"So, what are we going to do?" said Burt Vaughn as he and Fred "The Turk" Terkington boarded the Bay Area Rapid Transit train at the Berkeley station. Most of the chairs on the train faced forward, but a few, located right by the doors, sat sideways. They were usually the more comfortable chairs. Burt and Turk grabbed the last pair of vacant side-seats and offloaded their backpacks.

They were both students at Berkeley. Turk's major was radio/television/film, and Burt was studying computer science. They had shared a dorm room their freshman year and became fast friends. Burt showed Turk how to find the best Internet porn, and Turk introduced Burt to the wonderful world of comics, science fiction, and fandom in general.

The train started moving. "Well," Turk said, "knowing Larry, he's front-loaded the temple with a horde of undead. I think going up to the front door is a fool's game. No, I think we're better off circumventing it all and trying to come up through the sewers."

Burt thought about it for a second, gazing into space. "But what if there aren't any sewers? I mean, can't Larry just say no sewers?"

"He could, but he won't. World logic. Our characters have been using indoor toilets, so there has to be a sewer system." Turk grinned. "Larry'll be so pissed!"

"Won't that, uh, color his outlook on our survival?"

"No. Here's why. Larry, as a gamer, loves creative thinking. And, in spite of the fact that he spent all week working up this terrific adventure, with maps, descriptions of rooms, and lots of monsters for us to fight, he'll think it's cool that we somehow try to circumvent all that and get away with just fighting the bad guy at the end of the gauntlet."

Burt was totally confused. "But why?"

Turk smiled gently, as if explaining the color of the sky to a child. "Because, Burt, that's the way Larry plays when he's not being the GM."

"So, this is an intentionally adversarial relationship, then?" Burt said.

"Yes." Turk smiled wider, glad that Burt was finally onboard.

"What happened to that little speech about creating fictional but believable characters and working together to build an intricate story with each of them?"

"Oh, Larry tells every new player that. That's just to reassure new players before he drops their first level characters into a den of rabid wererats."

Burt sighed. "You guys are demented." But, he realized, that made him just as bad, since he hung around with these three jokers. There were some definite perks, like having a copy of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon three months before it was released on DVD, or getting sneak previews to upcoming science fiction movies by way of Comix Comix Comix, where their friend D.J. worked. Specifically for Turk, being that he was in the R/T/F program meant that he was surrounded by some of the hottest girls at Berkeley, and it was great fun for Burt to chat them up at the various parties.

This did nothing but piss Turk off. He was still a virgin. Desperation reverberated from every atom of his being, like a force field. On more than one occasion, he had said to one or more of the guys, "College, man, is supposed to be the time that you get laid because all of your fellow students have put aside their bullshit notions of high school cliques and are just horny enough to screw anything."

Which, in Turk's eyes, made him a big nothing. So, he channeled his sexual frustration (because masturbation in a dorm room is just too tricky to pull off) into his script writing. For a while, Turk had wanted to write the ultimate science fiction thriller, but now he was abandoning that goal in favor of a horror movie that would out-scream Scream.

So far, all he had was the first scene, a grisly murder involving a nubile young co-ed, a faceless killer, and a set of customized pinking shears that so uncannily resembled teeth marks, the authorities instantly suspect some sort of cannibal killer is on the loose. It was the rest of the plot and its subsequent resolution that was giving him fits. Game night was proving to be a good and necessary tension release.

The windows outside grew dark as the BART train entered the Trans-Bay tube, which ran them along the floor of the East Bay and up into San Francisco. It was a feat of modern engineering, but ever since someone told him the tube was actually flexible in order to withstand an earthquake, it always made Turk a little nervous. To keep from thinking about it, he said, "So, how do midterms look for you?"

Burt scowled. "Aw, don't remind me. I've got mine stacked up, two on one day, three on the other. But, at least I get to get them out of the way."

"That's rough," Turk agreed. "I thought I had it hard with mine all spread out, but now I'm not so sure."

"Well, the difference is, mine is all math and computer language and programming. You're liberal arts ass gets a scene to act, some feelings to discuss, and a book report."

Turk arched his eyebrows. "Jealous much?"

Burt scoffed. "Of you? The last American Virgin? I'll take the workload, thanks."

"Hey, do you mind?" Turk glanced around nervously at the full train car. "We're in public."

"Like anyone here is listening," Burt replied.

He was right, too, for as soon as the pair started the discussion about how best to proceed in a role-playing game scenario, everyone in their immediate vicinity tuned them out like only good city-dwellers can, with a prayer of thanks that the pair weren't carrying radios or crying babies. Well aware of their security within this makeshift cone of silence, they returned to their gaming discussion with alacrity.

D.J. McGuiness turned as the door chime sounded. It was five minutes to closing time at Comix Comix Comix, and it was game night, on top of that. Who could be coming in the door at five to six, when the hours were clearly stated on the front door?

