I went to my local comic book store today to pick up Southern Bastards #5 and Rasputin #1. Both of these books are fantastic, but not what I want to talk about. After grabbing both books, I strolled around the store. Allowing Deadpool the chance to seduce me into buying another book. That didn’t happen, but something just as humourous as Deadpool did.
There was a boy, around fourteen, studiously crouched by collectible card games case. His mom was keeping herself occupied by The Walking Dead section.
She saw some of The Walking Dead figures, they must have been Kubrick’s. “Oh, look! Lego Walking Dead!” she exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. Little did she know the shot she just sent over her son’s bow.
“Those aren’t Legos mom!” Said the kid in an I-shit-you-not stereotypical paradoxical tone that only teenage boys can achieve. Windy long notes with staccatos. Emitted from the chest, through the neck and out the nasal passages.
“Well they look like Legos.” She replied with a hint of who gives a shit, mixed with the realization that the likelihood of marriage and grandchildren from her child were slim unless we, as humans make really, really good robots.
“Well they aren’t.”
“Well they look like the ones we used to buy you.” A mother’s nostalgic plea for acceptance and love.
“You never bought us legos!” Refusal! Years of Repression. Not cognisant of the fact that his mom has brought him to a comic book store and will bank roll his purchase.
There was a long pause. My beard hidden grin, began to sulk. She took stock of the situation and used it to her advantage, in an all-out loose the canons, filled with shot and silverware volley. Ship to ship combat. No prisoners were taken.
I have no idea what metallic click-clackering-thingy-ma-jig she knocked over as she assumedly glared at her son with a coldness that would turn Manco’s testes into a bow tie. Whatever it was, it hit everything on the way down. Two boxes fell off the shelf and hit the floor with thumps that could be heard throughout the store.
“Oops, oh my,” feigning clumsiness with a shit eating reptilian smirk. Here in the nerd haven. Here in front of an older nerd holding two Image published books. Here in front of a female employee. She had destroyed her son with embarrassment. Leaving nothing but blackened capsized hull.
I wanted to grab Batman #497 and wave it in his face as I danced around him screaming “Boom! Roll a saving throw against that shit!”
“Hurry up and pick out what you want.” She said with humble victory and love for the defeated.
 Clint Eastwood’s character from a Few Dollars More.
 Which mean as far as nerds go, he is one of the cooler ones.
 Yes I had to google it.