Empire tried another salvo this morning, but our energy held out." They had diverted almost all power except life support to shields. When the resupply came, they would have more power cells along with the other necessities to continue to hold the base, securing the planet for the Alliance.

"Sir!" the lieutenant called, "I'm picking up a ship coming out of the blockade." He put the radar on screen, and a small but steady white blip crept forward from the red Empire ships towards them. As one, the few crewmembers on the base's command center exhaled, so close to relief. It wasn't there yet, but it would not be long.

In a few hours, the Rebel Captain hailed them, asking permission to land. The General granted it, rushing from the command center deep within the base and up to ground level, to oversee the landing and greet their salvation personally. For the first time in over a month, he smiled, pleased that the small ship had managed to successfully navigate through the blockade.

As the Aardvark's bay door opened, General Lanta-Ol stepped forward to greet his comrades -- only to be met by Stormtroopers leveling blaster rifles at him and his men. His heart sank to his feet as he realized what had happened. The Empire had gotten a hold of the ship, most likely killing the Alliance rebels and replacing them with their own. Somehow, somewhere, their salvation had turned into their destruction.

Workshop Fic - My Turn

deathpixie — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 22:47:44 GMT

Team RossTwilliNute

Character: Sam "Cannonball" Guthrie

Scene: From the Dark Phoenix Saga, Logan being dropped into the sewers and doing the "Now it's *my* turn..." defiant stand.

A beautiful autumn day, with a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at, punctuated by clouds that could have been made of the whitest cotton. Under any other circumstances, Sam Guthrie would happily have been out at his favorite fishing hole or down on the patio at Harry's. Today, instead, he was sailing out of control in a ballistic arc away from the destructive fracas raging through Times Square.

His blast field had withstood the impact, but the laws of physics were working against him, in that he had been hit with so much force that he couldn't just flip around and reverse his flight, not without tearing himself to shreds from the g-forces. So here he was, soaring through the beautiful September sky.

They'd come without warning, hitting New York like an atomic bomb. The whole team, such as it was with half of them already on that mission in Russia, had gone in hard, and met with equal force. The unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. When Rogue had gone down, Sam had launched himself at full speed. The net result being his current trajectory.

~Where exactly did it go wrong?~ Sam pondered to himself. It was rather easy to pinpoint, in retrospect. They'd underestimated their opponents. It was easy to do against a group calling themselves the Evil League of Evil, he supposed. He'd gone sailing directly for the being that appeared to be their leader. He remembered being startled at a horse leading a group of villains, and then Bad Horse had let forth his terrible death whinny before wheeling to kick Sam out over the horizon.

There was that quick moment of weightlessness that signaled the apex of a flight, and Sam knew his altitude was dropping. Which meant, of course, that he'd be moving faster when he landed. He probably wouldn't die, he thought. He vaguely remembered someone saying something once that maybe he *couldn't* die, but had dismissed it as a concept too stupid to even remember.

Below him the ocean turned to land, and he turned to barely miss a large spire rising from the ground. The CN something something, he remembered. Hey, maybe Alpha Flight could help them out against the Evil League of Evil, he thought. But then again, Alpha Flight was the only superhero team that wouldn't work on civic holidays.

He left a furrow the length of Nathan Phillips Square, scattering concrete blocks and tourists. The angle with which he hit meant he travelled downwards, destroying infrastructure as he went. He plunged through a subway tunnel, hearing the screech of brakes against rails as the train hit the emergency stop. Only his blast field protected him as he carved a trail of destruction in his wake.

He finally slid to a halt in Queen Station, shaking his head as he sat up. He clambered onto the platform, where a crowd of curious Toronto natives stared quizzically at him. He leaned down to brush dust and debris off his uniform, and as he stood up, he grinned tightly. "Now it's *my* turn..."

Post-Dexcon XI

hex_16 — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 14:43:40 GMT

Home again. Well, at work actually, but I've arrived safely. I had a blast seeing you folks again, and hopefully we get to do it again next year. :)

Seen in the restroom in Fiddler's Green in downtown Toronto... not "Call Jenny @ 867-5309 for a good time." Not some indecent innuendo. No, someone wrote between the bathroom tiles:

"Grout."

