It may be early in the day, but the lines are already thick, stretching as far as the eye can see.
He seats himself behind a table covered with photographs of himself — some, showing him smiling, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, others, dressed as a cowboy, others still showing him drenched in blood — the lines begin their slow, methodical advance towards him.
The first person — a man in his mid 20s — steps forward, his brawny arms and neck heavy with tattoos.
As he approaches the man behind the table, a smile broadens across the tattooed man’s face and he holds out a unique token of appreciation — a chainsaw.
“Could you ... could you sign this for me?” the tattooed man meekly asks.
“Sure, no problem,” the seated man replies. “Who should I make this out to?”
It’s just another day at the convention for Bruce Campbell.
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