The room is dark and damp, an unfinished basement lit solely by a bare light bulb overhead. In the circle of dim, yellow light, three figures sit around a card table in folding chairs.
goodm0urning looks sternly across the table at the other two, and holds up a polymer bag containing All Star Superman #9.
“Okay,” he says, “you two took four months to produce this single issue. That is one entire third of a year. Over schedule by a factor of two.” He removes the comic from the bag, places it on the table in front of him, and folds his hands on top of it. He leans in and inquires, “What do you have to say for yourselves?”
The first figure across the table, Grant Morrison, says nothing. His pupils are dilated to twice their normal diameter and he is examining his fingernails with apparent intense interest. The second figure, Frank Quitely, also says nothing, but nervously scratches the back of his neck while staring at his shoes.
goodm0urning continues. “I am going to read this now. You two are in big trouble if this doesn’t end up being one of the greatest damn comics ever made.”
goodm0urning picks up the comic, leans back in his chair, props his feet up on the table, and begins to read. Frank Quitely is twiddling his thumbs and pretending to nonchalantly look about the room as he fidgets nervously. Grant Morrison seems to be attempting to pick up a small object off the floor that nobody can see but him. Despite his efforts, he makes no progress.
After a while, goodm0urning says, “I will be back. I’m taking this with me. Don’t go anywhere.” He heads to the bathroom, comic in hand, and closes the door. Nothing happens for a while. Before long, Frank Quitely has squirmed his way to the edge of his seat, as if preparing for a quick escape. Grant Morrison is sitting partway under the table, stroking his own arm as if it were a kitten. He is humming what sounds like a vacillation between “God Save The Queen” and “The Greatest American Hero.”
A toilet flush is heard. Moments later, the door opens and goodm0urning returns to the table. He tosses the comic to the center of the table with a dull plop, places both hands on the tabletop, and leans forward into the circle of light. From the placement of the receipt between the pages, it is apparent that he has read all the way through the comic. His eyes, darkened by the diffuse shadows thrown by the light bulb overhead, glare down at Quitely and Morrison as he mutters:
“You got lucky.”
