It was another uneventful day in the comic book shop until an attractive blonde woman walked in and made things interesting.

It was a normal Thursday. The Wednesday regulars had been in 12 hours before, waving colored bits of paper, screaming unsophisticated things like "Detective Chimp" at the top of their lungs. Words that to the outside world sounded like an assignment for the Navajo but to ears attuned to the four-colour, it all resounded with knowing.

Into this environment walks a young woman, confident and striking. Y'know, comic book pretty. No doubt, she wouldn't have looked out of place on a Romita, Sr. page. She asks questions, questions that to these ears sound quite foreign. "Do you have any Firestorm toys or statues?" Sadly, I tell her that, as of yet, there is nothing on the horizon. "Awww, my father loves Firestorm. How about Spider-Man?" "Spider-Man I can help you with you."

Ten minutes later, she leaves, statue in bag. "By the way," I say to her, "please, tell your father that if he never does anything else, there's a man here in D.C. that worships the ground he walks on."

"Why? What because of Firestorm?"

No," says I.

"Vibe."