Francisco Panza Is a Kind-Hearted Badass

Mariah?

Laura?

Carla?

There’s a name in Martin’s head that he can’t shake, and suddenly his vision resolves. In front of him is a grisly soul wrapped in bandages and chatting happily with the skinny blond fellow next to him.

Francisco mothereffing Panza. Kayla! Martin suddenly snaps out of his daze and looks around. Ian and Francisco are sitting next to each other on the other side of the cell. Tommy is sitting directly next to Martin looking dejected. Max Enberg is nowhere to be seen, though there are a couple of other gentlemen occupying the cell with them. Then Martin receives a signal from his face warning him of impending pain.

“Ow,” he whispers, gently touching a couple of fingers to his throbbing cheek. Tommy looks to him quickly, then leans out in front of him.

“Are you alright, dude?” Tommy looks back and forth at Martin’s eyes.

“What the hell, Tommy,” he says, swatting him away. “You’re creeping me out.”

“Jesus, you’ve been out of it all night. The medics said you’d probably be okay, but we weren’t allowed to let you sleep. Do you remember talking to them?”

“Do I remember...” Martin tries to recall a recent memory. Kayla. “I remember Kayla and the chick with the...hand.” He covers up one hand with the other and shoves his stump in Tommy’s face.

“Yeah, Kayla and Sylvia. Then the cops showed up after you punched Max and Ian stabbed Francisco.”

Martin looks across the cell at the happy couple, chatting away about who knows what. He’s stunned to think that he actually saw Ian stab someone.

“Man, who’s such a dick that they’d call the cops for a little stabbing?” Martin chuckles.

“Herb,” Tommy says. “After he got the bouncer to break up Ian and Francisco, he called the cops himself.” The implications of that phone call are not good for Martin’s career. He can potentially work other locations, but The Glorious Hole is his most repeatable moneymaker. Martin just hopes that Herb isn’t too pissed about such an incident.

“Christ. I hope he wasn’t too angry.”

“I think he was more worried about everyone’s safety, really.” Tommy stares vacantly at the floor.

“And what happened to that ginger dick Max Enberg anyhow? Did he not get arrested?”

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “He’s uh. They took him to the hospital.”

Martin furrows his brow, trying to remember what happened to him. “What the hell? I don’t even remember anything happening to him after I tried to punch him.”

“Well,” Tommy sighs, “I saw you about to pick a fight with two people who could kick your ass, so I figured I’d try to get one of them out of the way as quickly as possible.”

“Oh yeah!” Martin suddenly recalls seeing Max flying through the air. “You actually picked him up and fucking threw him! That was amazing, man.” Tommy chews the inside of his lip.

“Yeah, well...his back might be broken. And one of his arms definitely is.”

A part of Martin wishes that he hated Max enough for this to be inappropriately funny, but he just can’t enjoy it. It’s too real.

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah...” Seeing that Tommy’s distraught, Martin wants to find a new topic.

“So what’s up with Francisco and Ian? Best friends? What the fuck is this?”

Tommy shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t really want to talk to Francisco after what happened at the club.”

“Oh, you wimp,” Martin says, standing up. He’s a little light-headed, but he manages to navigate to where Ian is sitting and plop down next to him.

“Hey Martin,” Ian says. “You feeling better now?”

“Sorry about your face, man,” says Francisco. “I just gotta step in when people are hassling Max. He’s more of the sensitive type, y’know? That’s why he keeps around a bruiser like me to keep the crazies off his back. He’s got some nutty fans, bro.”

“I...” Martin wants to be mad at Francisco, but he’s being really nice. “Didn’t this guy stab you a bunch of times?” Ian laughs.

“Yeah, I went sort of crazy there, huh?” He laughs again. Francisco smiles.

“What, bro? You think I haven’t been stabbed before?” Francisco starts to laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” Martin asks. “What the hell kind of life have you led to get to the point where being stabbed isn’t a big deal? Is that some kind of secret Mexican power?”

Francisco shakes his head. “Man, I’ve seen some shit. Back when I was just a little shit roaming the streets with my friends, we saw a couple of gangs clash in an alley behind some rundown houses, and I say to my friends, ‘What do they have to fight about?’ So I stepped in between their knives and bats and shit, and they stop fighting each other just long enough to tell me and my friends to get the fuck outta there.”

“And? Jesus Christ, dude, why would you get in the middle of that?” Martin is enthralled.

“Well what the hell were they fighting for? Drugs? Territory? Just trying to kill each other? Tell me what a good reason is for them to stab and beat each other in the middle of the neighborhood, bro. Now, I wasn’t as big as them, and I wasn’t as strong, but I told them to stop. You know what they did?”

Martin shakes his head.

“They beat the shit out of me and my friends. I woke up in the hospital with a tube in my throat and bandages on my face.” Martin stares at the scar running down his face. “One of those gangbangers slashed his knife right down my face as a reminder that people weren’t supposed to fuck with him or his brothers.”

“And what about your friends?” Martin asks.

“Two dead. Two in the hospital for weeks. They had my back, though. That’s what friends do.” Martin looks at Tommy, then back at Francisco. “I told myself I’d never get beaten up like that again, so I started working out, and I stayed the hell away from gangs. I ended up playing drums just as a way to stay indoors when I could. You ever feel scared to leave the house when you were a teenager?”

“I lived in the suburbs. The worst problem we had was people driving too fast while kids were outside.”

“Then consider yourself lucky, bro.”

“I do, man,” Martin says, nodding. “So did you ever track down those thugs and kick their asses or what?”

“Naw, man, at this point they’re probably dead or rotting in prison. They’re not my problem anymore. But you’d better believe it, if they ever come my way again,” Francisco places one hand around his neck, “I’m tearing out their fucking throats.” Martin and Ian have no doubt that he’s serious and fairly capable.

“You three!” An officer points into the cell at Martin and company. “And you,” he says, pointing at Tommy. “You’re all free to go.” He unlocks the cell door.

A wave of relief washes over Martin. “What? How is that possible?”

“It’s basically all Francisco,” Ian explains. “He has Max’s power of attorney while he’s unconscious, and he’s not pressing charges against anyone.”

“You’re not gonna press charges against Tommy? For real? I mean, I don’t want him to go to prison, but it sounds like he wrecked Max.”

Francisco sighs. “It was my job to protect him. It’s my fault he was hurt. I never should have let Tommy get close to him, so when he wakes up, I’ll explain it to him. I’ll take the blame. As for Ian, I already told you that getting stabbed ain’t too bad, man. Adrenaline covers the initial pain, and drugs take care of the rest. I’m feeling pretty good.” Francisco smiles and pats Martin on the shoulder as he walks out of the cell.

As Martin, Ian, and Tommy leave the police station, Martin has a painful realization. “Shit, guys, how are we gonna get home?” Ian and Tommy look at each other, but they have nothing to offer. “Dammit.”

Martin looks at his phone, carefully picking through his list of contacts in order to find a good friend who won’t judge him too much, or at least one that will actually come to pick him up. Then he remembers that he hasn’t seen Hilda in a while, and she has a car.

“Ah, maybe this’ll be our ticket home,” he says. It’s kind of early in the morning, so Martin prays that she isn’t heading to work yet.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Hiiii. It’s Martin.”

“Martin? Why are you calling me so early?” She doesn’t sound too groggy. There’s a chance he didn’t wake her up.

“Well, I kind of got arrested last night-” he starts.

“For what?”

“Uh...I started a fight at Herb’s club. Ian stabbed someone. It was crazy.” To Martin’s left, Ian mimics the stabbing motion and laughs.

“Martin, I don’t have the money to bail you out.”

“Ah, you assume too much. We’re actually free to go home, but all of our vehicles are by the club or anywhere but at the police station. Any chance you could swing by and pick us up, pleeeeease?”

“Well, I do owe you for helping me get my car back.” Martin’s heart leaps into his throat. He looks at Tommy. Uh oh.

“Oh yeah. I had kind of forgotten about that, to be honest. We at least just need a ride to one of our cars so everyone can get returned to their proper vehicle.” Shit shit shit. Martin had forgotten who Tommy was.

“Okay. I still need to get ready, but I can come get you guys before work.”

“Awesome. Thank you. You are an excellent friend.” And hopefully very forgiving.

Hilda laughs. “Alright, bye.”

Martin looks at Tommy and briefly considers calling Hilda back and telling her not to come.

“Fuck,” he says, and Ian nods in agreement. Martin plans on doing his best to ignore the coming catastrophe and just relax for a bit.

Max Enberg Is an Egotistical A-hole

Stupid damn Michelle. Around midday, Martin is mulling over all the reasons for why he usually avoids her and why those reasons abandoned him when he agreed to go out to breakfast with her.