He groaned inside. It was Short-Guy Jim. None of the employees knew Jim's last name, and frankly, no one wanted to know it, either. Jim was stocky, in his mid-thirties, and stood five foot one, or five foot eleven if you counted the enormous chip on his shoulder.

D.J. had learned long ago not to give Jim a foothold in a conversation, because it was an open invitation for him to loudly pontificate about points that he knew very little about, then raise his voice and argue further when told he was wrong. People had walked out of the store because of Jim's vitriol before. And newcomers, who didn't know better, would inevitably try to lock horns with the little bastard, to no avail.

Short-Guy Jim was a floater, which meant in Comix Cubed lingo that he wasn't a regular customer, but could come in at any time. Like now, five minutes before game night. On one hand, D.J. thought, that was good, because it had been a slow day and Short-Guy Jim was always good for a stack of books. On the other hand, he fumed, it was fucking game night. Commerce versus role-playing. Shit.

These economic considerations were still new to D.J., who had been made the evening manager three months ago by the owner, Justin Tripp. After four years of working at the comic book store, D.J. received a one-dollar an hour increase in pay, and the privilege of locking up the store at the end of the day. For anyone in the real world, this would have been patently unacceptable, but in the field of retail comic book sales, this was akin to a 401K plan and dental insurance. D.J. took the position with the expected amount of reverence, and he in turn expected a certain level of respect for his station. After all, he thought, in twenty years or so, all of this could be mine. His newfound station should have earned him immunity from customers like Short-Guy Jim, but somehow, it just made waiting on him all the more painful.

D.J. decided to be not subtle at all. "Jim," he said, "you slid in just under the wire."

"Oh, is it almost six? Shit, man. I'll be quick."

"Cool, thanks," said D.J., pleasantly surprised. Maybe common courtesy isn't dead in this industry, he thought. He went back to sorting out the checks from the credit card receipts.

Jim, however, wanted to talk. "So, you like the new artist on Green Guy?" he said from across the store.

D.J. knew this routine. It was an opening gambit. Easily countered. "Why? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice brimming with false concern.

"Oh, nothing, I just hate him, is all. He gives Green Guy this big, square head, and it's like, totally wrong."

"Yeah, I completely agree." D.J.'s kung fu was vastly superior. Take an enemy's strength, and turn it against him. Basic judo. Captain America would be proud, he thought.

A minute later, Jim tried again. "So, I hear that everyone on the 'net likes the new writer on Spider-Man."

"Yeah?" said D.J., wiping the counter with a dirty rag.

"Yeah, that's what I hear..."

What Jim wanted D.J. to do was throw in with the majority so Jim could argue against it. D.J. was just too familiar with all of Jim's tricks. It was sad, really, once you thought about it. "And what do you think?" D.J. asked.

"Oh, I can't stand him."

"I understand completely how you feel."

"Yeah..." said Jim, clearly disappointed.

Five minutes later, Jim walked up to the counter with a small armload of comics. "Well, I guess this is it for now," he said. Then he tried one last time. "I got caught up on Alan Moore recently, and I have to tell you, I think his new work sucks big time."

D.J. was torn. He wasn't expecting Jim to play the "piss-off-the-expert" card. Jim knew that D.J. was a huge Alan Moore fan, and he was hoping to start a real argument, one that couldn't be won, since it all boiled down to how Jim felt about something. D.J. frowned for a second, unsure of how to respond. Now the question was, schooling this Napoleonic moron, or role-playing?

D.J. nodded thoughtfully, and said slowly, "Well, that's the nice thing about this industry. You're not obligated to buy anyone's work if you don't like it. You, as the fan, have the power to control your input."

Jim hung his head, defeated. "Yeah, you're right, I guess. See you around."

D.J. watched him walk out the door. He'd never felt more like Benedict Arnold in his life. I'm sorry, Alan, he thought.

Ten minutes later, D.J. closed up the store, set the alarm, and sprinted for the BART station. Larry lived in the Tenderloin, which was two BART stops and a short bus ride from the store. He made it just in time to catch the train, and sat down with a relieved huff, keeping his eyes unfocused on any one person in particular, so as not to invoke the wrath of some lunatic who might also be riding the BART.

At the Sixteenth Street Mission stop D.J. shouldered his backpack, which contained his game books, dice, and a clean shirt and toiletries, in case the game ran too long and he had to crash at Larry's place. As he exited the terminal, walking up the wide bank of steps, he spied the number twenty-two bus pulling up. Maybe this is Karmic payback for having to deal with Short-Guy Jim, D.J. thought as he jogged to the bus.

D.J. made one more stop, two blocks from Larry's apartment, at the corner grocer for hot dogs and Jolt cola, and then he was dodging the weirdos on Fillmore, darting through the iron gate to get to the back of the tenement building, and Larry's garage apartment. The lights were on. It was game time.