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Imagine the terror of waking up during the twilight of a winter’s morning to the sight of a werewolf approaching your cot. I will never forget opening my eyes and seeing the shadow of a pair of wolf’s ears on my bedroom wall, or the clawed paw as it slowly reaches out towards me and turns on the Ninja Turtle tortoise shell lamp on my bedside table.

‘Mornin’ Rupe,’ says Mom. Rupe? I mean, honestly, she had me christened by the perfectly fine name of Rupert, so why won’t she use it? Seeing the shock upon my face, she removes her wolf ears and claw gloves, and says, ‘Oh, Rhubarb, did mommy scare you? I only put these on to surprise you because—guess what! We’re taking you to COMIC CON!’

After a hurried breakfast, Mom squeezes me into a pair of denim overalls and a sweatshirt with a pattern of multicolored stripes that look like a row of crayons, and off to the convention center we go: Mom and Dad in the front, and yours truly (s)trapped into the car seat. Uncharacteristically clever of them, for I am a flight risk. You see, it was not so much a case of them taking me to a comic convention as bringing me along for the gratification of their own puerile inclinations. I, on the other hand, wish to avoid such ludicrous events like the plague. Allow me to explain why.

I’m not what people call a ‘conventionally attractive’ kid. Nor am I unconventionally pretty. My claim to cuteness is that I’m a highly precocious child. Realizing early on that my fortune does not lie in my good looks, I discovered nothing could be more adorable than a 100-year-old sage in a toddler’s body. My parents often dine out on having me at the end of the table in a high chair, looking like a miniature Harvard Business School professor and following the adult conversation with an expression of vague amusement on my cabbage patch face. My anachronistic image evokes in them conflicting emotions of hilarity and horror, and no one dares ask me what I’m thinking for fear of my bone-chilling eloquence. I’m aware of the hand I have been dealt, and I play it to my best advantage. Hence, my dismay at being dragged to a tragicomic convention. It’s just not on brand.

Here’s dear old Pa, worshipping an angry-looking, upright-standing elephantine lizard. Did I mention he is thirty-five years old? The mid-thirties is when most people are at the height of their powers. Napoleon was thirty-five when he became the ruler of the French Empire; Martin Luther was only thirty-three when he started the Protestant Reformation; and Joan of Arc (whom I saw at the concession stand enjoying a pink bubble tea while talking to Flash Gordon) was a mere teenager when she led the French army to battle against the English. And then there’s my dad, whom I once admired and relied upon, giddy from having spent $600 on a limited edition (everything here is ‘limited edition’ and expensive as hell) figure of The Winged Dragon of Ra. Let me repeat: Dad is thirty-five. And he has my college tuition to save up for. But, of course, he would rather spend his money at the Star Wars stand, where he goes and picks out a child-size Yoda cap with enormous protruding ears and a furrowed forehead, which he examines with a wicked smile on his face. As he glances down at me, I shoot him a look that strongly suggests he would be wise to not even think about it.

‘Pins!’ screams Ma, coming at us with a tremendous wiggle in her walk. ‘OK, I geeked out a bit, but look at these exclusive Futurama pins I got,’ she says, holding up her canvas satchel bag for Dad to see the latest additions to a forest of pins and buttons resembling a variety of unearthly creatures.

‘You got Zoidberg!’ Dad exclaims and proceeds to scuttle around while madly waving his hands and uttering a high-pitched ‘woop woop’ sound. Let’s just double back and solemnly remind ourselves that he is a thirty-five-year-old father with obligations to a bright child who should go to college.

‘We must get something for you too, Ru-Ru,’ says Mom and pushes me to a little kiosk where Sponge Bob buttons are on display. The salesgirl shudders slightly as she pins a button to the front pocket of my overalls and happens to catch my eye. But I endure the embarrassment of being forced to wear a symbol of infantility that is wholly incompatible with my highbrow image. However, the most mortifying part of the day has yet to come.

It comes shortly after lunch, when I, down here at stroller level, come face to face with… myself! There, behind the display window of a box approximately thirty inches tall, is a doll that is my spitting image. Mouth agape (I’m embarrassed to admit), I stare at my doppelgänger.

‘You like that Chucky doll, do you, Ruple?’ says Mom. ‘Well, I don’t know if I want that ugly psychopath in my house! He looks like the spawn of Satan, doesn’t he? Ruple, why are you looking at me like that? Ruple, please!’

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Jesper Soerensen is from Denmark and now lives in Miami Beach. His humor writing has appeared in Points in Case, Slackjaw, Weekly Humorist, Robot Butt, Little Old Lady Comedy, and others. He is also the author of a book about one of the greatest humor writers of all time: Charles Dickens – The Stories of His Life (2023, Olympia Publishers). You can find him on Instagram: @soerensen_jesper