How To Succeed in Evil (20 page)

Edwin’s father had been with British Intelligence during the war. He had become a master of the dirty tricks of the business. And, unwittingly, he had passed some of these skills onto his son.

Of course Edwin’s father had not done this consciously or overtly. What kind of man would sow such seeds in his own child? But Edwin was exposed to a certain way of thinking. As a precocious child, eager for his father’s affections, he had learned quickly and well. Even now, as Edwin sits in his high office, towering over the lesser people, his father’s words are with him.

“No matter how smart you may be. No matter how much money you have at your disposal. No matter strength of arms or argument, you simply cannot force people to do a thing. It costs too much. For all the bombs we dropped, for all the lives that were lost, in the end, this is why the Nazis could not prevail. There is not enough money in the world to truly command and control a populace. All you can reasonably hope to do, is create a situation where it is easier for people to do what you want, than it is for them to do what you don’t.

“Then, none will oppose or seek to thwart your aim. It  will appear to them that you are merely helping them do what they want. In the end, there is no defense against cooperation.”

In this pearl of remembered wisdom, Edwin sees the error of his ways. He has tried to control Barry. And he has done so without a proper mechanism for control. That was the flaw. It’s not as terrible of an error as it could have been. He had not attempted to work against Barry’s native instincts, but he had tried to limit him to the destruction of a single building. Predictably, this had proved costly, unwieldy and impractical. Barry was not a surgical instrument. He was an avalanche. But how to take advantage of the avalanche?

Edwin watches hour after hour of news coverage of Barry’s rampage. For the time being, the destruction has stopped. And hard-working news organizations are using all of their skills to whip people to a fever pitch, even though nothing is happening. They show clips of buildings collapsing, walls of dust engulfing fleeing people and pointless interview after pointless interview with the men and women on the street. As if the ordinary people mattered?

It is what Edwin calls the hysterical blindness of democracy. How can the ordinary person matter in a world where some can knock over buildings and others can fly? Why do the sheep not see it? Why are they not outraged? Why do the sheep not rise up to trample the wolves?

As soon as he asks this question, the answer appears on the screen. A young man with a tattoo of ram’s horn covering half his face and bits of metal protruding from the other half, speaks with all the sincerity he can muster. “Yeah, I don’t want anyone to like get hurt or anything. But I feel for him, you know what I’m saying? Sometimes I just want to bust shit up. Take it to the man. Like, like, all these corporations. He’s like a, a symbol. Like a spokesperson. You know. For all the little people.”

Surely this one is the smallest of the small, thinks Edwin. And still he identifies with the mighty. And in that insight the secret is revealed. They do not tear down their violent and destructive idols because they like to believe that they too are mighty.

Edwin’s desk is covered with information about Barry. Pictures, school transcripts, protective services records, anything that has ever been committed to paper. And in the middle of it all is a picture of Barry in the 3rd grade. His hair is mussed and his smile looks wide enough to split his face. Scrawled across his forehead in red magic marker are the letters C R O. The letters are in a child’s handwriting, but far from innocent. They knew they were taking advantage of the dumbest kid in the class.

The subtitle on the TV changes to “Riots Break Out.” Now the camera crew follows the boy with the tattoo on his face from car to car as he stomps windshields and kicks in headlights. And there it is. How can one make money from a spokesmodel for destruction? For anarchy? For worse than anarchy.

Once the question is properly phrased, the answer is obvious.

“Agnes?” Edwin’s voice cracks from days of disuse. He tries again, this time a little louder, “Agnes?” She comes quickly, fueled by the hope that her beloved Edwin has returned to himself. At first Edwin says nothing. He stands and unrolls his sleeves. He straightens his tie. Once again he dons his jacket of severe grey. Then he buttons the middle button and turns to his secretary.

“I need two things. I need a fashion designer, one with talent, but who will use English in a way that I can understand. And I need Barry’s current location.”

Agnes makes a note. “Designer, check. As for Barry, Topper has him.”

Edwin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Topper? Really? One can never be sure what he will do next.”

“Yes,” says Agnes, “but one can certainly fear.”

Chapter Thirty-Three 

Down But Not Out

Excelsior lays on the ground in the center of a pulverized concrete outline of his body. Because Excelsior is so proud, it will be difficult for him to ever admit that he was knocked unconscious, so, let’s just say that, right this moment, he’s just not very interested in opening his eyes. That is, until someone starts kicking him in the ribs.

