Enter Sandman

	Sitting near the diner window was a group of friends; Fred, the jock; Jules, the jock’s girlfriend; Harold, the college boy; and Scott, who had just made a killing at one of the local casinos. A smokestack waitress was making her rounds while Sully, the jolly, bearded man behind the counter cheerfully cleaned his dishes to a sparkling shine, drinking in the aroma of fresh coffee and casually tapping his foot along with the beat of the jukebox. As beautiful a night as it was a day, the group of friends laughed heartily as they caught up with one another, sharing the best you could get at 3am on a Monday, alone, aside from Sully, the waitress, and lonesome stranger tucked away in the corner with a cup of coffee and an unfinished crossword.
	The group cackled among themselves as they shared stories over chicken and waffles; “And I says to her, I says to her,” says Scott, ruining the finest cotton money could buy as the plastic glass and sunny-fried rattled about with every slap of his greased palms, “I says; ‘them’s dice ain’t the only thing that’s loaded!’”
	Fred, Jules and Harold erupted as Scott chomped away, patting himself on the back for his success and getting his old group of friends together. Under the second chin, the cheap suit, the gold rings and the tacky necklace, Fred saw the start of a beautiful, four day a week, nine-to-two workout routine and a nice, juicy sponsorship deal. Jules thought about introducing him to a few friends; the right amount of money can make even the portly, Scott and his orange, pipe-cleaner of a mustache attractive. Harold, Scott’s self-proclaimed best of friends, saw an opportunity for all those nasty loans to just disappear. Sully and the waitress saw a new face enter the diner – changing the “open” sign to “closed” as he entered.
	“Ya know, Scotty boy,” said Fred, wrapping a python around Jules’ shoulders and pointing a well-manicured finger across the table, “I’m glad to see ya doin’ so well for yourself. After school, well; I never thought this whole gamblin’ thing would go too well.”
	Jules nodded, playing her part as the pretty parrot batting her lashes at the human cigar across from her; “Yeah, Scotty.” Leaning across the table, her thin lips parted in a waxy, tooth-baring grin; “A few girlfriends o’mine would love to take you out shopping.”
	Harold smiled, doing his best not to froth at the mouth like the other two. “We’re all very happy for you, Scott.” He gave his friend a pat on his ham hock of a shoulder; “You should come by the university some time and meet some of my professors; you really ought to pursue an education now that you’re a man of means.”
	As the laughter wound down, Jules looked past the bushy burns of Scott’s dubious jawline in time to see Sully and his waitress shrinking away into the kitchen, eyes low and hands raised. The jukebox shuddered as it played a new record – an antigonish melancholy of somber strings and muted sax as an imposing individual slowly strode toward the table where the four friends found themselves curious of the tall figure standing before them; the dull fanblades casting a looming shadow across the floor as the light obscured the stranger’s features in a flat, harsh darkness. The girl’s eyes jumped to his arms – a modest timepiece held tight against his wrist, and the roll of his sleeves revealed scars, scrapes and nicks, hinting at something much worse than a barroom brawl. His vest was a mute, pinstriped charcoal; its six black buttons shown a sinister gleam in the light of the place as slim, black slacks ended in a spotless set of oxfords. As he swept up besides the table, left hand in pocket, the other swung free, and Jules followed it up to a broad shoulder and a narrow, piercing set of mint-green eyes and salt-and-peppered stubble.
	Fred’s machismo tucked itself between his legs after a moment of recognition; Harold glanced between his friends as he squeezed himself against the window; Jules whimpered and tucked herself deeper into her boyfriend’s chest as Scott clutched as his own, breaking into a sweat the near instant he saw the heavily scarred face staring down at him. “Y-you!” he stammered, “You..!”
	The two beady pinpricks glaring down from atop six feet of muscle and bone bore into Scott’s skull. “Yes,” growled the figure, “me.”
	A nervous smile split across Scott’s face as he raised his hands, his sleeves falling to reveal even more jingling jewelry. “Hey, uh,” he stuttered, backing into an already cramped Harold, “let’s just calm down real quick, yeah?” He took a piece of chicken from his plate, holding it up to the shadowy figure. “Can I offer you a nice leg in this trying time?”
	Fred found part of his spine and straightened up, attempting to stand in the small booth as he did his best to flex at the sharp-dressed man. “Hey pal, who do ya think you are, huh? What do ya think you’re doin’, huh?”
	“Fred, don’t;” whimpered Jules, pulling at his too-small t-shirt as he struggled to become fully erect. “Maybe he just wants to talk.”
	Harold chimed in next, fixing his varsity jacket as he sat up. “Listen, friend,” he uttered, quickly cut off as the stranger resumed his short, gravely barks.
	“Where’s the money, Scott?” His knuckles audibly cracked as his free hand curled into a tight fist. “I’m only asking you once.”
	The sweat Scott shrugged; “I, uh, I spent it?”