Best bathroom graffiti evar! :P

Hotels.

frito_kal — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 14:53:54 GMT

Does anyone need/want to room share to cut costs? Twiller and I have yet to book, and we took kind of a financial Ow this month, so -we're- looking to cut costs.

(We're quiet, and tidy, and AFAIK, neither of us snores. I am grumbly in the morning but no more than any other large ground-based mammal my size)

Argh!! Dexcon

thatpalebluedot — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 20:51:31 GMT

It is NOT possible that Dexcon is less than month away. Gahh. I am planless and unprepared!

Most pressing--I have no housing organized. Anyone else still looking?

Ah, good times are here again.

doqz — Wed, 07 May 2008 23:00:38 GMT

As is the perennial tradition - anyone looking for roommates this year?

This took me a while. (Pictures!)

chandri — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 01:41:17 GMT

Mainly because there's a truly obsecene volume here, even after I deleted, like, eighty. But here y'go. Dexcon pictures. Registered users only.

A beast is approaching.

alestar — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 19:10:39 GMT

I was fussing with my Dexcon photographs, as they are gigantic and must be painstakingly resized before I upload them, but I got distracted by this one. As Dex noted the night of the barbeque: iconic.

The rest of my pics will be posted soon, though I currently have three jobs and 1000 hobbies. Rossi, you were right, that is totally my black shirt, damn.

diamond_dust06 — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 22:47:29 GMT

My pictures from Dexcon, set so only registered users can view them. Also posted them on my Facebook. If anyone doesn't want to be shown online, then I'll take down the pictures. My e-mail address is thatwasnifty[at]gmail[dot]com.

The Long Con

thatpalebluedot — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 23:14:19 GMT

Prompt: Pauline Vanier

The Long Con
by doqz, thatpalebluedot, and avariel_wings

Warnings for language, general insanity, and reckless use of real people. (Blame Doqz. Really.) My apologies for being late in posting!

St. Johns, New Brunswick
2008

Once this was a barren wasteland, bereft of culture and good conversation. It was good to know, despite everything, that some things remained the same.

It was a dark and stormy night, and as the clock chimed 12 am, two figures huddled against each other in futile defense against the cold August morning. The two stragglers crept carefully down the alleyway of the last free city in Canada.

The blinking lights of the American embassy beckoned them to safety, but their minds were consumed by the horror they had experienced over the last decade. They approached the illusory safety of the grand brick and concrete, Old Glory flying as proudly as ever against the lightning strikes throughout the city.

As they paused at the gates, the shorter bearded figure could not hold the terror locked inside of him. His voice breaking into a shriek of rage and fear, he cried out: “I fucking warned you Warren Ellis would ruin Thunderbolts!”

The Marine guarding the gates blinked, but made no other reaction. Nothing much surprised him anymore in this land of chaos and death. He was one of the Old Guard. He had survived the Death Ride as the American Embassy had been evacuated first from Toronto, then from Winnipeg when it fell to the ravening hordes. It was he who had wounded Jack Three-Tooth, the GoldMouth, at the Siege of Quebec. On this sunny evening he was tired, pissed, and way too sober for this. After a cursory check of their documents, he waved the two figures inside.

***

Pauline Vanier had spent her entire life working in the government. She was a State Department brat, raised and bred in every country across the world except her own. Now, finally, after 25 years of service to her country, she was again serving her people in another land. And to tell the truth, she was sick and tired of her people. The only pleasure she received was the whiskey bottle discreetly hidden under the picture of her daughter, in the third drawer of her desk. A judicious sip, now and then, was taken after sending another ungrateful, whining wretch home to the bright, shining American civilization that she hadn’t seen for a quarter of a century.

The two figures in her doorway hesitated for a moment before coming. They seemed vaguely familiar at first, but so did all the refugees, whose faces blended together into a collage of grime and despair.

“Name, place of birth, last residence please,” she recited tiredly, looking back down at her paperwork. It was easier if she didn’t look at them.

“Smith,” the taller one replied tiredly. “Jim Smith. Evansville, Kentucky. Yellowknife, Northern Territories.”