His best hope for money at this point is probably Herb, although he doesn’t want to let go of the idea that Landon Freeman has hidden millions at his disposal. Martin pulls out his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Herb. This is Martin.”

“Martin! How are you? You stormed out the other day before I really had a chance to speak with you.” Oh yeah. Martin had totally forgotten about that little incident.

“Oh right. I was just on my period.”

“Ah, the woman’s curse. I do hope you’ve pushed past that,” Herb jokes.

“Drier than the Sahara down there right now,” Martin continues.

“Surely you didn’t call me to discuss your menstruation. What can I do for you, Martin?”

Hmm. Martin hates the idea of making his financial trouble so obvious, but he doesn’t know a wealth of club owners. “I was just wondering when the next time is that you could squeeze me in for a show, actually.”

“Well,” Herb begins, but he soon follows with a series of hedging noises to indicate his inability to get Martin back on his stage anytime soon.

“It’s okay, Herb. I was just wondering if it would be possible.” Shit, though. Herb was going to really help Martin’s cause.

“I’m sorry, Martin. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but it’s rather terrible business sense to let one person have the stage all the time. I’d love to have you back in a couple of weeks, if that helps.” It would help in the long run, but Martin feels a sense of urgency that he’d like to choke out of existence. Given the brief pause during Martin’s contemplation, Herb adds, “And there’s always another standing offer if you’d like to make some quick money.”

Martin chuckles half-heartedly. “It’s not gonna happen, Herb. I can’t imagine you have any success with suggesting gay prostitution to straight males.”

“Then perhaps you need to work on that imagination.” Landon Freeman pops into Martin’s head. “If it would make you feel better, you can come to the club tonight and have a few drinks on the house. Bring a friend with you and make it a party.” Now that is an idea.

“What do you have for entertainment tonight?”

“A local two-man band, actually. Maximus Shmaximus. No idea if they’re any good, but they’re not asking much. I don’t expect a very a busy night.”

“I guess I don’t have much else to do. Expect me, handsome.”

“I will,” Herb says, and they end their conversation.

At the club, it is clear that Herb didn’t research Maximus Shmaximus the slightest amount. The crowd is so large that a sizable group is milling about outside with some of them even begging for entrance. Herb hired a bouncer for The Hole, though this is the first night Martin’s seen him actually outside and earning his keep.

Tommy is standing a good deal away from the crowd talking to Tess. Martin doesn’t know how Tess can be expected to keep her distance with Tommy keeping a firm hold on her ear.

“Hey Tommy,” Martin says. “Tess.”

“Hello,” she replies coolly. “Not as quiet around here as I was told to expect.”

“Yeah, what is up with this crowd?” Tommy asks.

Martin shrugs. “I guess this band is popular or something. I’d never heard of them.”

“Will we even be able to get in?” Tommy cranes his neck to look at the door. Dave, the bouncer, is commanding a wide area of his own personal space. Thankfully, Martin has connections.

“You bet. Let’s go.”

Tess and Tommy follow quickly behind Martin as he pushes his way down the sidewalk and toward the door. At the front of the line, Dave towers over Martin, all shiny baldness, thick beard, and bulging muscle.

“Oh, hey there,” Dave says, reaching out to give Martin a rough handshake. “Herb told me to expect you.”

“Oh good, that makes things easier for me. These two are with me.” He points to the two sheep in the flock who are his and his alone. “Actually, I might have one or two more coming later. I’ll come out and let you know if I give them a call.”

Dave nods. “Have a good time, guys.” He lets them by, much to the crowd’s disappointment.

Inside, the air is filled with a pleasant mixture of electric guitar and the steady beat of drums. There are no flashing lights, no lasers, no fog machines, just a red-haired guitarist and his Hispanic drummer. Aside from the initial observations, Martin pays no mind to them on his way to the alcohol. Most everyone in the club is too interested in getting close to the stage to pay attention to the bar in the back. Martin’s pleased to see a couple of women are the only customers giving heed.

“Hey Hank, could I get a scotch and soda?” Martin’s known Hank for about as long as he’s known Herb.

“Sure thing, and for you?” Hank looks to Tommy.

“Uh...” Martin begins an internal countdown. When it gets to zero, he’ll have no choice but to glare at Tommy. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Phew.

Martin turns to find out Tess’s drink order, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She was just behind him as he entered, he knows this, but now the Countess has managed to vanish into the club scene. Sneaky, sneaky bitch. Then Martin remembers that the Countess knows Herb, so it’s possible that she went off in search of his company.

Tommy sits down at one of the stools to drink his gin, but Martin elects to lean with his back against the bar, facing the stage. The music’s actually quite enjoyable as background noise to his alcohol consumption. He nods approvingly to himself.

“Hey Martin, what do you think of those girls?” Tommy asks with his head down next to Martin’s. The two girls are actually quite attractive, and Martin has an idea of what Tommy wants him to do. He walks over to the closest one, a pale blonde in a green dress, and sits down next to her.

“Hi there,” he says. Martin looks back to Tom, and he’s clearly struggling internally over whether he should follow Martin over or not. The blonde turns to him and looks him up and down, disgusted.

“Who are you?” she asks. It takes a miraculous feat of control for Martin to keep his face from showing his disbelief. He likes to believe that there’s no one else in the world as rude as he is.

“Excuse me. I’m Martin, and my shy oaf friend over there is Tom.” When she looks over Martin’s shoulder, Tommy manages a timid wave. “I was wondering if we could freshen up your drinks for you.” Martin signals to Hank, and he begins preparing new drinks.

“That’s alright, actually. We can pay for drinks,” she says while turning away. This time Martin can’t maintain control.

“Christ, it’s not like accepting a drink from us is signing a contract. I figured that maybe it would be a good deal if we gave you drinks and one of you would just talk to my friend for a little while, but apparently I overpaid.” He neglects to mention that his drinks are on the house tonight.

“Come on, Kayla. F-f-francisco won’t care if they b-buy us drinks,” the blonde’s brunette friend urges. Kayla demurs momentarily, but she relents. The brunette hops down off her stool and walks over to take her place next to Tommy, who looks pleased. Martin turns back to Kayla.

“You can’t accept drinks because you have a boyfriend? Like I care,” Martin takes a sip of his drink.

“Well he’s not just any boyfriend, y’know. He’s that big guy up there banging on the drums,” she says, pointing to the stage. This is the moment when Martin realizes that they’re the band girlfriends or groupies or whatever.

“Ohh, and she’s dating Maximus the firedick?” Kayla looks at her friend and nods.

“I think Sylvia has a fireproof vag or something.” Martin nearly spits his scotch and soda in her face.

“So I’m guessing yours is immune to amoebic dysentery?”

Kayla looks bemused.

“You know? ‘Don’t drink the water.’ Amoebic dysentery is usually why.” She scrunches up her face at the thought.

“No, I don’t think he has a diarrhea dick.” Martin finds himself laughing more than he expected he would given the conversation’s rocky start.

“I’m so happy for you,” he tells her, then notices he’s at the bottom of his glass and asks Hank to get another.

“So what do you do, Martin?” Kayla asks.

“Stand-up comedy. The occasional male prostitution. Sometimes I get paid so people can follow me around all day and take notes about how awesome I am,” he chuckles. “I’m not even joking about the last one.”

Kayla smirks at him. “Or about the second one?” Martin glares at her.

“What do you do aside from open your pearly gates for Francisco Franco?”

“I’m an actress. Sometimes I whore myself out or get paid so my friend will talk to people.”

“Are you a whore just for women?”

“Man, that would be awesome.” She stares off into space.

“Ooh, you know what? I have a friend you should meet. It’s one of my most recent life goals, to introduce him to everyone. Hold on.”

Martin steps away from the bar for a minute and walks toward the entrance to the club. He made a promise to Dave that he intends to keep.

When he walks back in, he stops to see how Tommy’s doing. Most of the concertgoers are starting to file out of the club, but the bar area remains sparsely populated. As he approaches the pair, Kayla’s friend is in the middle of some story about a car accident. Tommy is listening with wide-eyed fascination, causing Martin to wonder what he’s missing.

“So the d-d-doctors said it was a m-miracle I didn’t lose m-more than m-my hand,” she finishes.

“More...than my...” Martin echoes her last sentence, then looks at her left hand. Nothing. Then he looks at her right hand. “Whoa,” he whispers, then more audibly says, “that’s a fake hand.” Tommy smacks him on the shoulder. Martin pouts and rubs where Tommy hit him.

“My apologies, Sylvia,” Tommy says. “Martin’s kind of an asshole.” Sylvia smiles and leans her head back, her body shaking slightly in a silent laugh. That’s when Martin spots a facial oddity.