	The man pulled his hand from his pocket, resting it on the quaking coward’s shoulder. “No,” he said darkly, “you didn’t.”
	As Scott cried out from the sudden pain of a crushing grip on his ball-and-socket joint, Fred sprung into action; stumbling over his own two feet as he attempted to leap out from the cramped booth and reaching out to drag the attacker down with him. The man keenly stepped out of the way, sending the jock careening into the counter adjacent, banging his head and putting him on the ground. Jules screamed, as floozies often do, bring her hands up to accompany her shrieking as Scott was dragged from the booth and thrown atop Fred’s prone form. Harold refused to sit idly by and jumped from his seat, unleashing his famous rubber-arm jab before a more expert blow to the throat sent him back down, clutching at his collar as he made himself as small as possible. Scott, still dripping with sweat and syrup, bolted for the nearest exit. As the man attempted to follow, he felt a tugging at his slacks – a swift kick to the head ensured Fred the jock would keep out of the home stretch.
	Scott’s burly body barreled out of the dinner, flinging the door open as the glass splintered and cracked from the impact of his considerable bulk. He briefly looked around before taking off down a back alley, flipping over trash cans and tipping over empty bottles as he tried to make himself scarce. He rounded corner after corner, dumpster after dumpster, alley after alley with the sound of footsteps all around him as he grew increasingly desperate. Seeing a chainlink fence ahead of him, he quickly turned – straight into the arms of his pursuer, charging in from the opposite direction. Keeping their momentum, the man wrapped his hands around Scott’s head and hurled him to the concrete; a surprised gasp quickly turned into a pained grunt as Scott’s skull bounced off the pavement, followed by an intense bout of kicks and stomps as he writhed about. He raised his hands in surrender before being caught in the face with a well-polished shoe, turning off the lights as he went limp.

***

	Scott awoke, sore, bloodied and alone. A dull lamp swung overhead as he struggled to raise his throbbing head. Weakly, he cried out. “Where,” he coughed out along with a bloody gobbet, “where am I?” His bloodshot eyes widened at a familiar shape standing just within the darkness, and he screamed, quickly finding his arms and legs bound to a cold, metal chair. “Ah, no,” he whimpered, “no, no, no, no!”
	Mr. Sandman watched quietly from the shadows. Three hours ago, Scott S. Dale had been on his way to being a big name in an even bigger city; his dreams as gaudy as his heavy gold rings and as loud as the striped suit he so confidently swaggered about in as the roulette tables and slot machines belted out a tune just for him, accompanied by the beat of the die on their fine, velvet table as the fan of the cards helped keep his cool in every poker game. Now, soaked with blood, sweat and piss, he sat; sodden and worn out like the rags he’d traded in for a nice hat and a gold chain. Every breath rippled through his body, and he stared up pitifully in between wailing moans of apology and screams of regret; swearing upon his mother he’d never do it again.
	“We – we could make a deal, you n’me,” he whispered excitedly, tittering as his spirits raised with the idea of freedom. “I’ll cut you in forty – no, fifty – sixty! - A guy like you, you can do anything with that sorta scratch, ya dig?” The chair shook as he kicked against his restraints, smiling wildly as the eye that wasn’t swollen shut widened to dangerous proportions. “You won’t regret it, jack. Just lemme outta this chair, and...”
	Silencing the man was the turning of a handle, a wave of light, and a pale figure. Slinking into the room was a gaunt, ghostly being – a solid six feet of ghastly, moonlight white tipped with the eerie tint of an almost neon green, folded back into a stiff, almost fan-like display of hair. In stark contrast to the milky complexion of what somehow passed as flesh was the dark, vacuous black of a grim jacket, fitted to show the wearer’s disturbingly lithe physique, its six buttons gleaming ominously. The two black stalks flowing beneath the coat pooled together in two, pointed shoes, feverishly polished for fresh stains of blood to stand out all the better. Its wide, green eyes and thin, dark lips grew with a sharp breath as the being appraised the situation, its head swiveling mechanically towards the Man of Sand before returning its gaze to the sweat-drenched form of Scott S. Dale.
	“Hello,” called Pearl, stepping forward into the light. “I will ask you a series of questions,” she said, leaning forward, “you will answer them, or my companion will strike you.” Pearl began inching forward, her piercing stare becoming all-encompassing for the fly in her web; “If I feel as though you are lying, or you refuse to answer, my companion will strike you even harder. If you refuse to cooperate, my companion and I will be forced to take more drastic measures.” Speaking slowly, she punctuated her threats with an ominous  “Do you understand?”
	Scott swallowed hard, nodding his head as his eyes glazed over with tears.
	“First question, Mr. Dale.” Pearl turned to Sandman, her smile signaling a step forward. “Recently, you came to us at Green Means for a sizable loan of 10,000$. What was it for?”