Pauline didn’t even bother to look up as she snorted in disbelief. “You people aren’t even trying anymore, are you? Smith? Jim Smith? Couldn’t you at least come up with something entertaining, like Paul Anka?!”

The shorter one responded to her, his voice muffled by his thick beard. “It is his name! Like we’ve got nothing better to do than play games with you!”

It was the muffled voice that caught her memory, and she looked up at him in shock, now recognizing the short man whose beard was worthy of an angry prophet. She paled and reached for her whiskey, gulping down the remnants in one swallow.

“Michael! James! How did you escape Toronto?!”

“No thanks to you, you cock juggling thunder cunt.” Michael was glaring at her in fury. The pale, emaciated figure spewing obscenities at her…actually resembled the man she remembered from Toronto. But how they escaped? And wait, wasn’t there---

“Wait, where’s your friend, the Jewish girl?”

James looked away, his face dark and frozen, the memories of that terrible in front of the CN Tower, the hordes of RavenBlack Hand who had ripped Brucha from their sight in the midst of the battle frenzy.

“She didn’t make it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and decided not to mention the two others who had fallen that day, Kate and Daroos crushed beneath the feet of the teeming mass of people, trying vainly to escape the black-clad wave of ninja warriors gone mad with blood-lust.

The rumor still stubbornly persisted that deep underneath the rubble of the Tower lived another survivor–if you could call him that–a mad Doctor. Whoever entered his domain from either side was never seen again. One did not trespass on the grounds of the Benway cult lightly.

Pauline stared at them in shock which slowly began to build into a cold fury. These were the instigators. These were the ones who were part of the Epicenter. And they dared to come to HER for aid? She remembered that August day perfectly, the heat drowning the Toronto streets, the prospect of finally going home. She had stepped outside for a quick lunch, to stop at the Bishop and Belcher for a bit of bangers and mash. She had heard reports of a disturbance at a nearby pub, but had shrugged it off.

Less than a day later, Toronto was in flames.

What started off as a seemingly harmless, even academic debate, pondering the age old question: Ninja, or pirate—had soon escalated into a war that had torn apart the Great White North.

She stared at them, and then sighed in resignation. “I suppose you want out, then, from this mess that you created.”

James shuffled a little uncomfortably, not answering, but Mike blurted out in anger: “Fuck yes, we want out! What the hell do you think we came here for? Your company?”

She deigned to respond, gritting her teeth against the onslaught of curses she’d like to unleash. Instead, she pulled her paperwork together and handed them across. “Fill out each of these. In triplicate. Unfortunately, we have no copy machines as our last generator was destroyed in a suicide mission from the GreenBeard Crew.”

***

Two hours later, as she processed their paperwork, she sighed and threw her pen down. She rubbed her head in a futile effort to relieve the headache that never really ended. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of her to place all the blame on the Smith brothers—after all, mediators from both sides and numerous third parties had tried to end the conflict without success.

They had even tried the oldest strategy of all—which had almost worked. The cease-fire during the Lawrence-Hemler wedding, officiated by a supposedly neutral party (a priest from the newly arisen Church of Apocolypse Soonish, who wore biker shorts and drank Guinness during the ceremony) had lasted almost 10 full days before culminating in a vicious bloodbath on the steps of Montreal city hall.

Long story short—there is no more Montreal.

The last anyone saw of the priest he was disappearing into the crowd of pirates, swinging his Guinness bottle with joyful abandon, and screaming something about: “The bloody Frogs!”

Pauline finished the last of the Smiths paperwork, and then pulled a very special list out of her top drawer. It wasn’t official, and it wasn’t public, but everyone did it anyway. Everyone had a list of the Dexcon Cursed. She glanced down over the names, sliding down the roster with a practiced indifference, moving past those whose fates had been accounted for. Some, like Pebblin, had remarkably short histories—she didn’t even make it out of Fiddler’s Green. Legend had it she went down under the weight of the mob with teeth still in the throat of a hapless waiter, jamming a pastry of some sort into his face and asking him, in a chillingly mild voice: “How do you like me now, bitch? How do you like me now?”