“What’s up with your hair?” he blurts out. Now Sylvia laughs like a regular person, and Kayla turns to investigate.

“The j-jig’s up, Kayla.” Sylvia pulls back her wig, revealing wavy blonde hair that goes down past her shoulders. Kayla removes her wig as well, showing off shoulder-length dark brown hair. Martin’s jaw drops, and he puts his hands up in front of himself for protection while his neurons explode from the pressure of the illusion.

A pasty white hand claps down on his shoulder as he backs up. “You aren’t bothering the ladies, are you?” a familiar voice asks. Martin turns around to see Max and Francisco coming to claim their women. Max looks to be about six feet and four inches tall, whereas Francisco is Martin’s height but built like a firmly muscled Mexican man named Francisco. A gruesome scar runs down the length of his face just to the right of his nose.

“God no, I was just entertaining them with my wit and charm. The music wasn’t really doing it for them.” Martin figured Max might have a good sense of humor, but he’s met with daggers for eyes. “I was joking, you know. You don’t need to be so angry at the world just because you were born without a soul.” He realizes too late that he’s really not drunk enough to be using this sort of smack talk.

Max pushes him away. “Go be a dick somewhere else, munchkin. You’re not funny.” Not funny? In a fit of rage, Martin throws what he thinks is a decent punch at Max’s face, whimpering at the same time. His hand glances off Max’s cheek without much impact, and then Tommy is off his stool and lifting Max up in the air and away from Martin.

Then Francisco gets involved. In an attempt to show Martin what rage is really like, he rips his shirt off with startling Mexican fury and shoves Martin backwards with tremendous force. Martin immediately trips over his legs and ends up rolling backwards, landing on his shoulders with his feet trapped in the underside of a bar stool.

While still upside-down, Martin witnesses Tommy lift Max over his head and throw him into a group of onlookers, knocking them over and almost hitting Tess and Herb, who have just made their way out front. As Tommy turns around to see how Martin is doing, Francisco hits Tommy in the ribcage with a right uppercut, then throws a left hook into his face, knocking him down. Tess is scribbling in her notebook as fast as she can manage.

“GALILEO!” As Martin is scrambling to his feet to better assess the situation, a shrieking cry comes from the entrance. The crowd has given Ian his own clearing in which to be crazy, in large part because he’s holding a knife.

This night is going nothing like how Martin had imagined it.

Herb heads for the door to get Dave. Ian charges at Francisco.

It’s clear to everyone watching that Francisco is a seasoned brawler, but Ian doesn’t have the benefit of this knowledge. He’s therefore very surprised when Francisco dodges his first slash and then transfers his momentum into a well timed hip throw.

“Are you really okay with this?” Martin asks Kayla. She’s in shock, however, and can only respond by opening and closing her mouth. Sylvia is in a similar state of distress after seeing Max flying through the air.

There’s only one chance for Martin to not get his ass kicked, so he drops to his knees in front of Francisco. “Please stop. I get it. You’re a juggernaut. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, okay?” Francisco responds with a right hook that lays Martin out flat on the floor. Despite years of drinking, he’s fairly certain he’s never felt so woozy in his life.

The last thing he thinks he sees before he passes out is Ian jumping on Francisco’s back and stabbing him repeatedly in the shoulder, but he hopes that’s just the concussion talking.

Stragglers

$350 is a good start on the remainder of Martin's debt, no question. He's feeling pretty good about the money he's already made off his show. There's still a balance owed, though, and Michelle is seemingly getting curious. The night of Martin's visit to Landon's apartment, he receives a call from his sister asking him to come out to breakfast again, this time at one of her shitty organic spots. This is, of course, a waking nightmare to him, but he acquiesces just because she's his sister.

She asks him to show up at 8:30, and this time Martin is capable of managing that kind of early rise. After all, he knows that this time people aside from his sister are relying on his punctuality. So when Martin shows up to one of his least favorite breakfast spots, Tommy is waiting for him, as well as his sister and the Countess at a distance.

Martin greets Tommy first, then introduces him to Michelle with judicious brevity. As they sit down, Martin realizes he can't order real bacon, and the anger begins to rise.

"You realize it's possible to make organic bacon. You just can't make vegan bacon or vegetarian bacon. Organic is totally possible. It's all in the treatment of those delicious, delicious piggies."

Michelle sneers at Martin, and Tommy seems to also lament the lack of cured pork bellies on the menu, but Martin has no idea if this is part of his act as apprentice or if Tommy really appreciates the salty, savory flavor of good bacon.

"I do realize that, but it's not a matter of taste, Martin. I agree that bacon is delicious, but it's not especially healthy," Michelle replies.

"Not especially healthy for a super strict diet, but it's a certifiably scientific hangover cure. That much is true. As an alcoholic, I should know these things."

Michelle sighs. Tommy smiles.

"So who is this guy, then? Tommy? Is that his name?"

"Yes," Martin replies. Michelle's feigned forgetfulness is more insulting to Tommy than Martin. He can't avoid the possibility that his sister is a bitch. "He's my...student. As much as I find that weird, and I'm sure you find it weird, he is my student. He wants to be a comedian, and I'll do what I can to make it happen."

"I really can't picture you being this accommodating for someone." See! Bitch.

"Oh fuck you, Michelle. I had the exact same thought, and yet I'm going to help him out. And I'm helping the chick who's with us at the same time. Birds and stones."

There's a distinct break in the conversation, then Michelle responds to Martin's claim. "Are you talking about me?" Martin laughs in her face.

"Nope." He turns around and points to Tess, who is sitting a few tables away from them near the door. Tess waves awkwardly at Martin, then takes notes about his behavior. "She's with us too, but she's not allowed to get close. She's paying fifty dollars every day just to not bother me." Martin laughs again, but he's worried that this much revelry will cause the good things in his life to collapse into ruin.

"So you'll help some poor sap tell jokes, but you're making...whoever that is pay you just to watch your behavior? I guess I should expect this kind of chauvinistic behavior from you."

"I'm right here, you know," Tommy points out. Martin can see this little interjection as Tommy's attempt to assert his position as a human being, but he can't just let his sister get away with calling him a chauvinist.

"Sure, you should expect this behavior from me, but that's because I don't see you as a woman. I don’t see any reason to show you my good side.”

“So Tess will say that you’ve been nothing but a gentleman to her?” Michelle waves to Tess. Martin turns around to see a very confused artist, so he swats at Michelle’s hand until she puts it down.

“Why did you want to see me, again?” Better to get back to the matter at hand, Martin figures.

“Have you figured out how you’re going to cover the rest of my bill?” She looks at Martin with low expectations. Tommy follows her look across the table with a similar curiosity about Martin’s finances.

“Is it really that urgent? I gave you everything I made at Herb’s place, and I plan on giving you Tess’s money too. My other means of making money are somewhat secret at the moment.”

“Secret?” Michelle seems skeptical. “Or...”

“Or what?” Martin has no idea what she wants him to admit.

“Or you don’t actually have any plans.”

Martin just shakes his head. “Have faith, sister. The money will flow.”

“Oh, so you can cover breakfast?” She’s trying to call his bluff, but Martin isn’t bluffing at all.

“Hell no. I’m broke right now.”

With that last victory, Michelle leaves Martin alone regarding his financial difficulties, at least until breakfast has ended and they’ve gone their separate ways. Tess shuffles out of the restaurant as Michelle is leaving, making sure to give Martin a decent berth.

As Martin and Tommy get to his car, Tommy hesitates before climbing in. “Do you really have a plan?”

Martin’s eyes are dead as he looks at Tommy. “From now on, can you please just take every question you have and make it into a statement? Then you’ll just seem like a liar instead of a dumbass.”

“What?”

“Of course I don’t have a solid plan yet. Just say ‘You don’t have a plan.’ or ‘You have a plan.’ and wait for me to correct you.” Martin gets into the car and slams the door. Tommy gets in, but his face is screwed up in thought.

“What?” Martin asks.

“You are mean all the time.”

Grr. Tommy follows orders strictly just so he can point out what a dick Martin is. It makes him feel worse than he’d like to admit.

Countess, Part 2: Blank Wombs and the Second Apprentice

Landon Freeman lives in the home of an artist. The space is vast, comfortable, and littered with the debris of a struggling creative soul. Blank canvases sit on easels surrounded by palettes with many different mixtures of paints, inks, and tools Martin can’t identify off the top of his head. He looks around for any indication that a brawny, capable man like Landon lives here. Maybe one corner of the studio seems to contain a jumble of his belongings. It hurts Martin just to think about it.

“What’s with all the blank canvases?” asks Tommy.

The Countess heaves a tormented sigh. “Would you like the short version or the long version.”

“The short version,” Martin blurts.