Ordinarily, this kick wouldn’t hurt Excelsior, but he’s just been through the beating of his life (so far) and his ribs are a little tender. He cries out in pain. Then he opens his eyes and sees the ugliest man he has ever known.

“Jesus Gus, lay off.” Gus does no such thing. He continues his generous application of shoe leather.

“C’mon lard-ass. No laying down on the job. You ah, ack, ack, ack,” the cough silences Gus.

“Easy Gus, Easy,” says Excelsior. He sits up and instantly regrets it.

Gus hacks and spits. Even before the hunk of lung butter hits the sidewalk, the old man crams another cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “C’mon pissant, you’re not going to spread the blinding light of American sunshine lying down there on your duff.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Gus lights the cigarette. On the side of the lighter, the faded memory of an Airborne logo is almost visible. The smoke that Gus exhales from the first drag is so strong it is more blue than white. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he continues, “Now you know what I feel like when I get out of bed. Candyass. So far you’re the only hero in the entire history of walking tall, kicking ass and shitting bullets hasn’t had to carry on after he’s had a beat down. Time to tough, tough, auHooooo hough hough hough.” Gus coughs his lungs down to a wheeze once again.

Excelsior gets to his feet. Jesus this hurts. He hasn’t ever hurt like this before. He feels a little nauseous. This sucks. He reaches out to comfort Gus, but Gus slaps his hand away.

“TOUGHEN YOU UP,” Gus roars with surprising force. “What? You turning fag on me now boy? Is that what you’re doing? Don’t you go all sensitive on me just because you got your ass kicked. That’s how it starts. Saw a whole platoon go fag during the Battle of the Bulge.”

“Up close and personal?”

“You keep joking flyboy, I know what it means to take a beating and keep on going.”

“Yeah, you look it.”

“Aw you’re just jealous ‘cause I’m so goddamned pretty,” Gus’ skin draws tight across his skull as his faceleather twists into a smile.

“Okay, okay. You win. You’re tough. The only guy who could kick your ass is John Wayne.”

“Bullshit. He was an actor. I’m the real thing.”

“So where is he?” Excelsior asks as three vertebrae in his back realign with distressingly loud pops.

“You mean the guy who cleaned your clock?”

“No, the ... I mean… yeah,” Excelsior says. It finally sinks in that he has, for the first time, been defeated.

“He’s over there a ways.”

“All right,” Excelsior says as he rolls his neck, “I’ll be right back.”

“No you don’t. We’ve got orders.”

“Orders?”

“We’re falling back. We going to regroup.”

“Fall BACK!” Excelsior discovers that it hurts to yell with a broken rib. He was also learning that it hurts to breath, hurts to stand, hurts to twist — in fact, he was beginning to get the idea that everything hurts when you have a broken rib. Was this the way ordinary people felt all the time?

“Protocol. We’ve got to come up with a game plan.”

“But he just got lucky.”

“No he didn’t.”

“You didn’t even see what happened,” says Excelsior.

“Saw the whole thing on satellite. You got your tights-wearing ass handed to you.”

“I was careless.”

“Like that’s a surprise. Now listen to me son,” Excelsior hates it when Gus calls him son. They are almost the same age. He figures that Gus is upset because he’s grown older while Excelsior hasn’t. But Gus is always pissed, so how could he tell? Excelsior wonders if the only thing holding the old man together is anger.

“Son,” Gus repeats himself to make sure he has Excelsior’s attention, “We ain’t ever seen anything you couldn’t beat without really trying. Now I know you’ll get him. I know you will. You’ll beat his ass until it glows like a ring-tailed baboon.”

“Yeah I will.”

“But right now, we’ve got orders to pull back. Re-group and come up with a game plan. We keep making this thing angry and it’s just going to destroy more of the city. Hurt more people. You don’t want that, do you?”

Excelsior sulks. He says “No,” when what he means is, “I don’t care. I just want to get back into the fight.”

Gus is pleased to hear rage and frustration in Excelsior’s voice. Of course they’d known this day would come. But you can never know — really know — how a man will react to losing. In Gus’ mind it was combat. The guy you thought was the toughest hombre for miles would sometimes go to pieces after the first artillery shell. While the little guy you figured was only good for making coffee would come walking back from the battle with a leg full of shrapnel and spear full of scalps. Sure, Excelsior had lost, but it hadn’t taken the fight out of him. That was good.

