.
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу - страница 3
The character of Lars Wolfson, the hero of the show, had made several appearances that day as well, some costumes better than others.
But just as they liked to say women love bad boys, people of both sexes and all ages seemed to really love a good villain.
Young men and women, children, old men and old women clapped and all but swooned and rushed over to him. Blood-bone was the most popular new villain to grace the pages of comic books since the beginning of the written-and-drawn comic world.
He suddenly cried out, “Those who oppose me—pay! They pay the ultimate price.”
The crowd around the actor—or would-be actor, dressed up for Comic Con—grew substantially, people everywhere snapping photos.
“We bow to you, Blood-bone!” the crowd called out in turn.
“Jerk,” Cara Barton declared beneath her breath.
“He’s just playing, creating a good show,” Marnie Davante said.
“Lord, who are you? Pollyanna? Mary Poppins?” Cara asked her, letting out a long sigh.
“He’s just playing. Let him entertain. Relax. Try to have fun,” Marnie said, offering Cara her beautiful and natural smile.
Marnie. She was the type who would make the best of it.
Cara wished that she could. But it was dismal.
No. It was beyond dismal. Continuing to plug a show that had been off the air for ages, just because she had no other options.
And still, sitting at their booth, Cara smiled as graciously as she could. It was a smile that she’d practiced over the years, yet still felt plastered into place.
“How’s this?” she asked Marnie.
“Grim, but it will do,” her friend said, laughing.
Grim. Yes.
However, Cara kept smiling.
* * *
It was amazing; it was an unbelievable thrill. He was able to watch as if he were a fly on the wall, as if he were at a screening, seeing it all unfold. He knew the angles from which the cameras would be rolling; he could just see it all.
And he was the puppeteer. He was the producer, the director...
Everything all rolled into one.
He could already picture the blood.
Cold-blooded Comic Con? He needed a better title...
Act 1, Scene 1...
Cameras rolling.
Action!
* * *
The damned wannabe actor in the Blood-bone costume was really becoming annoying.
The few people who had been coming toward Cara Barton and the old Dark Harbor cast were now rushing off to see Blood-bone.
It was a comic-book convention, Cara reminded herself. And she knew how a comic con went.
Monsters roamed the floor in costumes that rated between the ridiculous and the divine. Superheroes in stretchy, skimpy attire were just as plentiful—some looking quite good, and some who obviously owned no mirrors. Booths sold T-shirts, toy weapons, jewelry, corsets, steampunk clothing and other items, makeup, art and just about anything that might relate to the comic world in any way.
The fans loved connecting with their favorite comics and movies and TV series. Writers’ row offered comics, graphic novels and novels of all kinds.
Artists’ row offered some fantastic pieces, from those who had long been in the business to those who were just starting out.
And then there was Actors’ Row.
The place where used-up B-list stars came to die.
Well, as far as Cara was concerned, it really was a kind of death—it was where one came to pray to sell enough twenty-dollar-a-shot autographed pictures to pay the rent for the month. Maybe that train of thought was a little melodramatic. The show was in syndication, and they all made residual money, but it did not provide for the lifestyle that many a popular actor had become accustomed to, so, in a sense, it was about a particular kind of survival.
But that was all going to hell. They’d been just about to get some fans—and then Blood-bone came out of the woodwork, swinging his great cape and his laser sword. If only he weren’t out there—probably paid a fortune by the convention organizers to give the attendees a bit of a thrill for free.
Oh, the bastard! She didn’t even know who was behind the mask. Blood-bone wasn’t even always portrayed by the same actor. And at this freak show, anyone could dress up. There were actually dozens of Blood-bones roaming the convention room floor; it was by far the most popular costume of the year. Hell, she could put on the damned costume and lift shoes and play Blood-bone. In fact, if they’d let her, she would. That could mean some big bucks again!
But this Blood-bone was evidently committed to pretending to be the real thing. He postured and postulated. Everyone ran up to him, waving autograph books, begging him to pose for selfies with them.
It made her sad.
Yes, sad for herself and for many others.
Just one booth down, the great-great-great—oh, so many greats—grandson of a German shepherd of tremendous TV fame was letting out a sad little yelp now and then.
There was a leak in the ceiling. It happened to be right above Actors’ Row. The aging star of a long-ago weekly Western TV series was valiantly trying to save his photos from the dirty droplets that fell now and then.
It was heartbreaking to see the poor pup and the faded star reduced to this. And now, with that wretched Blood-bone figure running around, for the most part the actors were being left alone.
Ignored.
At least the dog didn’t know that he was a has-been.
Only every now and then someone would pause and look and remember them. After all, Dark Harbor had been an extremely popular show in its day.
Cara had actually sold a few pictures—mainly thanks to the rest of the cast, especially Marnie Davante. Just a few more and rent for another month in West Hollywood—where she could still hope for the guest spot on a show now and then—was guaranteed.
She looked down the table. There was Jeremy Highsmith. Her TV husband. All those years.
And, now, go figure!
Maybe it was all bearable.
Along СКАЧАТЬ