She smiles at his tenacity. It occurs to Martin that she might think he’s joking, but before he can cut her off she begins reciting the long version of her story.

“You are a comedian, Tom?” she asks.

“Sort of. I am as of today, just not a very good one.”

“Well then, you understand the need of an artist to feel inspired.”

Tom shifts his weight from one foot to another. “How can you really be an artist before you’re inspired? When everyone starts out, we’re all just plain creatures with no title. Then inspiration hits, and we become artists.”

“Certainly that’s one way of looking at it,” she concedes, “but I dare say that someone without an artistic soul wouldn’t know what to do with the most divine of inspiration even if it were shining golden in front of them with a note from God tacked on. These canvases here are for both inspiration and receptacles. If, one day, I feel the need to fill their voids, I can simply grab a brush or whatever implement most pleases me and go about my business. On the other hand, if some other seed inspires me, they can be my womb.”

Tom nods. Martin scowls. “That’s disgusting. You could have gone this whole visit without mentioning reproductive organs,” he says.

She has the gall to laugh at him, which only serves to further unsettle him. “Have I offended you? Have I made you uncomfortable? I figured no topics were taboo for someone like you.”

“Oh, I have no problem discussing dicks and vaginas all day if that’s what people ask of me, just not...”

“Me?” Martin has the sudden urge to run out of the apartment and leave Tommy behind. He’s already said too much, though. It’s time to face the consequences.

“Yeah. We really don’t know each other well enough to talk about things like that.” He has no idea if that’s a good excuse.

“Hmm. I suppose you’re allowed to be different from your stage persona.” She looks at the floor, then turns and beckons for Martin and Tommy to follow her to a sitting area with a couch and chairs.

Tommy leans over a little to whisper. “You’re being kind of an asshole, dude.” Martin waves him away like he’s swatting at a swarm of insects. Tommy pulls back. “Just saying, man.”

The two men take up a good portion of the couch across from where Tess is sitting, looking awfully pleased with herself. She crosses her legs, intertwines her fingers, and leans in toward her visitors. “So, onward to the matter at hand, yes?” She looks to Tommy. “Your question about the canvases cut quickly to a point I was hoping to make later: I am stuck. As an artist, I am stuck. There’s something I thought I had in me that isn’t flowing, and yet the desire to turn these canvases into something beautiful is there.”

Martin stares blankly at her. He can think of a handful of crazy reasons why this might involve him, but he’d rather ignore them than vocalize them. He has no desire to give her ideas.

“And as you know, Martin, Landon and I are fans of your shows. One thing that really blows my mind is that you have all new material every time. Do you have other comedians you work with?”

“No.”

“Then I am duly impressed,” she admits.

“I don’t really do shows very often,” Martin points out.

“Wait,” says Tommy, “you don’t repeat any jokes?”

Martin shrugs. “Maybe I have. I don’t actually keep track of it. But yeah, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t repeat jokes.”

“Jeez. That sounds rough. I think I’d rather work with a stable of solid jokes and just mix in the new stuff.”

“Yeah, well I’ll tell you why I hate that later.” Tommy lets his curiosity subside.

“I don’t mean to seem so obsequious, but you’ve left me quite interested, Martin.” Martin can picture it now, running some kind of artist day school for wandering souls and writers with blocks.

“Look, I already have one unexpected follower, Tess. I’m not looking to share my methods with anyone else right now.” The thought of having to put up with her ceaseless musings on art and inspiration makes him a tad suicidal.

“And I understand that. No offense, of course, but Tom’s unexpected to me as well. I had really figured things wouldn’t have changed much for you in the last week or so.” Martin is flipping her off in his head with such intensity that her torso combusts in alignment with his will, charring her face and causing her eyeballs to bubble and drip out of their sockets. When reality reasserts itself, he’s crushed to find out that it was all a fiction. “But I think it can still work. All that I ask is the opportunity to observe you from a distance. I won’t interfere with your life in the least bit, but I want to understand you. I want to understand what it is that lets you create like you do.”

“It’s weirdos like you and Herb Rollins and Gay Martin and Tammy the Genius.” The Countess seems puzzled. “Well, at this point you’ll probably meet them. Don’t worry about it.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Am I going to get any compensation for this invasion of privacy?”

“What would you like?” she asks. Martin has to wonder if financial compensation would come from her bank account or Landon’s.

“I guess it depends on how long you plan on doing this.”

“Until I understand you, Martin.”

“Don’t you have any other people you could monitor? You could follow Tommy around all the time and still get to observe me every once in a while.”

“Hey now, don’t I get a say in this?” The sound of Tommy speaking startles Martin. He had forgotten he was there.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you just let Tess hang around you for a week or so for a trial period.”

“That sounds marvelous!” The Countess is thrilled by compromise, apparently.

“And I’ll want fifty dollars per day,” Martin adds. Tommy laughs.

“Done.” She stands up and presents her hand to Martin. Pleased by the prospect of a few hundred dollars, Martin springs to his feet and shakes her hand.

“But you won’t interfere with my life?”

“Not unless you want me to.” Martin snorts derisively, feels bad about it, then finds himself utterly confused by the sensation of guilt.

“Alright, Tom, let’s get out of here.” He starts to walk toward the door, and Tom follows like a trained hound.

“Wait, how will I know where to find you?” Tess calls after them.

Martin laughs maniacally. “That’s part of your job, lady. My job’s just to keep on movin’.”

In the elevator, Tom can’t help himself. “Did you seriously just ask for money so she could hang out with you?”

“Did she seriously just say yes? Good lord. Everyone is a fucking idiot." This new promise of cash makes Martin feel better for the moment. "Sorry you didn’t get to meet Landon, by the way.”

“That’s okay.”

The door opens on the first floor to Landon Freeman and Herb Rollins chatting in the lobby. Martin’s blood begins to boil. “You son of a bitch!”

“Martin Avery!” cheers Herb. Landon looks upset by the implication of Martin’s anger. Tommy is horrified.

“Whoa, Martin. What’s the problem?” Landon, in his glorious glory, seems genuinely concerned by Martin’s anger. It’s soothing, and Martin finds this frustrating.

“I thought you invited me over to just chill out and talk to, you know, you. And not her,” he says, pointing toward the ceiling.

“Ah, it would seem Martin has a problem with your Countess, Earl Freeman.” Herb has a jolly laugh at his own commentary. At this point, Martin’s mind jumps to the hypothetical scenario in which the two pairs of men get into a fight. Tommy would clearly have to tackle Landon. Martin is just too scrawny to take him on. On the other hand, Herb is, as he describes it himself, “delicate”. Maybe Martin and Tommy could even win.

“Martin, I just figured that you could maybe let her get some ideas to get her started with her painting and your ego would be satisfied at the same time.” Landon is handsome. He’s tall and strong, and the finer details of his look have been determined by the conditions of his travels around the world. He is, in a word, rugged. Beyond this, he is also a beloved public speaker. It annoys Martin to no end that despite all this he remains a really likable person.

“Not to mention he gets a decent payday,” Tommy inserts. Martin shrinks back.

“What?” Landon asks. This mention of money exchanging hands has taken this conversation in the wrong direction. Landon’s surprise makes Martin feel guilty again. This is too much for him to handle in one day.

“Well, we’re gonna head out now. Nice seeing you guys.” Martin pushes past Tommy and walks briskly for the door, heading out into the parking lot before anyone can get a chance to stop him.

He waits in the car while Tommy says his pleasantries to Landon and Herb. Martin doesn't know if he's funny yet, but Tommy is at the very least polite.

Tommy slips into the passenger seat. “What the hell was that about?”

“I’m just having an off day. I feel weird right now, and I don’t really want the Countess hanging around me all day. She creeps me out.”

“And I still don’t get that. She was nothing but nice to you.” Martin recalls flames, eyeballs.

“For the most part. I think she was just being reserved with you around, or maybe she was sober. Last time I had to chat with her, she was saying the most boring shit about aesthetics you can possibly imagine, then she started describing her sex life with Landon in horrible, horrible detail. I know things about that man that I didn’t even realize I could know.” Tommy has to ponder this for a moment.

“That sounds kind of awkward.”

“Yeah? Sounds like the next week of our lives, dipshit.” Martin starts the car as grumpily as he can manage.

Countess, Part 1: Grasshopper

Money is bullshit, at least that’s what Martin thinks. Every man should be entitled to a wealth equal to the work he does for society. Being steeped in debt isn’t helping him appreciate the capitalist pigs around him either. Despite making money at Herb’s club, Martin still owes thousands of dollars to his sister, and while he knows that she won’t complain, he prefers to limit the amount of reasons she has to contact him. Keeping debt-free is one way for Martin to remain Michelle-free.

