Rorschach’s Journal: July 11th, 2012
The quaint maxim goes: getting there is half the fun. Disagreed. That is of course unless the other, equally fun portion is having your pancreas probed by a particularly dull ice pick. Human beings were not meant to fly, that privilege is reserved for birds and blue-hued supermistakes with obtrusive, perpetually exposed wangs. Airlines are bloated sloths feeding on necessity, and I found myself in its cold grip. I waited until nightfall, seeking to evade notice under the loving cover of darkness. Then, putting on my best disguise of normalcy, my face packed neatly in carry-on, I gritted my teeth through security and boarded the metal, winged sarcophagus; succumbing quickly to a rage nap. This moment of complacency was duly punished, I should have known better. Suddenly the plane bucked like a seasoned companion-for-hire and altered course. Explanations of pressurization malfunction were groaned over the intercom, but I was sure I had been found out. Had the influence of the laughable Keene Act finally asserted influence over the TSA? No parachute, would have to fight my way out of this one on the ground.
Turns out the technical difficulties were no facade, just an aggravating testament to cold, staggering incompetence. It was long past the witching hour and all other flights had been expelled; the airport transformed into a somber tomb of hopelessness. One plane, a lone straggler not yet claimed by other stranded travel bastards, was my only chance to reach my layover in the sweltering, lifeless weigh station that is Phoenix. All that was assured is that I would be spending the night in this desert; delaying my arrival in San Diego by at least twelve hours. Stifling all hatred and doubts toward this farcical airline, I boarded the second plane. The second attempt at the first flight fared well…until the descent.
Lightning represents different terrors for different people. Some fear the subsequent thunder, others fear the absurdly unlikely prospect of being struck, and some see it as a portent for trumped up science experiments that conjure illegitimate squid monsters that facilitate the very real deaths of thousands of people. No? Just me? As we dropped like a wing-clipped passenger pigeon over the city, a fury of harsh, rolling light filled the sky. We were coming in amid the roar of a summer tempest. Two attempts at securing my death in one night? I was beginning to suspect Moloch was the clandestine puppet master of this airline. Just short of breaking out my “the end is nigh” sign and marching diligently up and down the aisles, illuminated seat belt notifications be damned, the plane somehow managed to reach the ground unshorn by the electric swipes of a bored, petty deity.
While waiting for the shuttle to whatever temporary domicile the airline had secured to placate the testy vacationing rabble, the clouds burst like stitches after surgery in a third world hellhole. Rage filled my lungs, I longed to put on my face and see what brutal nocturnal distractions Phoenix had to offer. The hotel proved a dubious term for the meager collection of barracks arranged around a drowning trap of a swimming pool we arrived upon. In the heaviest downpour the city had seen this year, we were asked to trudge out of doors to navigate from the lobby to our rooms. I don’t mind the rain, but the accumulation of all the irritations and failure soon boiled over. I can’t tell you how I ended up finally getting to San Diego the next day, but I do know I missed preview night and three of Arizona’s most wanted felons were found broken, bludgeoned, and bound outside a Phoenix police station.
Whatever was left of that pathetic blogger Salisbury died on that trip, Rorschach has arrived at Comic-Con.
Stay tuned for more of Rorschach’s Journal throughout Comic-Con 2012, as our undercover vigilante takes a look at what the world’s biggest comic and pop culture convention is like as a first-time attendee.