Others had slightly longer and somewhat more exciting careers. Like JBMcDragon, whose sheer lack of morals and scruples, aided by her inherent nature of viciousness, quickly clawed her way to the leadership of the DragonClaw Ninja Society, and led them into a six month bloody rampage over three provinces before they were cornered and lynched by the cowboys of Alberta.

The victors of that battle weren’t able to celebrate their success for long though—led by their small but fierce Captain, Fatima’s Rangers were halted at the border of British Columbia by the survivors of DragonClaw, now known as the Elven Warriors (quickly renamed the Fairies by the rest of the nation). The battle lasted three days and ended with a standoff between Captain Fatima and Shinobi Chandri—both fell into the raging waters of the Fraser, never to be seen again.

Even the stalwart leaders of the Cursed could not escape the dark night that fell upon the once proud nation. Some fought to the bitter end, like Matthew Nute, who started out with the noblest of intentions, and for a time, gave hope to all those who yearned for a time when the cruel dynamic of ninjas vs. pirates would be broken. But in the end, his armored column was subsumed into the greater whole of the EatonCentre Corsairs.

Unable to deal with this cruel fate, Nute escaped into the wilds of Algonquin Provincial Park and went feral. Each night he would venture out into the last remaining pubs in the city, and carry off one child and one laptop back to his cave of trade paperbacks of the Authority. He was eventually vanquished by Shai PeriHawk, the only one brave enough to enter the rank cave where he dwelt. The battle of Mizzy Lake lasted ten days and took both their lives.

Of course, the fate of the architect of the disaster is the most tragic. The pinnacle of his career turned out to be his undoing. He still wanders, forgotten and quite mad down Bloor Street, shivering in his rags, and keeping a tight grip on the bell which he rings each night. His pitiful shriek echoes through the vast expanse of the dead city: “All is well, all is well. Come back to the con!” His constant shadows are the two cats who trail at his feet, bringing him the rats he lives upon. At night he is rumored to sleep in a fort of beer bottles, rambling incoherently to the renamed Wink-Wink and Nudge-Nudge.

The only other companion Dex has in the city is Ben, the Pirate Queen of Church Street.

Pauline sighed, and then carefully picked up a silver pen she kept for occasions like this, marking ‘alive’ next to the names of Jim and Mike Smith. She glanced at Brucha’s name, with a question mark still waiting, and put down the silver pen to pick up the black.

***

As the Smiths walked into the crowded basement currently serving as the refugee center, their eyes habitually scanned the crowd for familiar faces, and ignored the miasma of despair with the ease of long practice. They walked towards the small table holding the limited amount of personal supplies distributed to the refugees.

Standing in the line and gazing vacantly ahead of him, Jim slowly became aware that the conversation taking place in front of him contained names he didn’t expect to hear again.

“She almost succeeded,” the short woman said.

“Well, no wonder with her enforcer,” the other replied. “Do you what they’re calling an impalement in Calgary now? Doing a Sichter.”

“Gods only know what damage they could have done if they’d broken out. Four Australians running loose in Alberta! Thank goodness Tap’s Marauders and Rith’s Sea and Sky Legions caught them.”

Jim shook his head, barely having the energy to spare for grief and moved ahead to pick up his supplies. He and Mike sat down on a threadbare cot, and Jim leaned back, closing his eyes.

The story didn’t move him that much, he expected something similar. Familiar faces were becoming fewer. The last time he met somebody was in Moosoonee where the ill-conceived idea of having dinner with Aisy, Alicia, Lauren, and Heatherly ended in blood, tears and glitter.

Nobody expected Azzy’s Blue-Nose Crew to come by dog-sled. The town fell in one night.

Unfortunately for them, the Blue-Nose Crew indulged during their victory a bit too much, and Tangerine’s Trucker-Ninja’s wiped them out. Dog-sled wasn’t the only form of transport after all.

Thankfully, Doqz managed to get the two brothers out of the ravaged town, with his battered helicopter, proudly named Black Smoochee. But they were unable to rescue Doqz when the intrepid captain piloted his proud ship into the teeth of a winter storm, screaming defiantly into the whirling snow: “I am BATMAN!”