A name pops into his head: Landon Freeman. Herb had introduced him to Landon and his strange counterpart Tess Carter, “The Countess”. Such a stupid nickname, and yet Landon seemed quite fond of her. Landon is also quite fond of adventuring, archaeology, record breaking, and any other number of Hollywood-level masculine feats. Somehow all of this managed to raise him to the level of mid-range celebrity, and with this status came a moderate level of wealth. Martin is hoping to tap some sweet, sweet Landon Freeman ass.

Not literally, of course, though the rumor is that the smooth talker Herb Rollins has done just that. Herb is suspected of having seduced many straight male celebrities, though to what extent no one can be sure. None of the proposed celebs ever go on to lead anything but a fabulously straight life, and so the rumors remain rumors.

Martin is ready to dig in and see what he can find out, about the wealth, the rumors, and this weird woman Landon insists on retaining at his side. When Martin calls to make good on Landon’s invitation to his studio apartment, Landon is unusually pleased. Martin keeps this noted as he gets ready

Knock knock. Martin leans his head out of his bedroom door and listens. Knock knock. He steps cautiously toward the front door, wondering who might be on the other side.

“Are you gonna get that?” Ray yells. Damn you, Ray.

“I can hear you in there, Martin,” a voice calls out from outside. It’s a male voice, and vaguely familiar.

Martin opens the door. “Hi, Martin. I don’t know if you remember me, but-“

“Tommy?”

“Yeah, ha.” Tommy the repo man is standing outside Martin's door for who knows what reason. He looks a little younger than Martin, but he is taller, wider, and his hair is thinner.

"Why are you here?"

"Well, uh, Rico told me about your show the other night..."

Martin had forgotten that he even mentioned the show to the repo crowd. "Wait, so you went? And you didn't even say 'hi' to me after the show?"

"Yeah! And no." Tommy seems nervous about something, yet still pleased to see Martin. "At first I thought Rico was joking, but I checked it out anyway. It wasn't bad at all. The opener was kind of weak, but I liked some of your jokes."

"Not all of them?"

Tommy seems to purr with hedging noises, so Martin relieves him of his faux pas.

"I'm just joking, man. You're not the first person to tell me I need to work on my jokes." The big guy seems more relaxed now, but Martin has somewhere to be. Martin begins to walk toward his car. "Look, I kind of need to be somewhere. Why did you come to see me?"

"I sort of wanted to ask you about something."

"Shoot."

"It may require some discussion."

"Well, do you want to come with me to see Landon Freeman?" Martin asks, trying to hide how much fun it is drop a name like that.

"The Landon Freeman? World record guy?"

"The one and only."

"Damn, sure."

Martin nods toward the car. "Hop in."

As soon as they head out, Tommy opens up about why he's suddenly back in Martin's life. "I've always had an appreciation of comedy, you know. It's not easy to be consistently funny."

"I think it's genetic or something."

"Really?" Tommy asks. "Were your parents funny, then?"

"Oh god, no. My dad had no sense of humor and my mom wasn't as funny as she thought she was. I'm just assuming that it's recessive."

"Well I like to think I have a good sense of humor, but I've never really had the balls to do stand-up. Scares the shit out of me to just think about it." Martin is suddenly realizing that Tommy had prefaced this trip with the promise of a question, not a discussion of the finer points of comedy.

"So...what did you want to ask me exactly?"

"Right. You're welcome to say no, but I was thinking maybe you could be my mentor."

Before Martin has a chance to stop himself, he's laughing hysterically. He considers being responsible and pulling over until the fit passes, but he doesn't want to be late. When he finally calms down a bit, he realizes he has a legitimate proposition to mull over. "And what about the wonderful world of moving furniture, eh?"

"Kiefo fired me."

"What? Why?"

"I was too drunk to work one morning."

Sigh. "Look, Tommy, there are enough alcoholic comedians. I think we can make do with the thousands we have already without you throwing in your two cents. Just go beg Kiefo for your job or something."

"How did you get your start? Everyone just recognized how naturally funny you are and started paying you?" Screw you, Tommy, but I guess you have a point.

"What the hell would I even have to do as your mentor?"

"I don't know. Show me the ropes? Show me how to write jokes? Let me open a show sometime if I get good?"

"Jesus, Tom. Look, you're not going to make money doing this. I can't support you, and you're going to be doing open mic nights until I actually think you're funny on your own." Martin is surprised to realize how quickly he's accepting this idea, but he doesn't have anything else to do.

"That's okay. If I don't go after this now, I'll just regret it later." Ew.

"Okay, you know what? First big change as my pupil: you need to get it into your head that sometimes it's okay to say 'fuck it'. I mean, you couldn't work because you got hammered. Don't you regret that?"

"Fuck you. That was a rough time for me." Martin doesn't really care what "that" is, so they pass the rest of the trip in unpleasant silence.

When they arrive at Landon's address, the two men are in the middle of one of the city's trendy warehouse districts. Martin knows that this must be at the urging of Landon's Countess, but he can't avoid thinking about Tammy and her idiotic warehouse purchases.

"Damn," says Tommy, "this place is nice." Martin can't imagine what kind of shitty domicile Tommy uses for shelter.

"That's the way people trick you around here. Everything's nice on the outside, but once you dig a little you realize it's full of shit."

"Should I be taking down quotes for your memoir?"

"Shut the hell up, Tom." When Martin reaches the door into the building, he presses the buzzer for Landon’s apartment.

“Hello?” asks the Countess from the other end. Martin wrinkles his nose at her voice.

“Hello.”

“Who is this?” Blech.

“It’s Martin Avery. I’m here to see Landon.”

“Oh! Come right up.” As the buzzer sounds, Tommy grabs the door handle and holds it open for Martin. Landon lives on the top floor of the building, no doubt paying top dollar for a magnificent view and an airy, open apartment.

Tommy and Martin exit the elevator into a strange hallway. The floor is apparently split into two open studio spaces, and they are separated by a thin hallway that spans the width of the building, probably as a fireproofing or acoustic dampening measure. There’s little more space than is required for the doors to open to each apartment.

Martin knocks apprehensively on Landon’s door, then stands back. Tommy gives him a weird look. “You don’t understand, Tom. Lesson two: weird shit happens to me.”

“Okay.”

The door glides inward, and therein stands the Countess, stick thin and wearing a wisp of a shirt, mostly sheer fabric and hanging loosely. She’s also wearing a long, straight skirt slashed up to her hip. Everything about her dress makes Martin uncomfortable. Tommy just smiles and waits like a dumbass.

“Martin! My darling, so good to see you.” She stretches her arms out in front of her, slightly spread in anticipation of a hug. Nothing in her relationship with Martin prior to this would indicate this level of intimacy, but here she is, expecting an embrace.

“Hey, Tess. So uh, where’s Landon? Is he around?” The Countess is unfazed. Her arms remain elevated.

“No, not at the moment. But it’s alright. I told him I could handle you on my own." She leans back and laughs. "You’re here to see me anyhow.”

“Am I?” Uh oh.

“Yes, of course.” Sensing the stand-off between hug and unnatural hatred, Tommy springs forth to save the day. He grabs the Countess around the waist and lifts her up above his head. As he sets her down, she begins to laugh. “Well, who is this animal?”

“I’m Tommy. I’m Martin’s apprentice.” Shh! Damn it. Martin had forgotten that acting as a teacher for this big dope would do little for his prickly reputation.

“No! No, he’s my lover.”

Tess smirks at Martin. “Whoever he is, he certainly knows how to greet someone. Come on in.” The Countess turns and walks out toward the center of the apartment.

Martin raises his fists to the sky and grunts like he’s having an especially difficult bowel movement. His moment of venting passed, Tommy looks to Martin with yet another weird look.

“I fucking told you, man,” says Martin. “Strange, awful shit happens to me.”

“She seems nice, though. She’s been nothing but pleasant.”

“Lesson three: I hate you.”

Baxter & Hilda

A week goes by easily before Martin really snaps back to reality. He goes through cycles like this, periods of frequent socialization followed by stalwart reclusiveness. Martin usually ends up telling people he spent the time writing jokes or funny articles, but truthfully a lot of the time is dedicated to tasting beer and tastefully engaging in the ancient tradition of porn-watching. Sometimes he thinks about how well-off he might be if he were actually doing work, but he always finds this train of thought too depressing and abandons it. By this time one of his friends has hopefully contacted him and invited him to do something.

Today’s reality comes in the form of a call from Hilda. “Hi!”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing today?” she asks. Martin looks around the apartment. Ray is gone. Martin’s wearing stained pajamas. He was hoping he’d see something in the immediate vicinity to use as an excuse, but he’s feeling uninspired.

“Nothing yet. What do you want me to do?”