	“My debts;” he stammered before being cut off.
	“To whom?”
	Scott smiled nervously, shrugging his shoulders. “To everybody. To you, to the boys over in Littaly, to the man down by the river -”
	“Next question,” said Pearl, having yet to blink. “Your ten thousand was, undoubtedly, excessive.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, “Having checked our sources, you would have needed only half the amount to settle your accounts,” standing, Pearl folded her hands in front of her as she stared down her nose at the man; “but you did not; not with us, nor anyone else. You spent that ten thousand elsewhere, and to our knowledge, not in a single casino, lounge, bar, nor back alley.” Pearl’s smile and wide-eyed expression suddenly grew more threatening; “Where did the money go, Mr. Dale?”
	The look of fear flooding across Scott’s face told Pearl a more direct approach was needed; signaling her young ward, Sandman unleashed a resounding blow to their mutual acquaintance, knocking the words right out of his mouth.
	“I will ask you again,” said Pearl, calmly looking over the sputtering heap of flesh, “where did our money go, Mr. Dale?”
	He shook his head, begging with his eyes. “I… I can’t;” he muttered, “I just can’t. They’ll kill me – they’ll kill my whole family!”
	“Who will?”
	Turning to Mr. Sandman, Scott implored him. “Buddy, please, listen;” he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a redundant whisper, “I can’t tell you everything, but these guys – they mean business. They laid it out real nice for me; I move those bills, my debts go away.”
	“We still need to know who they are,” said Pearl, slowly cocking her head to the side. “Give us a name, and you will be free to go.”
	Sensing hesitation, she gave Sandman the go-ahead for another blow to the head, but her expression threatened to sour as he brought his fist down.
	“No, no;” she said softly, stopping him before he could throw another, stepping closer. “Keep your stance wide; make sure your feet are pointing forward, not out to the side. Good,” she said, adjusting the way he held his fists before him. “Now, lean with your entire body; do not simply twist at the waist.” A few slow, guided motions to get into the rhythm and terrify their stooge, and Pearl nodded approvingly. “All together, now.”
	One-hundred and seventy-five pounds of muscles raised on the streets and left bloody in back alleys exploded forward in one fluid motion, the weight of the blow splitting across bone like a train breaking through a car parked on the tracks. What started as a scream was left hanging like the jaw left swinging from its broken hinge, the sickening half-wail rasping from the gaping maw of a face awakened to a new kind of hurting. The image would stay with Sandman as Scott’s eyes bulged obscenely, staring into nothingness as his bulk shook and shuddered as shock ran its course. Pearl’s warm reassurance meant nothing; Sandman could not hear anything but the deafening silence pounding its way into his head. He had beaten. He had been beaten. He had broken noses. He had cracked ribs. He watched the man close his eyes and clench his cheeks in preparation, but neither of them could have been prepared for the impact. Blood poured from Scott’s mouth, pooling in the memory of a very shaken Sandman.
	Into his blurred vision stepped Pearl, running her hands across his shoulders with a comforting smile. “I am so proud of you,” she cooed, resting a palm against his scarred cheek, “so, so, so proud of you.” She turned him away, steadying his shaking hands as she warmly reassured him.
	Pearl stood in his way, obstructing his view of Scott’s convulsions as she continued her coddling, stopping only when a sickening, broken laugh slowly gurgled out of their victim’s throat.
	“I’m… A worthless check… A total wreck…” he croaked, his weak body grimly slumped to one side as he grinned wildly, blood and drool staining his coat. “...But if you’re at the bottom, we’re the top.”
	A sinister chuckle worked its way out of the bloody foam at the corner of his lips as his eyes, bulbous in their sockets, locked onto the pair as his inane titter rose to a strained, throaty cackle.
	“We’re the top! We’re the TOP!” As his eyes rolled back into his head and his swollen lids began to flutter, he said it again and again, laughing until finally his body gave out, going limp after a few hard jerks and a wet rattle. Again, Pearl turned him away, refusing to break eye contact as she backed towards the doorway, though Sandman couldn’t help but wonder.
	“You have done very well today,” she said, caressing his cheek, “I am very proud of you.” Once they were out, she took care to shut the door behind her before relinquishing her grip. “Return to Queen and tell her what we have learned today,” she whispered, massaging his temples. “Such a good boy deserves something special.”
	Sandman felt something metallic slip into his hand, nodding slowly as he backed away. With a pat on the head, Pearl stepped back inside the room to clean up their mess, leaving Sandman alone in a dark alley. He looked over his shoulder at the rusted metal before slowly leaving his mistress to her grisly task. Scott S. Dale would not return home; his friends would be left wondering, and the police would do nothing. Sandman made his way to a phonebooth nestled beneath a flickering streetlamp and dialed, waiting for two rings before hanging up and dialing again. In less than three minutes, a jet-black Oldsmobile rolled into view, and he made his exit.