My first attempt to guage fan reaction to Sin City found me online, at something called an "internet chatroom". My theory was that if I was going to get the unvarnished truth, my strategy should be to blend in among them.

Using considerable amounts of journalistic savvy, I decided to go with the chatroom pseudonym of "Star Trek". Sadly, it turned out this was taken. Next I tried the abbreviated "STRTRK". It was also taken. Bastards. The website membership program suggested I try the name STRTRK544, as it was not yet vouched for. This struck me as good news, as it meant 543 people had already chosen my geeky name before me. My instincts had been right on target, as usual.

Within seconds I was online in a chatroom called "Comic Book Den". I poured myself a tumbler of scotch and waited for inspiration to strike. What would my opening gambit be to earn their trust? How best to ingratiate myself to these strange folk, that they might accept me as one of their own? I scrolled through their conversation, waiting as a panther would for the opening STRTRK544 might take.

Flawless. I sat back and waited, pen hovering over a pad of paper, for the opinions that would no doubt pour forth like aged wine.

Seconds ticked by.

This was unacceptable. I went back to the keyboard to ingratiate myself further into their trust.

I waited. No answer. More finesse might be needed.

At this point I was accosted by some joker calling himself a Moderator, who booted me out of the chathouse before I could harvest the facts. Kids today are the enemy of responsible journalism, I tell you that now.

I decided to take a different approach. What I needed were real live nerds with real live, not virtual, opinions — opinions I could force out of them through real live threats of violence, without getting booted offline.

The next morning I went to a comic book store called The Mystic Tarantula. I was overjoyed to find a Sin City poster hanging in the front window, next to a poster of a glowering Batman with a drawn-on word balloon reading "WELCOME TO THE MYSTIC TARANTULA." I entered to the sound of a dingly bell attached to the door, but attempted to look dramatic and purposeful anyway.

I quickly found myself disoriented. At first I blamed this on how exceptionally drunk I was, but after my eyes got used to the dark, I realized it was the store itself. Mystic Tarantula was as dry as a crypt. As dark as a cemetary at night. Or also, I suppose, like a crypt. At night. And it reeked, badly— like a high school change room (any time of day). My senses reeled.

At the back of The Mystic Tarantula, perched over a folding card table, were Andrew, a lanky 36 year-old with glasses, a grey Batman T-shirt that fit him like a tarp, and a self-consciously stooped posture, giving him the look of someone composed entirely of elbows.

There was also Neil, a portly 27 year-old man with brown Chia Pet patches of beard, who owned both the store and the reeking smell I'd identified earlier.

Lastly, some guy dressed up like Boba Fett, combing through the store for back issues of The Teen Titans.

I moved into the depths of The Tarantula slowly, weaving through boxes of comics and stacks of anime pornography in the most non-threatening manner possible.

"Can I help you?" Neil asked suspiciously, in between jumbo-sized slurps of Dr. Pepper.

"You can," I said, sitting down on a folding chair. "I write for the most pre-eminent body of journalism in the 20th century." I paused momentarily to allow the weight of this to sink in. "Here's my card."

Neil gave the card a thorough going-over. "Jay Pinkerton."

"Yes," I said. "I write for Jay Pinkerton.com. My name is unimportant."

"Never heard of it," he said dismissively.

"We keep a low profile for reasons of national security," I explained. "But we get some very respectable hits online."

"My Mysteries of the Sith fanpage clears 600,000 hits a day," Neil said, giving me back my card. "How many do you get?"

"Five million hits every half-hour," I lied. "It's absolutely fucking ridiculous."

Neil remained unimpressed, and after an awkward silence, returned his attention to the card game he was playing with Andrew. My ears immediately pricked up at the sound of cards shuffling.

"Say, what are you guys playing? Cards? Gambling cards? For gambling?" I asked chummily, trying to hide my shaking hands.

Neil gave me a look of untrusting disdain, a look I would get used to. "Magic: The Gathering," he answered with a sneer — as if the name were stenciled on the wall and I just missed it. I looked around me. As it turned out, it was stenciled into the wall, in several places. Well, to hell with them anyway.

"You want to play?" asked Andrew, who was more giving in the friendliness department then Neil. This was more like it. Before I could stop myself, the craving to gamble hit me like a radio kneed into a bathtub.

"You bet your cat's fat fucking ass I want to play," I said, lighting a cigarette. I grabbed Neil's deck and, ignoring his mewling protests, began shuffling it. "What's the betting limit? This like Texas Hold 'Em?" I queried, palming a few cards up into my sleeves while shuffling.

"Um. You don't play Magic: The Gathering for money."

I paused in mid-shuffle. "What the hell are you talking about?" I began to suspect I wasn't not the only one there who was incredibly drunk. There followed a long explanation I didn't even attempt to understand, while I flipped through cards with fruity names like Ravenous Baloth and Tribal Forcemage.

