The Laughing Martyr
(Part two)

Guest starring the Dreamseeker, the Realtor, the Gambler, and more!


Dace drove his Toyota down to the Natural Foods store. It was dinnertime,
and his fridge was empty. His thoughts drifted as he listened to DJ Zog on
the radio -- he thought of Tom.

Dace met Tom McLusi four weeks ago at the grocery store, near the lettuce
shelf. Dace knew that Tom needed help, so he walked up to him and asked a
simple question:

"Dream much?"

"What?" asked Tom.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't help but notice that you look tired. My name is
Dace."

"Hi, Dace. I'm Tom. Do you usually just walk to people at random and ask
them about their dreams?"

"Not usually. Nice to meet you, Tom. By the way, did you notice the sale
on green peas in Aisle 6?"

"Uh, no. I...."

Tom suddenly remembered a dream from two weeks before. He proceeded to
describe the dream -- one where his best friend Pete was driving him around
a city. 

"I'm not sure which city -- could be Chicago."

"Go on."

Tom remembered that the city was beautiful, but he wished he could explore
by himself. He told Pete to pull over, but he wasn't listening.

"Don't get me wrong -- Pete's cool ... in real life. He's a great
roommate."

"Right."

"I just felt ... confined. Like I couldn't escape. Man, I don't know why
I'm remembering this."

"I specialize in dream recall. When I told you about the green peas in
aisle 6, I knew that would trigger a dream memory."

"But ... how?"

Dace smiled and said, "Come on. Let's go check out, and you can tell me
more about that dream."

Dace and Tom spoke for hours in the parking lot. They met again, over the
next two weeks -- each time Tom growing more confident in himself. Dace
knew that Tom would've found the strength to be truly independent ... and he
would've known when to be bold, and when to exercise restraint.
Unfortunately, Dace didn't get a chance to finish helping Tom out.

Dace parked his car in the parking lot, and imagined what it must've been
like. He put himself in Tom's place, sitting at Joe Robbie stadium,
watching the Dolphins game. He heard the Martyr's cackle over the PA
system. He saw the henchmen cover the exits, holding semi-automatic
weapons. He felt the ill-advised boldness ... the desire to escape ... the
will to fight his captors.

***

"I'm not sitting here," Tom said to Pete. "I'm not taking this."

"Are you crazy? They've got guns!"

Tom ignored Pete, sure that he was right. He got up, and headed for the
aisle.

"Hey, you! Sit down!" yelled one of the henchmen, who was covering the exit
for section 143. The fans in that section looked around desperately to see
who was disobeying the Martyr.

Tom climbed down the stairs, head down. The fans yelled at him to stop, but
he ignored them. He reached the exit tunnel, and was pinned to the wall by
the henchman.

"Hey -- I'm talking to you. Where you going? Get back to your seat."

"You don't control me. I'm leaving."

Tom shoved the henchman aside, and ran down the dark-blue tunnel. He turned
the corner, and three more henchmen were waiting next to the concessions,
eating hot dogs and fries. They looked up from their food -- one of them
yelled, "Hey!"

"You're not going to stop me!" Tom yelled, openly defiant.

The henchmen put down their food, wiped their mouths with the back of their
hands, picked up their AK-47's and opened fire, killing Tom instantly.

***

Tom's body was found with 85 bullet holes. Dace squeezed his shopping cart
handle, feeling the anger flow inside him. He was determined to find the
Martyr, and bring him back to justice.

***

The next day, the Realtor sipped a Martini aboard his private Lockheed jet,
thumbing through reality reports from around the country. He stopped at the
Miami page.

"The Martyr?" he asked aloud as he read. Three of his 'investments' had
died last week in Joe Robbie. He reached for the intercom button.

"Pilot? Change of plans -- we're going to Miami."

"Sir, we'll have to refuel, and get new flight plans."

"Heh. Did I say 'tell me how we're going to get to Miami?' No. I said,
'we're going to Miami.' Understood?"

"Very well, sir. I was just trying to...."

"Do I have to go up there?"

"Uh ... no, sir. I'll take care of everything."

"Good. Make sure we're there by tonight."

"Uh ... right, sir. No problem, sir."

The Realtor shut off the intercom. He was tired of incompetent pilots, but
he was even more tired of psychotic killers ruining his profits.

"The Martyr, huh? I may have to take off my tie for this one."

***

Meanwhile, business at the Galaxy Casino and Hotel in Las Vegas was going
well, as usual. Unfortunately, it wasn't going as well as the Gambler, who
owned the establishment, would've liked.