***

Two days later, the Smith brothers boarded the good ship Diefenbaker, feeling something strange and unfamiliar—hope. At last, they were going home, escaping this benighted den of misery and despair, once known as Canada, a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Jim stood on the bow of the ship, watching his brother talk quietly with one other survivor fleeing the northern wastes, Indiana-J. He looked out at the open sea…which suddenly was not open anymore.

That unfamiliar feeling of hope died quickly in his chest and he stared at a rapidly approaching shape in the distance. No—no, it couldn’t be. Everyone had sworn the Black Pearl had destroyed it! But still, it was there, the white and silver shape of the plane slicing through the sky.

“Mike! Mike, look!”

His brother and Indiana turned, almost in slow motion, their faces showing confusion that turned into shock and fear.

“No!” Jen screamed. “I thought she was dead!”

“Some one forgot to tell her that!” Mike shouted in response, staring as Alestar’s Iceberg swooped towards them.

The three watched in horror as the silver and white jet careened towards Diefenbaker, and with a loud and grinding sound, slammed into the aft hull. The world disappeared into a haze of flame and smoke.

The last thing the world heard from the doomed ship Diefenbaker was a quiet and resigned voice crying out: “I fucking told you Warren Ellis would ruin Thunderbolts!”

Pictures!

daroos — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 17:17:46 GMT

Heya everyone! My (good) pictures can be found here:

http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v651/roosianjourneys/DexCon%2007/

Feel free to link or do whatever with them, and if you want me to remove them... just say so. Oh, and they aren't labled, but I figured if you want to see them, you know who people are.

I'm Not Home But I'm Back

pebblin — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 07:20:36 GMT

I landed in Phoenix twelve hours ago but this is the first chance I've had to get online. I know I said I'd email a few people upon my arrival, but I figured this would be a bit quicker.

For now, I must sleep.

Cross-posting.

nute — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 01:16:10 GMT

Should post here, too. Pictures!

telegraph

thatpalebluedot — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 08:05:40 GMT

home safe STOP

miss you all STOP

going to sleep now STOP

jim_smith — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 06:26:41 GMT

The jim_smith-mindset-mike_smith party is now safely home, with surprisingly little difficulty compared with years past. And now I go bed and make the sleep.

Home now

nute — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 23:46:12 GMT

Tired. Flight actually took less time than wandering around the airport. Safe and sound, or as close as I get.

DEAD NITE

alestar — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 00:04:05 GMT

by seraangel, alestar, tangeriner.

Prompt = Vikings

DEAD NITE

"Harry, I don't think you quite understand just how hard this place is to get into." Hermoine said, grabbing ahold of the sleeve of his robe.

"No, you don't understand. I need to speak to Dumbledore." Harry replied, jerking his sleeve out of her hand. "Manchester United played last week and he's got the DVD of the game. I can't wait for another day to find out if our team wins."

"I think football has rotted your brain, Harry." Hermione said with exasperation, "But fine, let's try and get in. Don't say I didn't warn you though."

Harry nodded and looked warily up the misty path to the large house at the end of the road; a two-story remodelled Victorian-style building with red shutters and wrought iron railings loomed on the hilltop. There was a small crowd gathered out front, and over the recessed alcove entrance was a large neon sign: The Subreality Café.

As the friends drew closer, they noticed two people standing on a side balcony, smoking. One of them had glasses and a shoulder holster, and the other hung one abnormally long grey-tinged forearm over the edge of the wrought iron railing.

"Angelo!" called a voice behind Harry and Hermione, a voice from the informal group of pub-crawlers that had formed at the bottom of the hill. The kids turned. The woman with short red hair was waving, but the grey-skinned boy on the balcony ignored her. She dropped her hand, and a man standing next to her—a large, angry-looking man with black hair, black clothes, covered in guns—snorted.

"Harry…" said Hermione, who craned her neck to keep in view the balcony as they passed it, "Wasn't that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce? From the old Watchers council?"

"How could it be?" answered Harry, slowing to a stop as they neared the entrance. "Isn't he dead?"

The two waist-high, brightly-dressed men walking behind Harry and Hermione bumped into their thighs. Hermione looked down at them, obviously brothers, and the one in the bright red jumper and blue overalls tossed up his arms in alarm.

