Freakiest Thing to Happened at a Con: When VIP Treatment Turns into a Personal Nightmare

Jun 23

If you’re reading this, you may know about my reality TV background. That’s right! Reality show puke in the house. There isn’t a lot of benefit to being on a reality show—but there are some. For instance, I get to attend comic conventions as a celebrity guest. Does it rock? Hells yeah, it rocks!

Here’s the thing. It’s incredible to be perched on celebrity row next to actors from current hits—and the shows you adored as a kid. But sometimes, there’s a price. And it can be frightening.

Years ago, I was invited to attend a comic con in Texas. I won’t say which one, because I’d like to be invited back someday. The trip started out pretty typical. My flight was forgettable, which was good. Memorable flights are not often a positive experience.

After I landed and collected my baggage, I was greeted by a man holding a sign with my name on it. That was the first time that had happened. Gotta say, it was pretty cool. He escorted me outside to a limo parked on the curb.

Yep, another cool moment. And yeah—people saw me get in the limo. And I saw them seeing me.

So now, I’m really having fun. This comic con has pulled out all the stops. I’m just a reality show puke, after all. I know this. I’ve always known the pecking order at conventions and tried to stay in my lane to the best of my ability. Just happy to be here.

When the limo rolled up, the driver got out, opened my door, and loaded my luggage onto a cart. NO SHIT! I always have to do that myself. No one opens the damn door for reality show pukes. They surely don’t help us with our bags.

I’m thinking this weekend is just going to rule. Then a guy in a suit, looking like he was straight out of a Men in Black movie, comes up to the limo driver and says, “I’ll take it from here.” Then he turns to me and says, “I’m your security this weekend, sir. Let me get you to check-in.”

What? Seriously?

Normally, I get dropped on the curb at the hotel, drag my stuff inside, and wait in line to get checked in. Not so glamorous, right? That’s been the norm—but not today. This guy—we’ll call him Mr. Black—cuts everyone off and walks me to check-in. He announces to the people at the front of the line that I’m a celebrity guest and need to be situated. He says, “We appreciate your patience.”

The clerk gets my information and sets me up with a room. Mr. Black is set to accompany me, but not before convincing the guy behind the counter to personally see us to the room.

Dude. For the first time ever, I felt like a real celebrity—LIKE A STAR.

When we get to the room, I try to tip the guy, and Mr. Black says, “Not necessary, Mr. Adams. The convention will take care of all that.”

Damn! Can’t beat that.

Mr. Black says he’ll be right back with my itinerary and that I should take this time to relax. Well shit, I haven’t done anything to need to relax. Mr. Black leaves, and I immediately call my wife. “You’re not going to believe what just happened!”

Mr. Black does, in fact, return with my itinerary and tells me he’ll meet me here first thing in the morning to escort me to my celebrity row table. Awesome!

The next morning, Mr. Black is at the door with a cup of coffee… FOR ME! Then escorts me down to the main floor. We get to my table, and he tells me he’s going to stand off to the side and keep an eye out for overly familiar fans.

REALLY?

So, the weekend goes great. Mr. Black kills it—took care of everything. He escorted me to every panel, stayed out late for every one of my after-con events, and was up bright and early the next morning to do it all over again.

The convention even gave us code names. Mine was Puppet Master or something like that. Every time we left a panel, contest, what have you, he would report in on a wrist comm, “Puppet Master on the move.” So cool!

Needless to say, the comic con went above and beyond. Or so I thought.

On the second-to-last day of the event, the convention owner came up to me and asked how my experience was. I was, of course, elated.

“It was great!”

The owner seemed pleased to hear it and then apologized to me for the failure to provide adequate security. How much more did they think I needed? If this is what I had, Ron Perlman must have had presidential-level security.

“Mr. Adams, if we knew you needed that level of security, we would have made arrangements, I assure you.”

“Mr. Black did a great job. You guys were fantastic,” I replied.

“Wait. Mr. Black isn’t one of ours.”

“Say what now?”

The owner’s face turned white. It occurred to him what had happened. One of their guests had been led around by a lunatic posing as event security.

“Oh, shit! He has escorted me everywhere! Been to my room every night and… HE BROUGHT ME COFFEE! I could have been roofied.”

The owner started to panic, assuring me they would take care of it. It would be okay.

Turns out the limo was legit. They actually sent a limo for me. But Mr. Black was a cosplayer who took it a bit too far. He thought he’d see how far he could get pretending to be security before they called his bluff. He didn’t even know my name until he heard it at check-in.

The desk clerk didn’t know who I was either. He was too embarrassed to admit it and went along with what he was told. Mr. Black managed to convince guest relations that he was my private security, so they gave him my packet, schedule, and badges—an extra pass for him of course. The rest was history.

A gag turned into an all-access pass to the convention, celebrity row, green room—basically, everyone and everything. If you’re like me, you’re probably wondering who the hell he was talking to on the wrist comm. No one. It was a Jolly Rancher bracelet.

LICK LICK

So yeah, sitting next to Hollywood legends is cool—I won’t lie. But it makes you a target. Mr. Black was just a cosplayer living his best secret service fantasy. He crushed it. But man… it could’ve gone so differently.

You ever been stalked at a con by a guy in a black suit carrying your coffee?

No? Got a con story? I wanna hear it.