"Who the hell is the Martyr?" he yelled. He was meeting with his management
staff in the opulent conference room, overlooking the largest casino floor
in the world. "That guy cost us money last week!"

"He's a supervillain -- the arch nemesis of the Shadow Gentleman," stated
the Lackey, Chief Financial Officer for the Galaxy Casino.

"I don't care if he's a supervillain!"

"Well, you did ask...."

"I lost 8.4 million dollars last week cause of that guy!"

There was silence in the room. The executives wanted to explain that the
NFL would make up the game, and they would make up their losses, but they
knew there was no reasoning with the Gambler when he was angry.

"Please tell me he's in jail, at least. Please tell me he's behind bars."

"Well, he was in jail," stated the Lackey.

"Was?"

"He broke out of jail yesterday."

"I don't believe this! Wasn't he paralyzed?"

"Well, yes, but...."

"This is ridiculous!"

Again, the conference room was silent. All eyes were on the Gambler, and
his next move. He paused for a moment, thinking the situation over.
Finally, he spoke.

"That's it. We're going to Miami."

"Gambler," said Big Balloons, the Gambler's sexy female personal secretary,
"you do remember what happened the last time you went to Miami?"

"I don't care what happened the last time. I'm going to Miami and taking
care of this Martyr guy myself!."

"When do you want to leave?"

"Within the hour, Balloons. Get my plane ready. And you're coming with
me."

"Okay, Gambler."

***

That night, the Shadow Gentleman drove the Britishmobile through the streets
of Miami, on patrol. There had been no sign of the Martyr for the past
week, and he was frustrated over the lack of clues.

The Martyr was, believe it or not, just a few blocks away from S.G.'s secret
headquarters -- he was inside a derelict May's department store at the 163rd
street Mall. He had been reviewing possible courses of action, and was
bored by them all.

"We have to do something ... spectacular. Extraordinary."

"I got an idea -- you can make license plates in jail. It's neither
spectacular nor extraordinary, but at least it's worthwhile."

"Who dares enter my presence?"

The Dreamseeker stepped out of the shadows and faced the Martyr. "I dare."

"You and what army?" snarled the Martyr. "Henchmen! Take care of this
insignificant gnat!"

"I don't think so."

The Martyr turned around, and saw that the two men he'd been talking to were
now sound asleep. Around the room, all his henchmen were hunched over
against the walls, or lying on the ground -- some of them snoring.

"How did you do that?" the Martyr admired.

"Uh-uh. Trade secret. And now, it's your turn."

"Not so fast, little buddy," the Realtor yelled from across the empty,
cavernous shopping floor. "This guy owes me some realty, and I intend to
collect."

"You're not the only one he owes," came another voice in the darkness, "and
nobody stiffs the Gambler!"

The Realtor and the Gambler had ran into each other outside the mall and
decided to work together to bring the Martyr down.

"Uh, we can't all have him, guys," Dace said as he reached for his cell
phone and started dialing 9-1-1. "Only one of us gets to take him."

The Martyr began to chuckle, and then laugh out loud.

"What's his problem?" the Realtor asked the Gambler.

The Martyr extended his arms and pointed at both the Realtor and the
Gambler. "Check this out -- this is how I put people to sleep," he said, and
then fired plasma energy from his fingertips. 

The Realtor just stood there, and absorbed the blast. When it was over, he
began to loosen his tie. "Just remember -- you asked for this."

The Gambler, meanwhile, brushed off the front of his suit, and said, "You
wrinkled my shirt! Nobody my wrinkles my shirt!"

The Martyr fired again, but to no avail. Slowly, the two icons advanced,
determined to take their pound of flesh. The Martyr backed away slowly,
waving his hands and shaking his head -- begging for mercy.

Suddenly, an ebony figure flashed through the air, and kicked the Martyr in
the face. the Martyr tumbled backwards, and collapsed on his back,
unconscious. The ebony figure landed, and faced the Realtor and the
Gambler.

"All right, mates -- he's coming with me."

"Shadow Gentleman," said the Realtor, "I haven't seen you in awhile. How
did you know to come here?"

"The police received an anonymous tip, and they called me."

"I don't care!" yelled the Gambler. "He cost me money and he's gonna pay --
one way, or the other."

The Realtor assessed the situation and said, "I wouldn't argue with him when
he's angry, Shadow Gentleman."

"I'll argue with him," said the Dreamseeker, who stepped in-between the
Gambler and the Martyr.

"You again," whispered the Gambler before raising his fist. The Dreamseeker
sidestepped the powerful blow, and the Gambler slammed his fist into the
ground.