"Forgive-a Mario, bella! These-a people are so big-a!"

"It's all right," Hermione assured him hastily, as Harry goggled at the duo.

"Are we at-a the right place-a? Luigi and I are from the-a Mushroom Kingdom."

Hermione smiled weakly. "That's great. That's really … great."

Before Mario could reply—and Hermione could tell he was desperate to—the disgruntled man with the plethora of guns loomed over Hermione's shoulder. "Listen, you fucking multicoloured midget, can't you see the woman doesn't give a flying shit?"

The two brothers exchanged looks of terror then bounced off, an odd chirpy sound to their steps. Harry and Hermione stared after them a moment then shook their heads in unison. "This place is definitely odd," Harry said, "but I really want that DVD."

"I don't think we're getting in," Hermione said. "If that guy can't get in …"

A young, brown-haired man was arguing with the biggest of the bouncers. He was dressed in a blue tunic and red gloves and boots. He reminded Hermione vaguely of Harry, since he apparently shared Harry's inability to accept lost causes.

"Bucky," the man said. "I'm on the list. Check it again. I'm with Captain America."

The bouncer looked down at him. "Trust me, kid, you're not."

"I died right after World War Two. Ask anyone. I have my death certificate right here."

Harry and Hermione exchanged nervous glances.

"You're alive now," the bouncer replied. "No corpse, no entry."

"It's no use, the moon is behind a cloud and she won't say who will enter next." Drusilla said from where she was standing in line. "Miss Edith says that the big man is about to get impatient."

Hermoine and Harry quickly tried to sneak past the Bouncers as they were distracted by the Fictives, but unfortunately not quick enough as one of them turned from the argument he was having with Drusilla and growled in a hoarse voice. "Look, you lot. I don't care who you are, or how dead you think you are. If you can't show me your slowly rotting corpse, you're not getting in."

This announcement was met with the sound of a cocking gun as Frank Castle stepped around the two brothers and pointed his firearm at the Bouncer. "I think you may be being a bit hasty there my friend. Perhaps you want to rethink that last statement for a moment."

The Bouncer re-aimed his broad shoulders to face the armed man, but as he opened his mouth, Drusilla wailed, "The hippo of death is lost in wheat!" The Bouncer's mouth shut, and he squinted in confusion at the undead woman.

The red-headed woman at the back of the group pushed past Harry and Hermione, stepped around the two small Italian heroes, and said, "Okay, can we move forward?" A man in a red Star Fleet uniform said, "Uh, Jean…" and followed her uneasily past the ruckus.

Harry slipped his Invisibility Cloak over he and Hermione, and they entered the Café; Mario and Luigi stepped unnoticed between the knees of the arguing giants. Frank sneered for a moment at the two Bouncers, who were distracted by issues of questionable aliveness, then he dropped his head and murmured, "I need a fuckin' drink." He shouldered his firearm and went inside.

The ambience inside the Café was subdued and hushed, yet no one at any of the many tables seemed to notice the arrival of the hot chick in spandex, the man in pajamas, the two half-sized moustached plumbers, or the large darkly-dressed man with a big gun. Harry and Hermione threw off the Invisibility Cloak, but nobody noticed them either.

Frank strode to the bar. He pushed between Tasha Yar, who was curled dismally around a cosmopolitan, and Romeo Montague, who was clearly hitting on her.

"Can I get some fucking service here," Frank said, but Romeo looked past him, or through him, to Tasha Yar, seemingly unmoved.

"This is madness," Hermione murmured.

Harry nodded then elbowed her sharply. "I see Dumbledore."

"Let's go then," Hermione said.

They made their way across the crowded room. The entire scene deeply unsettled Hermione, but Harry seemed determined, and she didn't trust him alone. As if proving her point, Harry tripped over his own feet and bumped into a table of three women.

"Excuse me," Harry mumbled as the three women looked up from their pints. Women, Hermione noted, was a loose term, as one of them was decidedly not human. Her bald head, with a myriad wires poking out of it, was in stark contrast to her companions.

"You are not dead," the Borg Queen said critically. "You have not been assimilated."