“You say that like I want you to come move furniture.” Martin smiles.

“No no, I just mean... Look, why would you ask me what I’m doing unless you have an idea for me?”

“I guess I wouldn’t. It’s not like you ever do anything interesting.” Blah. Fuck you, Dilda. Oh damn. Martin wishes he had actually said that, but it’s too late now. Already used up.

“Blah.” Damn it! He said the stupid thing.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. You wanna come hang out at my place?” The rage slowly builds in Martin as he realizes he’s becoming aroused at the thought of hanging out with Hilda. Not cool, Lil Horatio.

“I guess so. What are we going to do?” Please don’t be ambiguous.

“I don’t know. We could watch a movie or something. I just figured we hadn’t seen each other in a while. I’ve been too busy with work, and I guess you’ve been busy doing whatever it is you do.”

“Sorry, I was catching up on my articles.” See?

“Well just come over whenever you feel like it, though preferably before I go to bed.”

“What? It’s not even noon.”

“I know. See you soon!” Hmm. Martin is concerned about the consequences of re-socializing himself, but this sort of paranoia comes around every time he breaks cover and gets back out into the world.

He takes the time to clean himself and get something to eat before he makes his way to Hilda’s residence. A car sitting out front startles him. It’s familiar in a way that Martin can’t place. He knocks lightly on Hilda’s door.

The door swings open. “Oh wow, you got here fast.” Hilda’s hair is green with thin strips of purple. It looks...good. Too good.

“Yeah, everybody knows I come quickly,” Martin says sullenly. “I brought beer, by the way.”

Hilda seems confused. “For us? Do you always drink in the middle of the day?”

“I’ll drink anytime that it’s part of the day. Or night, I guess. Can I come in?” Hilda steps out of the way so that Martin can come inside. He is immediately assaulted by a bear of a man who’d been standing just out of sight. “Jesus Christ, Bax, put me down. I’m going to drop the beer!”

“Oh, whoa whoa.” Baxter sets Martin back down on floor. “Wouldn’t want to waste alcohol, eh? How have you been, Martin?”

“I was fine until you crushed my ribcage. Actually, I was pretty good until you crushed my ribcage. Thanks, Bax.” Baxter is about the same height as Martin, but he has quite a bit on Martin in terms of pounds and muscle and facial hair.

“Aw, you’re so sweet, Marty.” Blech. No. Shut up, Baxter.

“Give any good sermons lately? I’m sure my spirit could use a tune-up.” Baxter laughs. Hilda gets visibly angry, though it might just be playful. Horatio likes to think it’s playful.

“Stop it, guys. It’s not funny.”

“Yeah? Prove it, Miss Scientist USA.” Hilda yanks the six-pack from Martin and storms off to the kitchen. Martin turns to Baxter. “I’m an asshole.”

“I love assholes!” yells Baxter, arms in the air.

“What are you guys talking about?” shouts Hilda from the kitchen. At this point she’s already regretting inviting Martin over to hang out with her and Baxter.

“Your brother loves anal play!” replies Martin, and Baxter follows up with “I really do!”

Hilda comes back from the kitchen with a look of disgusted sadness. “There are some things you just don’t want to know about your older brother.”

Martin turns to Baxter. “So tell me more about your love of assholes.”

Hilda sighs.

Tammy the Genius

Martin wakes to pain all around his upper body. All around his entire body is Ian’s kitchen. The floor is not very comfortable. Someone is kicking him.

“...What?” He looks up, but not very far. Leanne is standing over him, and she looks very much half-asleep herself.

“Get out of the way. I need coffee.” Martin groans as he sits up, then pulls himself up using the counter.

“What makes you think Ian keeps any food in this place? These cupboards are probably all filled with underwear.” He recalls seeing Ian’s genitals in roughly the same place he’s currently standing and shivers.

“Underwear? He has to eat something,” says Leanne, though she is becoming more and more frustrated with each cabinet she opens that is filled with either clothing or nothing. “Oh, come on.”

“I told you.”

“Shut up.” More cabinets, drawers, but still nothing even remotely edible. Leanne is flummoxed by the presence of a coffee maker.

“Look, I’m sorry about last night. I am an asshole, yes, but I’m usually a bit more restrained than that.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t been short all my life. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Leanne looks up at Martin with lips pursed so tight they could cut off the circulation to an ant’s penis. “No.”

“Sorry, really. Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee? There must be a place nearby.” Begrudgingly, Leanne decides to accept the offer.

“Sure, but I was going to meet my friend Tammy for breakfast. Can you be civil if she meets up with us?”

Martin slouches. “I just want you to know that I don’t always enjoy my reputation. The constant questioning of my ability to be a decent human being gets a little grating after a while.”

“So...yes? No?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

Leanne tells Martin that there’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, so she calls Tammy and they head over. Martin tries to ignore the quality of the neighborhood. “So hey, any idea what all these welts are from? I don’t remember anything from after we started playing.” The pain Martin felt on his upper body was a number of small welts and a handful of strange smaller marks on his arms. “And what are these, burns?”

“Uh...I don’t think so. How would you have gotten burned?” Leanne deflects.

“I don’t know. That’s kind of the point. I figured if-“

“The welts are from when we started throwing dice at each other. They were supposed to be spells, but then we got angry. You were throwing dice at GM and saying, ‘Stop hitting myself!’”

“Oh man. What happened to him? I didn’t see him or Ian anywhere.”

“GM went to work. I have no idea where Ian goes.”

Martin is confused. “Don’t you and Gay Martin work together?”

“Ehh, fuck it. I’ll just tell them I was there all morning.”

“Yeah, not like they would have seen you walking around anyway.” Leanne punches and kicks Martin.

When they get to the coffee shop, Martin buys himself and Leanne coffee, then Tammy shows up. Tammy is probably a foot taller than Leanne, blonde, and seems to be in good shape. She gives Leanne a quick hug.

“Oh, Tammy, this is Martin.” They shake hands.

“Yeah, I’m her pimp.”

“Martin!” shouts Leanne.

“I didn’t realize you were getting back into the business!” says Tammy, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Wow.” Martin is already so pleased with how things are going. “You used to be a prostitute?” he asks Leanne.

“No. Tammy’s just playing along with your stupid joke.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“I thought it was funny,” says Tammy.

“Please don’t encourage him, T.”

“Whatever,” says Martin, sliding down in his chair.

Tammy is slightly confused by the tension. “So Leanne, how’s Mel doing?”

“Okay. The billboards are all up now. I think she’s just worried about what guys will think when they see her in a diaper.”

Martin perks up. “Wait wait, who’s Mel?”

Leanne sighs. “My sister, Carmela.”

“And she’s the one on those diaper billboards?!”

“Yes.”

“Man. Well I don’t think she has anything to worry about. The first time I saw one of those I was like ‘Huh, never thought I’d be attracted to a girl in a diaper.’”

“I guess she’ll be glad to hear that.”

Tammy looks focused on Martin. “So Martin, what do you do?”

“Stand-up. I’m a comic.”

“Oh, well that explains the jokes. Do you do a lot of shows?” Why did the jokes need explanation? Is everyone who tells jokes a comedian for a living?

“Not a lot, I suppose. I’m still kind of an amateur, but you gotta work your way up.”

“Hmm. Well good luck with that.”

“What do you do?”

“Me?” Tammy seems pleased to have the attention on her at last. “I’m involved with a lot of things. Right now my big project is real estate. I’ve got a lot of warehouse lots for sale, if you’re interested.”

Martin looks at Leanne in an attempt to figure out who Tammy’s talking to. “Me?” he says, clearly mocking Tammy from a few seconds ago.

Tammy nods. “Yeah, absolutely. Have you ever thought about what you could do with a warehouse?” Martin is suddenly unimpressed with Tammy.

“I haven’t, no. There’s not a lot to think about. They’re just big open buildings.”

“That’s not true! I’ve come up with a lot of ways someone like you could use a warehouse. Tell him, Leanne.”

Leanne looks quite uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh, Tammy’s pretty smart. She and her husband have been thinking up ways to convert warehouses into grocery stores and schools.”

“That’s why I go by Tammy the Genius.” Martin nearly spits out his coffee. “Are you okay?” asks Tammy, looking quite concerned.

He wipes his face. “I...did you just say ‘Tammy the Genius?’”

“Uh huh.”

“Martin...” says Leanne, wary of what he might say.

“How many of these warehouse properties are adjacent to one another?”

“Oh, all of them. They’re just one long lot that’s been broken up,” says Tammy.

“Then how do you plan to have more than one grocery store and school in that area? Do they even all have street access?” Martin asks.