Ceiling panels fell, and the ground rolled with the impact. Rusty clothes
racks tumbled and collapsed. Everyone was knocked off their feet, including
the Gambler, and thrown across the room. The media would report the next
day that a small earthquake struck North Miami that night.

The impact lifted the Martyr off the ground and flipped him before he landed
roughly and awakened. He opened his eyes groggily, and saw that no one was
near him. He immediately pushed himself up, turned on his flight boots, and
blasted through the roof of the old May's department store, escaping into
the night.

"He's getting away," grumbled the Gambler, looking through the hole in the
ceiling while lying on the ground, resting on his elbows.

The Realtor walked over and said, "Yeah. Thanks to you."

"Shut up, Realtor! If it wasn't for you and your damn realty, I would'a had
him!"

As the two icons argued, the Shadow Gentleman ran over and helped the
Dreamseeker up.

"Come on. If we hurry, we can catch him yet."

"Sounds good, but how? Britishplane? Jet packs?"

"I slapped a homing device on the Martyr, after I kicked him. The
Britishmobile can track him as we drive."

"Wow."

***

The Martyr landed a couple of hours later on the sands of Daytona Beach. He
sat down, looked at the stars and the half-moon, and pondered his next move.

"You didn't really think you'd get away, did you?"

The Martyr turned his head to see who had spoken, and it was Richard Wright,
the leader of the Soul Patrol. The Martyr turned back slowly and continued
his star-gazing. "No," he answered.

"Well, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"Why can't I just join your team? Surely you see that I would add value to
your organization."

"No, no, no. You may be valuable, but you're not one of the five. You can
never be part of us."

"What if I killed one of you five?"

"You're welcome to try, but you'd just be making things harder on yourself."

The Martyr picked up some sand, and let it slide through his fingers. "I
remember the first time you guys tried to capture me. I really tricked you
guys, back then."

"You were lucky."

The Martyr stood and faced Mr. Wright. "I guess I'm more valuable now."

Mr. Wright stared into the Martyr's eyes, and asked, "Are you ready?"

"But I want one last hurrah!"

"I think you had it -- very few can say they survived an encounter with the
Realtor and Gambler."

"That's true. That was a cool escape, wasn't it?"

"You got lucky ... again. But your luck has run out."

Mr. Wright looked behind the Martyr, and nodded. There, lurking in the
darkness, was the Jamaican strongman, Sean Brown. He fired a burst of
electrical energy from a gun that Mr. Wright had invented just for this
occasion. The Martyr's suit was struck at the torso -- sparks flew and
spread until the entire suit looked like a sparkler on the 4th of July,
until finally sparks the died down, smoke reflecting off moonlight rose off
the suit in waves, and the Martyr was frozen in place. The Martyr tried to
move, but once again, he was paralyzed.

A tear rolled down the Martyr's face. He mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"Too late for that. What's done is done. Mr. Brown -- pick him up, and
let's get out of here."

Sean Brown slung the Martyr over his shoulder. As the two members of the
Soul Patrol walked across the beach towards their vehicle, the Martyr
continued to cry, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

***

Shadow Gentleman and Dace arrived in Daytona an hour later. S.G. parked the
car near the beach and stared at the instrumentation on his dashboard.

"Well, this was the last spot he appeared on the screens."

The two stepped out of the car, and walked over to the beach.

"Look," said Dace, "the sand here is scorched. He must've taken off again."

Shadow Gentleman examined the sand, and said, "I don't think so. There
would be more scorching. Something else happened here."

S.G. looked around, hoping for a clue. He noticed a faint trail of
footsteps a few feet to his left, and without a word, began following. Dace
kept up with him.

After walking for a few minutes, the footsteps ended abruptly at four square
imprints connected by a thin line, forming a long rectangle that could
easily hold the Britishmobile. The imprints ran deep; about 2 feet into the
ground, and within the imprints was scorching.

"Some kind of space vehicle," commented Shadow Gentleman.

"The Martyr's henchmen?"

"Not likely. His henchmen have never stolen anything this advanced; not
that I know of, anyway.

"Besides, look at the footsteps -- they are fairly normal in size. The
Martyr's suit would've left much bigger prints. Also, this set of prints
here," pointing at the ground, "are deeply imprinted. As if this person was
carrying something heavy."

"Like the Martyr."

"Exactly. The only question is, who captured him? And why?"

"I think I know the answer to that," said Dace. "Come on, let's get back to
South Florida. I'll tell you what I know about the Soul Patrol along the
way." 



THE END