"Here she goes again," Anna Karenina said dourly.

"'Resistance is futile'," Jean Grey added, face veiled by her long dark hair.

Hermione shoved Harry ahead, mumbling an apology. They passed a table where two men, who she recognised as Captain America and Ben Parker, two Americans whose afterlife blogs she read semi-regularly, were engaged in what appeared to be a fascinating debate about power and responsibility. For a moment, Hermione considered ditching Harry and joining in on the conversation, but the man at the next table frightened.

"Luke," the man muttered sullenly into his beer, "I am your father. I am."

Finally, they saw Dumbledore, who was sharing a table with a small, hunched thing. Dumbledore, who didn't seem to notice his companion was sitting on the table, was speaking loudly about Manchester United and Bernie Botts Every Flavour Beans.

"Sir," Harry said, rushing up to him. "Do you have my DVD? I need to know who won."

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully, and Hermione willed him to hurry up. There was some sort of ruckus happening at the front, with a lot of shouting and angry American curse words. "Ah, Harry. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Harry's face fell. "What?"

The pale little creature on the table seemed to notice Harry for the first time. "My preciousssssss," he whispered, stroking a DVD, neatly labelled ‘Manchester United ftw!'

"Bollocks," Harry said, with feeling.

At the next table, Captain Ahab drummed his peg leg against the wooden floor and said gruffly, "'Ware ye of obsessions, boy!" His tablemates—three Jean Greys and a ninja—nodded.

Meanwhile, back at the bar…

Frank Castle stared down the bartender with a steely gaze, his fist clenching and unclenching against the gun sticking out from under his shirt. "Look, you little piss ant. I don't care what ‘Day' it is. All I want is a beer and if I don't get it, someone is gonna know about it."

"Look sir, if you'd just come back tomorrow then we'll be happy to give you a beer but tonight is for the deceased only," said the Bartender, looking somewhat startled at the vehemence with which Frank had spoken.

"I just need a drink, God damn it all to hell. Won't you, and just…God!" Frank shouted, waving the hand that clutched the gun wildly and accidentally shooting a Jean in the head.

"Hey! They just-a killed Jean!" shouted Luigi. "You bastard."

"What the hell is going on in here?" asked one of the Bouncers, looking back from the open door where they were still trying to subdue Drusilla, who appeared to be having a rather animated conversation with her doll. "Hey! No killing the dead people. That's next Tuesday."

The other Bouncer pointed across the room at the young Jean Grey who had entered with the group of living, who was glaring at an unresponsive jukebox, and said, "You! You're not supposed to be in here."

Jean looked over her shoulder, frowning. She pointed at the table of Jean Greys and said, "I'm with them."

One of the red-headed women raised her hand. "I'm Madeline Pryor."

"I… need," Frank said lowly.

The Bouncer crooked a finger at Jean Grey. "Sorry, sister, you're not ripe."
The red shirted officer sidled up to the bar near Frank and held up a hand. "Excuse me, can I--?" The bartender smiled and handed him a cool glass of beer. "Here you go, sir, it's on the house."

A scream could be heard echoing through the Café, the sound of a man pushed beyond the limits of control as Frank turned on the crowd and started shooting. Bullets passed harmlessly through the heads and formerly vital organs of the dead characters, dissolved into mist as they hit walls and furniture, and—beginning with the red shirt—killed dead the living. Jean Grey crumpled onto the jukebox, which began to play her selection: Fleetwood Mac's Blood on the Floor. Harry Potter was thrown forward, crushing Gollum and his DVD; a splinter of DVD shot out from under the wizard and caught Hermione in the heart. After forty seconds of wild shooting, Frank turned the gun on himself.

"Okay!" he shouted. "Fuck! Can I get a fucking drink!" The bartender handed him a pint, looking offended.

Romeo Montague went to the jukebox and helped Jean Grey to her feet. "Would you like to see my sword?" he asked, motioning to his hip.

Luigi dragged his wounded brother toward the exit, leaving a streak of Italian blood across the wooden slats of the floor. "Luigi…" Mario said weakly, "Save-a yourself…"

They left the Subreality Café, never to return again.

THE END