They walk off together. Gus tries not to cough. Excelsior tries not to limp.

Chapter Thirty-Four 

The Cromoglodon is Born

Deep within the brothel, the Cromoglodon is sleeping. His gigantic chest heaves up and down in a way that is out of proportion with the tiny snoring noises he is making. Next to him, a blond girl named Selene hugs herself in a sheet and weeps with relief.

She doesn’t know exactly how it can be, but the child-man sleeping next to her is responsible for the destruction outside. If he is angered, he could easily destroy this building and everyone in it. It isn’t the most comfortable of situations, but it isn’t exactly unfamiliar to Selene. All manner of powerful men come to the Evanston Street brothel. Men who could, with a word or a wave of a hand, also obliterate the building and everyone in it if they aren’t kept happy. You don’t need superpowers to do damage. But Selene knows many, many ways to make a man happy.

Selene has been with a lot of men. It has not always been pleasant, gentle or even consensual. But now she is lucky enough to work in a good establishment. The clientele is exclusive and the rates are high. A girl like Selene can do much worse. Most girls like Selene do.

Still, she has seen more than her share of hard times. And when they had been lined up for Barry to take his pick, she had prayed that one of the other girls would strike his fancy. In spite of her efforts to hide, or perhaps, because of them, Barry is drawn to her. Selene is of a definite type — light skin, hair so blond it is almost white and impossibly pale blue eyes. To some men she is irresistible. Barry is one of these men.

She sees no spark of intelligence or mercy in his face. In fact, from the way he looks, Selene can’t figure out why he’s not drooling. When he wrapped his awkward arms around her, she had feared the worse. But he had been gentle. Gentle, inexperienced and — most amazingly of all — tender. She would not have been surprised to learn that she had taken the man-child’s virginity.

As they moved beneath the sheets, in spite of the tenderness, she could feel his pain. There were oh so many ways to wrong the flesh. And Selene knew that each of these wrongs left a mark. The damaged always recognize one another. She would have known Barry’s pain even at the bottom of a dark ocean. When they joined the impossibly dense cords of muscle in his back writhed beneath her fingertips.

Hours later, the door to Selene’s room opens and clean light floods in. Selene gasps. Silhouetted in the doorway is a tall figure. Her pupils contract and adjust to the flood of light. Edwin enters the room.

Barry does not wake. Topper peeks out from behind Edwin’s knee and says, “You see? I told you! I knew it would work. It was beauty killed the beast!” Topper’s eyes linger on Selene. He loves women with that fresh from the bed look.

Selene looks away. She can remember being with him, even if Topper has forgotten. Some girls liked the little man. They thought he was cute or funny. But when Selene had touched him, she had felt anger crawling around underneath his skin. For weeks after she had nightmares of the anger breaking free and swarming into her body.

But Topper’s anger is nothing compared to the tall one. He isn’t hot with anger. He is cold. So very cold. Without really knowing why, she leans over and covers Barry with her arms. “Please don’t hurt him,” she says to Edwin, “He didn’t mean to do it.”

Edwin looks at her with surprise. As if noticing, for the first time, that someone else is in the room. “Mean to do it? I’m not sure he means to do anything in the conventional sense. As for hurting him, I wouldn’t know how. Not physically at least. And I’m sure I wouldn’t know why. His talents are far too valuable to me.” Selene doesn’t like the way Edwin speaks. In his words she hears reasons, reasons, reasons, but no emotion. She realizes, that if he can come up with a reason, he can do anything. There is no mercy in him. No warmth. Just cold.

Edwin turns and gestures to the people standing outside the room. They enter reluctantly. “Dress him.” Edwin commands.

“But, but, but...,” says the designer.

“We have a contract,” Edwin says, “a contract you do not wish to break.”

It takes three people to lift the Cromoglodon and slip a shirt of unique fabric over his head. The material is completely black and clings like Spandex. It looks like an ordinary athletic T-shirt, but it is much, much more. Next, come the pants, the same material, but loose, like warm-up pants. And finally, a tight skull cap with the letters CRO in heavy gothic letters across the front.