“What? There are eight warehouses, Martin. We could have five of each if we wanted.” There’s a pause. Leanne is scared that saying something might provoke Martin, not that he needs further provocation. “And plus we can always make streets if they don’t touch streets.” Another pause.

“So Tammy, are you any good at math?” asks Martin.

“Yeah, really good, but what does-“

“Can you tell me what the square root of 196 is?”

“I...don’t think that you can take the square root of an even number, Martin. Is that a trick question?”

“It’s fourteen.”

“That sounds right,” says Leanne, hoping to end discussion.

“Hmm. I disagree.” Tammy the Genius is quite sure the even numbers do not have square roots.

“Uhh...” Martin’s brain is telling him a lot of things at this point, so he feels the strong urge to just run away from the situation. “Oh shit. Leanne, I just remembered that I need to drop something off for my roommate before he goes to work.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s relieved, even if he’s lying.

“Wait, let me give you my business card before you go in case you know anyone interested in developing those properties.” Tammy quickly whips out one of her cards and hands it to Martin. It reads “Tammy the Genius, Real Estate and Etc.” Martin laughs most of the way back to his car.

When he gets there, Martin checks his phone. He notices a text from an hour earlier. It’s from Ian. “Are you in any position to be making demands?” Martin texts back: “You. Are. Crazy.” Ian replies immediately: “Oh, and don’t let Leanne light any of my stuff on fire. Water damage is okay, but I have a thing about flames.” Martin yawns despite the caffeine in his brain. “Sorry. Your house burned down. I’m driving to Mexico. Goodbye forever.”

The next text surprises Martin. “You do realize I can see you.” Martin looks around for a few seconds before he sees Ian in one of the front windows of his house, holding back the curtains. His eyes are wide and terrifying. Martin slowly puts his keys in the ignition and starts the car. He sends one last text back to Ian. “Please don’t have children.”

Two Guys, a Goth, and a Pyromantrix

Before the three grown men get ready to dive into a world of fire lizards and damp subterranean rooms, Martin and Ian get their smoking out of the way. Gay Martin hangs out in the kitchen until the boys are finished with their preparatory bong rips.

“Alright, we’re finished, you big, mopey queen,” cries Martin from the living room, and GM soon returns to the area looking especially sullen.

“Is this how it’s going to be all day?” asks GM with an appropriate amount of guilt-inducing self-righteousness.

Ian shakes his head wildly; his eyes are closed the entire time. “Don’t worry, silly. He just thinks he’s funny.” A nasal screech builds before Ian breaks into open-throated laughter directed at Martin.

“Fuckin’! Ian! You!” cries Martin before flopping his head back onto the couch. He frowns emphatically in an attempt to inspire pity. This only causes Ian to laugh harder. Gay Martin, entirely sober and annoyed at this point, is finding it hard not to leave.

“Can we just get started? You guys are being ridiculous.”

Martin’s head snaps upright, and he begins smiling a scrunched smile. “I totally see what you mean about this guy’s mudstick.”

“Dude,” Ian mutters at Martin. “That was private.” GM doesn’t even understand what a ‘mudstick’ is supposed to be.

“Ian, hey.” GM has to work for a second to get Ian’s attention. “Do you have the books here?”

It takes a second of wide-eyed, unfocused existence for Ian to attempt to figure out what books GM is talking about, abandon that thought process and then come up with a totally inappropriate adapted movie quote. “Books? Where we’re going, we don’t need books!” Ian won’t remember this very well later, but at this moment he experiences the most pride he’s ever felt.

“Do you have dice? Pens? Pencils? Paper? If we don’t have those, this is just going to end up being an approximation. Do you want me to call Leanne?”

“Uhhh, yes. Call the little one and have it bring forth the tomes and trinkets,” mandates Ian, now up and marching about the room triumphantly, though he’s not sure over what exactly he’s triumphed.

“Little one?” asks Martin.

“A miniature woman. A pocket-sized female human,” says Ian. “Dude, I hope you can not make fun of a midget.”

Martins mind reels. “WHAT? She’s a…an actual little person? I thought she was just short.”

“Well, she is short,” GM says condescendingly. “I mean, she’s a dwarf.”

“You…son of a bitch. I know.” Martin struggles to get to his feet, manages, and then walks off to the kitchen. Ian still seems quite triumphant.

A short time later, Leanne arrives with the appropriate equipment. Ian glances at her awkwardly and flips through the books. Gay Martin chats with Leanne about Ian and Martin being obnoxious. Martin wanders back from the kitchen.

“JESUS CHRIST, IT’S AN ELF!” he yells upon seeing Leanne. She’s a diminutive blonde woman, and not bad-looking considering she’s a foot and change shorter than Martin usually likes his women. Gay Martin looks up with disgust. Ian shakes his head and smiles. Leanne looks as though she’s mentally adding Martin to a list of people to murder.

“Excuse me?” she says with expected sass.

Martin approaches her cautiously, occasionally turning away from her and then back to see if she’s real. Once he gets close, he leans down to her. “How’d you make your way down from the North Pole, little lady?” Martin asks, his voice reaching as high as it can while his throat is scratched up from all the smoking. “Jeez, at that height you could probably give a standing blowjob!” His eyes meet hers; bloodshot meets steely conviction.

Her fist is a meteoric blur that rises quickly from her side to his crotch, sending Martin crashing and folding into a pathetic heap at the foot of the couch. This is the first time that Gay Martin laughs since his arrival.

While Martin recovers pathetically on the floor, the rest of them discuss the game. Ian usually serves as the Dungeon Master, but he claims to need a few more turns with the bong to be appropriately inspired. Leanne shares it with him while GM retires to the kitchen again.

“Okay, they’re finished, you big gay bastard!” yells Martin from his position halfway back onto the couch. GM comes back and sits down. The group is now gathered around Ian’s low coffee table with sheets of paper and books spread around.

Despite Gay Martin being the only coherent one, Ian is leading the show. He has his guests prepare their characters.

“Well you know I’m gonna be a pyromancer,” says Leanne. “Fweeeoooo!” She pretends to be blasting Martin with fire, but the sound effects are too terrible for anyone to really take notice.

“Why?” asks Martin.

“’Cause fire’s just…my thing. I think my dream job is…there are things. I set them on fire, and then someone has money for me! ‘Good job with the fire, Leanne!’ And then I buy things and set them on fire.” It’s at this point that Martin feels blessed, to a certain extent. He is currently doing one of the nerdiest things imaginable with a goth, a midget, and one of the craziest people he’s ever met. Martin only wishes another reliable party were present to corroborate this story later.

“But what do you actually do?”

“She’s also an accountant at my firm,” replies GM. Ah, the standard workplace comedic relief.

“During the day,” Martin narrates in his best movie trailer voice, “she’s an accountant in the city, hiding her identity by never crossing eye level. But at night! At night she transforms into the incinerator, the cleanser of evil, burning away the city’s sins. She is…Supermidget.”

“I hate you.” Leanne looks at her character sheet quietly.

“Whatever, pyromidget.”

“Maybe Martin can pretend to be a decent person. Is that a class?” Martin does not appreciate humor coming from some deformed excuse for a comedienne.

Ian flips frantically through the pages, checking out the different types of characters. He’s very worried that he’s forgotten something. “I…don’t think there’s just a ‘good person’ class. He could be a paladin or something. I’ll keep looking.”

“And what does the gay me usually play as?” asks Martin.

“Vampire war princess, motherfucker."

Martin and Ian and...Martin

Ian’s house looks no different than the last couple of times Martin’s seen it, yet he can’t help but feel that something’s off. First, Martin has arrived early. This makes him uncomfortable. Second, he’s holding a bag of brand new white socks in a neighborhood that looks like it could use an injection of fresh underwear just to turn a few frowns into less world-weary indifference. He finds himself hugging the bag tightly to his chest. The text said noon. If he went in early, would he find the creature normally dressed as Ian just putting its skin on?

Martin shakes his head like an Etch A Sketch and knocks. It’s 11:51. No one answers. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked! Martin is stunned. He hardly knows what to think or do at this point, so he slumps down next to Ian’s doorway and reads every word he can find on the bag of socks two or three times over. At 11:58, Ian comes racing around the end of the block in a fast walk, apparently carrying a large bag of something himself. As he gets closer, Martin can see that it is, in fact, a massive bag of weed, the kind that makes you start wondering more where someone got a plastic bag that size and less about how they got that much weed. Martin’s also amazed that Ian is just carrying it around outside like it’s no big deal, certainly not illegal or anything.

“Hey man, I guess I’m a little early,” says Martin, standing up and brushing off his pants while Ian jams his key feverishly into the lock and goes inside. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. It’s 11:59. Martin clutches his socks in some unexpected Ian-centric reflex.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone to check the time. Hmm.