When Neil finally stopped explaining, I stopped pretending to listen and got down to the most pressing issue.

"Right. So no betting?"

"No betting."

"You kids crack me up," I cooed.

I decided to get down to brass tacks. "Listen, fellas. I'm doing research on fan reaction to the new Sin City movie. I want the real scoop from the people who know the most about it. So: You wanna see it?"

My notepad flipped open in a blur, pen at the ready.

"Hhnh!" grunted/laughed Neil, with a sound I didn't particularly want to hear again. "Uhhhh... YEAH!" he added sarcastically. "It's only gonna be the best comic-to-film movie ever. Marv's way cooler than Spider-Man or Hulk."

"Psshhht. Whatever, dude," refuted Andrew — agreeing, apparently, to disagree. I scribbled furiously. "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? I think it's been pretty conclusively proven that non-superhero comics simply do not transition well to film. Frank Miller's work is effective as a graphic novel. Period."

Neil elected not to take this lying down, launching into a lengthy dissection of film noir and comic book facts that managed to lose me completely. It was precisely at this point that I spotted the flaw in my plan. Namely, that I had indeed found the two people who knew more about Sin City than anyone else, and who were most qualified to discuss the merits of the film. They were also, however, the two most annoying people on the planet. I slumped into my chair in an advanced state of boredom as the debate raged on for twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I interrupted, not sorry even a little. "But why is that man wearing a Boba Fett costume?" I jerked a thumb at Boba. The curiosity had gotten to me.

"He writes Boba Fett fan fiction," Andrew informed me.

"Yes," I agreed sagely, not understanding a single word of the sentence. "I see." I maintained alert silence and waited for more.

"Under the Boba Fett: Enemy of the Empire timeline," Neil added — simply to be as unhelpful as possible, I presumed.

I allowed a half-minute to pass before responding. "You realize that explains nothing," I said, and decided to switch tactics.

"Hey, you," I shouted, calling over Boba Fett, who looked to be the fattest bounty hunter in the galaxy. Whoever hired him better hope the bounty's either a twenty-foot jog away or a plate of cheeseburgers, I thought. "Why are you wearing a Boba Fett costume, man?"

"Because I am a bounty hunter," he responded simply, crossing his arms over his chest imperially. I noted that his breastplate expanded considerabely to handle the breastload in question. "My name is Morgello Fett."

I once again maintained alert silence and waited for more. Nothing was forthcoming. I looked him in the visor. "Get out of town."

From underneath his faceplate, a weary sigh. It would seem I "just don't get it." Boba soon lost interest, and resumed his hunt for more Teen Titans. I turned my attention back to Neil and Andrew.

"Did he get that costume made special?" I asked. They didn't respond, so I pressed further. "How much raw tin do you think he needed to make the stomach plate? The man would be hunted down like a dog in wartime."

More silence. I sensed I had offended, and decided to switch tactics. "Look, let me show you jokers how you're supposed to play Magical Gathering."

"It's Magic: the Gath—"

"It's whatever the hell I say it is. Hey, Boba — here's five dollars. Go bounty hunt us up a six-pack, okay, buddy?"

Several beer runs later, the boys and I were deep into a game of 5-Card Draw Magical Gathering at a five dollar minimum bet. They were quick learners, which worked to my disadvantage; luckily, they were also kittens when it came to confrontation, and I quickly discovered I could challenge almost any hand and grab the pot.

I decided to call. "I call," I said, calling.

"Royal Flush!" Neil whooped triumphantly, fanning his cards out on the table.

"What? No, that's bullshit," I maintained, through a bleary haze of cigarette smoke and whiskey. "You're retarded and you don't even know."

Andrew surveyed the cards. Festering Goblin, Graveborn Muse, Caller of the Claw, Possessed Centaur and my White Godfather of Soul business card completed the flush.

"Festering Goblins aren't Aces," I lied. "The Ace was the Sutured Ghoul. Of which," I added, fanning out my cards, "I have three."

"I thought Sutured Ghouls were Fives," said Andrew doubtfully, looking at his own cards, which would be a Straight Flush if I wasn't cheating.

"Sadly no, Andrew. But you're getting better. Alright, new hand. Are you in, Jeff?"

Jeff sat at the other end of the table, munching a pretzel stick sadly. "...It took me years to make that costume," he whined.

I adjusted my sharp new Boba Fett mask. "I'm sure you'll win it back, man. You just need to roll with the cards. Your problem is you're not rolling with the cards. Here, watch this. Who am I right now? 'I want...HOOP-PAWWW!... to suck... HOOP-PAWW!... your blood!'"

"Dracula?" guessed Jeff, still stewing.

"What? No, you fat pile of ass. I'm what's-his-face, Darth Vapor."

"Darth Vader doesn't say 'I want to suck your blood,'" Andrew corrected me.

"What? Really?" I rethought my strategy. "Okay, I was Superman. No no, I'll deal again. I don't mind."