The Laughing Martyr
(Part one)


by T. D.


Commissioner Rueton walked into the solitary confinement wing of the South
Miami Corrections Facility. He visited the Martyr daily and contemplated
his now-paralyzed body.

The Martyr sat in his electric wheel chair, tilting his head to sip from his
straw. His eyes focused on the straw -- it took several minutes before his
lips finally wrapped around the source of his nutrition.

Rueton wished the Martyr wouldn't reach the straw -- that he would just give
up and die -- but he kept sipping. Rueton was disgusted -- the Martyr
looked so pitiful, but at one time he was the most dangerous villain in
Miami.

The commissioner refused to feel sympathy for the Martyr -- Rueton just
thought about his daughter Marsha, and the hatred came back easily.

***

"And one ... and two ... lift those legs!" yelled Marsha to her aerobics
students. She was a licensed instructor at the Feel Good Gym on Biscayne
Blvd.

Techno music throbbed from built-in wall speakers. No one heard the sound
of laughter coming from the back of the room. 

The Martyr stabbed two students, and flung their bodies to the side. His
henchmen spread out and pointed guns at the rest of the class. 

Marsha finally noticed the Martyr, and stopped. The rest of the class kept
going for a couple of seconds, until everyone noticed the danger they were
in.

"My dear Marsha," said the Martyr, "it's a shame that you'll be taking
memories of sweat, fat, and cheesy dance music into the afterlife."

"What? Don't shoot!"

"You should've spent more time ... travelling, or having unprotected sex,"
explained the Martyr, waving his gun like a magician's wand. "Too bad."

The Martyr pointed the gun and fired. Marsha collapsed, blood flowing from
her forehead.

"Well. That was easy. Clean up, boys -- we've got get back to the base in
time to catch the 5 o'clock news."

Suddenly, the huge, floor-to-ceiling glass window that faced the sidewalk
shattered into the aerobics studio. A shadow streaked into the room, and
stopped near the Martyr.

"What the...."

"Hi," answered the Shadow Gentleman before knocking out the Martyr with one
punch. He then reached into his pouch and pulled out two canisters. He
pressed a button on each, and threw them at opposite ends of the room,
towards the Martyr's henchmen. Gas sprayed out of the canisters, and the
henchmen collapsed immediately.

The Shadow Gentleman didn't wait to see if the gas worked; he was already
back outside, next to the Britishmobile, calling the Commissioner. 

"Rueton," S.G. said, "I just bagged the Martyr. You better get down here."

***

The Commissioner remembered that call from the Shadow Gentleman. When he
heard where the Martyr was, he knew Marsha hadn't survived.

Rueton looked at the Martyr again, and spat through the bars, hitting his
face. The Martyr shook his head violently, trying to get the phlegm off his
chin.

"You bastard! You deserve to be dead!" growled Commissioner Rueton before
storming out of the solitary confinement wing.

The Martyr stopped twisting his head, and began chuckling softly to himself.

***

That night, a low rumble could be heard in the skies above the Corrections
Facility.

"What the hell is that?" asked one of the correction's officers.

The answer soon came, as a helicopter appeared over the solitary confinement
wing. A rope ladder rolled out of the chopper, and a man dressed in
camouflage fatigues quickly climbed down. He reached into his backpack, and
stuck two explosive devices on the side of the outer wall. Then he waved up
at the chopper, and the helicopter rose into the sky.

Five seconds later, the devices exploded.

Inside, The Martyr looked up, and saw that the back wall to his cell had
disappeared. The wind began to pick up, and searchlights were moving back
and forth.

The man in fatigues swung into the room. He ran over to the Martyr and
attached him to a harness.

"Don't worry, boss. We're getting you outta here!"

"Good to see you, Flapjacket."

Flapjacket, carrying the Martyr, ran out the opening in the wall and jumped.
He held onto a thick cable as the helicopter rose away.

The correction's officers fired at the chopper in vain.

Once inside the chopper, the Martyr asked, "So, do you have it?"

"Yes, boss. We had to kill a couple of people to get it, but...."

"As long as you have it."

***

The Commissioner got the call at 3:30 am. He immediately drove to the
station -- now that the Martyr was out, he wouldn't be getting much sleep.
He called the Shadow Gentleman along the way. They met in Rueton's office.

"I don't get it," said Rueton, "why would his henchmen go through so much
trouble to rescue him?"

"Because," answered Shadow Gentleman, "they're loyal him."

"But how? How could anyone be loyal to a psycho-killer like the Martyr?"

"I didn't say loyalty was a reasonable trait -- in this case, it is not."

"Well, at least we know he can't do much. He is paralyzed -- they can't
fix that."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. Two nights ago, an experimental body
armor was stolen from Silicon Valley Industries."

"So?"

"The armor is an exoskeleton that responds to the commands of the wearer's
brain. If it works, it's as good as a new body -- which means the Martyr
will be mobile, and more powerful than ever."

"Great. Just great."

***

"Ha ha ha ha ha! Aah ha ha ha ha haaa!"

Some of the henchmen stood in the hallway, listening to the Martyr's
laughter emanating from laboratory. Then, there was a blast of energy,
which tore through the wall, and the Martyr's laughter was louder than ever.
He stepped through the wall.

Bright light from the laboratory poured over the Martyr and his shiny new
red and gold body armor. There were four wires attached to the front and
back of his neck that fed the suit with commands from the Martyr's brain.
His head was exposed, but the rest of his body was fully shielded and
protected.

"Man, this thing is powerful! I'll be able to blow Shadow Gentleman away
just by thinking about it! I love it!"

"So, boss," said Flapjacket, "what next?"

"Well, I need to practice using this thing."

The Martyr picked up Flapjacket by the shirt, and threw him across the hall.

"Ugh. Boss ... that hurt," groaned Flapjacket as he attempted to get up.

"Of course it did! Ha ha ha ha haaa! I guess I don't need much practice!
Come on, boys -- we've got some planning to do. Oh, and somebody pick up
Flapjacket and bring him along -- I may need a punching bag later. Ha ha ha
ha ha!"