As noon hits, Ian flings open his door to find…

“Martin?” Ian is pretty sure it’s Martin, but he’s dressed rather awkwardly.

“I was once known by that name. I am now simply known as The Ambassador, envoy from Sockland,” delivers Martin with the necessary dramatic embellishments. He is also wearing socks on his hands, loosely so that they may be flailed around for visual interest. A wreath of socks hangs pathetically around his neck.

The look of condescending disgust that forms on Ian’s face is one of the most impressively effective ones Martin’s ever seen, and he considers himself something of an expert when it comes to disgust. “What the hell are you doing?” asks Ian plainly.

Uh. Is it mean to tell someone you were just mocking them outright, just trying to make a clear reference to their insanity? “I thought maybe we were just…playing a game or something. I mean you totally ignored me on the way in here.” He peels off the socks from his hands and takes off the wreath, trying with futility to smash them back into the bag whence they came. Martin finds it weird to be embarrassed in front of Ian of all people.

“Come in before someone sees you,” Ian says, herding Martin inside.

“Sees me?” asks Martin. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or thoroughly ashamed.

“Yeah,” Ian says with a mocking tone, “I hear there are spies from the Staple Remover people in the area!”

“Fuck you; I brought socks.” He tries to hand Ian the socks, but Ian looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Okay…but where’s the money?”

“Are you shitting me? You said ‘bring socks or money,’ so I went with the socks since the latter option was both ambiguous and reasonably absent in my life right now.”

“I…don’t think I would have said that. And how is ‘money’ more ambiguous than ‘socks?’ Maybe I wanted black dress socks or rainbow toe socks. Maybe I only wanted you to bring three dollars, hm? I’m not sure you thought this through at all.”

Martin feels like he’s standing on shattering, sliding ground with no way to stabilize himself. He thinks back on the first time he saw Ian. The man wore no pants. The second time? Ian was wearing a tux at a fake tea party. Now Ian is being altogether too rational for Martin’s sanity. “Ian?”

“What?” Martin doesn’t respond. “Yes, Martin? What?”

“I just wanted to make sure it’s you. I repossessed your furniture once, then you went to my stand-up show, right?”

“Yeah? Are you okay, Martin?”

“I guess I’m okay. I have no idea, though. You don’t even remember asking me to bring socks or money?”

“Oh, I do. I was just seeing if you’d do it, though.”

Marting glares at Ian before hurling the bag of socks down the hall. He sighs. “Okay. I did it.”

“That seems a bit passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

“It was entirely passive-aggressive. I wasn’t really sugarcoating it. You seem too normal today, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Too normal? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Fine. Look: what did you have in mind for an activity today?”

“Ah, well I thought we’d wait until my friend Martin came over so we could play Dungeons & Dragons.” This strange statement is a small relief for Martin.

“Oh ha ha, Ian. I’m here already.” Martin isn’t really looking forward to playing a tabletop RPG with Ian.

“What? I can know more than one person named Martin, dummy. Martin Varney usually comes over after he gets out of work.”

“I don’t know how I feel about hanging out with someone else named Martin. Can’t we call him like…Unfunny Martin? Boring Martin? Martin Number Two?”

“Gay Martin? He’s gay.”

“Uh…are you?” Martin has to ask these questions.

“Ah, no, but I’m sure Gay Martin wishes I were. That seems to be about the only reason he hangs out with me. He doesn’t do drugs, he’s into weird music and goth get-ups, and he is otherwise a big stick in the mud. Hell, he works as an accountant.”

“I’m not so sure that’s as boring as you want to make it sound. But hey, as long as he’s not a comedian, at least I have the Funny Martin thing locked down,” Martin chuckles.

“You think so? I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think you’re probably funnier off-stage than you are during your act.” Martin’s feelings are hurt.

“Really?”

“See, you have good timing and pacing during regular conversations, but your act was just a retelling of things you’ve experienced with very little refinement or dressing up. You did your act as though you’re more of a humorist, maybe someone who expects people to look at his work for a while and appreciate the humor of the whole instead of just a punch line here or there.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to follow a formula,” says Martin, trying to defend himself.

“I know, and you’re still pretty funny. You just need to turn your stories into a few jokes, maybe. Cut out the unnecessary bits. I don’t think you mean to just be the cream of the crop for amateur hour, so try just keeping them laughing with what’s comfortable for you.”

Martin doesn’t like this new Ian. On the outside he’s still the same skinny motherfucker with sandy hair, but he’s turned into some analytical powerhouse that makes Martin feel stupid. “I don’t like you now.”

Ian bursts into laughter that threatens to shatter Martin’s eardrums at its peak. While his convulsions continue to cycle as his mind processes the whole conversation, Ian takes a seat on his couch and starts grinding and packing marijuana for one of his bongs. He doesn’t pause his laughter until he’s just about to take his first rip. “Can you imagine? Jeez, that’s what I would sound like if I lived just a few more miles southeast.” The laughter continues renewed.

The front door flies open and slams shut almost as quickly. There stands a giant with shoulder-length dark hair, white face makeup, and an outfit that screams business casual, if it is at all possible to scream something so boring. He looks at Martin as if trying to silently create some sort of masculine mental bridge, but Martin worries more that Gay Martin won’t make it to the bathroom.

“Ian, who is this interloper?” says Gay Martin sternly. It’s only now that Martin wonders if the look of constipation was intended as intimidating.

“Oh, I’m Martin.”

“Martin?” GM asks incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No? Can’t Ian know more than one person named Martin?” Ian, who is now at least moderately high, begins to laugh quietly.

“That was my line!”

“Uh, yeah,” says Martin, then looks back to GM. “You must be Gay Martin.”

Gay Martin purses his lips, and his eyes shrink in contempt, dark ovals in a sea of white. “I guess I must be.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 3: Exeunt

Things go well after the show. A few people tell Martin he was hilarious. This is expected. A lot of people don’t talk to him at all. This is nice. Herb makes his way through the crowd to shake hands with his headliner.

“A good show as always, Martin. How about I give you one-and-a-half the usual rate?” Not bad! Everything Martin can deduct from the balance owed to Michelle is welcomed.

“You’re too generous, Herb! Too generous.” Once again Martin is forced to scare up some friendliness for financial reasons. Although there’s really no reason for Martin to not be nice to Herb, he needs to keep up the idea that he’s an asshole deep down. He wouldn’t want to tarnish an otherwise stellar reputation.

Martin hangs around in the club with Ian and Hilda until almost everyone has made their way out. At one point Martin spots Ian and Herb talking. Herb is clearly confused and possibly on the verge of laughing. Ian does not disappoint.

“Looks like Herb’s getting a taste of the insanity,” says Martin, pointing out the conversational pair to Hilda.

“I think you mean ‘the fanciness.’” She laughs softly knowing that Martin won’t understand. He really doesn’t. “Hey,” she exclaims, smacking Martin on the chest, “what’s the gift you have for me?” Uh. Hmm.

“Well, I got your voicemail today.”

“And you didn’t come to get me?” she seems genuinely offended. Uh oh. Bring it around, Martin.

“No no, I didn’t even get the voicemail until it would have been much too late. But I figured that, rather than karmic retribution, it was probably some repo guys who took your car.”

“Yeah…probably should have figured out those payments, huh?”

“See, that’s my gift for you.” Martin enthusiastically thrusts the gift envelope toward her.

“You figured out how to pay for my car?” Hilda begins to open the envelope, but Martin stops her mid-flap.

“Yes! Yeah, just open that after I drop you off. I’m not good with gifts.” Hopefully she’ll be more inclined to accept if she can’t reject it in person.

“Okay, I guess I can wait, but now I just want to get home.” She smiles at Martin, and for a moment he feels absolved of his guilt. If this is what it feels like to be nice, he’s not entirely sure he hates it. Weird.

“Yeesh, so greedy.” There we go. Hilda scowls at Martin, then quickly lets it go. Ian and Herb have finished, and the crazy man is also ready to go.

“Let’s get this gypsy caravan out on the trail.” Yes, Ian, let’s do that.

Even later in the evening, Martin’s cell phone begins buzzing. Hilda’s face pops up on the screen, so he just lets it ring. It’s late enough that he can say he was sleeping. As soon as the voicemail icon comes up, Martin calls it and taps in his password.

“Martin! Thank you…so much.” Oh lord, is she crying? “I guess I owe you now or something, but I’ll pay you back. Thank you. I guess I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” Sometimes Martin worries that he’s defective, at least emotionally. The thankfulness from Hilda is making him wildly uncomfortable, and he needs some debauchery.

He looks up Ian’s number, freshly entered that night, and sends him a text. “Hey man, you wanna do something tomorrow?”

The response comes moments later: “My house at noon. Bring socks or money.”