Not believing in luck, is one of Marty’s proudest boasts.
I’m not speaking of picking the winner of the Grand National (or even the local trots for that matter). No, I’m referring to matters of far greater consequence that should you get wrong might put an end to your ability to use a pencil or chew an apple without dribbling or find your way out of a room with one door. Marty’s the sort of chap that just might run towards a machine-gun post having determined that there’s an 8% chance of the gun jamming, a 4% chance he’ll be mistaken for a darting hare (the light would play a significant role in such a scenario, I admit) and an 11% chance he’ll be able to cover the distance before a bullet drops him like a Christmas ham.
He believes in his own abilities and theories of how the world should work. That wouldn’t be so downright dangerous if it weren’t also the fact that, by and large, he usually emerges from any ordeal without a scratch on him. Which means, of course, he always concludes his brilliantness and grasp of logic are the sole reasons for his survival!
But I’ll say this for Marty, he doesn’t miss a thing and he can smell when something’s up a mile before I can. I’ve been flummoxed more times than I can remember by Marty’s ability to recall some small detail he’s only seen once and which I barely noticed as I sped by. It’s hard for me to admit, but if I listened more to Marty, I’d save myself no small bit of trouble.
P.S. You’re wondering about his outfit aren’t you? Well, this is him before things turned ugly (very ugly) aboard the Ark. I’ve drawn him thus as Marty, far more than Doff or me, actually seemed to relish the Elizabethan get-up we were forced to wear by Sinsamene. 30 seconds hence he certainly didn’t have a smile on his face. I didn’t bother sketching the wig.
R.S.
