How To Succeed in Evil (25 page)

“Wait, wait, we haven’t factored in the cost yet.”

“Lifto don’t like costs.”

“Neither do I Lifto.”

“Costs suck.”

“Yes they do. But we know that already. The only question left to us is how much do they actually ‘suck’ as you say. So, there is a 5% chance that you will get caught -- I’m sorry, sorry, the hypothetical Lifto will get caught — times -400,000 dollars is -20,000 dollars. So, over time, each time you rob a bank it costs you $20,000 dollars.

“But there’s an infinite number of banks,” says Lifto with dreams of filthy lucre glittering in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, so we add the costs and the benefits to learn what the true value of robbing a bank is to you and we see that, over time, it costs you -$10,500 each time you rob a bank.”

“What!”

“The numbers do not lie Lifto. In lieu of some special advantage like invisibility or an ability to walk through vault walls or even a telepathic ability to talk to coins — anything that might change this cost matrix — I cannot advise your entry into the bank robbing business.”

“But this is just Hypothetical Lifto!”

“Yes, well, Hypothetical Lifto and Actual Lifto have quite a bit in common I’m afraid.”

“So you want for Lifto to work as receptionist?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if a crime makes you less money than working a regular job, perhaps you should find another law to break.”

Lifto is silent for a long time. Edwin can sense the tiny wheels of Lifto’s mind turning. And even though they are most certainly missing a few teeth, Edwin is glad to have gotten them spinning. That is worth something isn’t it? Edwin knows how foolish hope is, but perhaps, for just a moment, he indulges in it. Finally, Lifto lets out a long sigh and says, “I wish you had told Lifto sooner.”

Chapter Forty-One 

Agnes vs. Mistivio

Agnes is still sitting her post in the lobby. She has refused to follow Edwin’s instructions. But their disagreement is wearing on her. Edwin is right, of course. It is her job to keep his time clear and focused, but this was a favor. A favor to an old and dear friend. It should not be too much to ask. But the world has changed in many ways over the course of Agnes’ lifetime. No matter how hard she tries, it never seems to make sense.

Agnes Plantagenet is old enough to remember a time without superheroes. A time with bad men, surely, but before Villains of the capital V. When the only costumes were uniforms and everyone did their bit and went home. Of course there were heroes. But they had a quiet satisfaction about them. And their sense of accomplishment did not disappear with age, infirmity or the changing winds of fashion.

She can’t pinpoint the exact moment that the world changed. It has been gradual and insidious. And, if she’s perfectly honest, she tries not to pay attention to popular lunacy. She had not realized how bad it had become, until the televisions were installed in the lobby.

Of course, she understands the need to keep track of television coverage of the Cromoglodon for billing purposes. The variable nature of the beast’s clothing has allowed the reverse sponsorship to become increasingly sophisticated. They have even been approached by a few companies who want to be positively associated with the Cromoglodon. Agnes sees this as yet another sign of the end times.

Every day the screens are filled with people running about in costumes with odd logos on various parts of their spandex clad bodies. They always shout horrible slogans at one another as they fight in the most destructive manner imaginable. Agnes can’t see it as anything other than a very disturbing game of, “Look at me! Look at me!”

How has it come to this? Perhaps, she thinks this way because the old always struggles to understand a changing world. These thoughts are reassuring, because it suggests to Agnes that things are as they should be. Most of the time, she suspects that something has gone horribly wrong.

Of course, there have always been exceptional people. Agnes can remember Mrs. Sally Heckinsforth, the woman who had managed to win the Village of Hugglescote’s gardening competition for 22 years in a row. Sally had a way with plants that was simply otherworldly. It was even said that she trained the ivy outside her kitchen window to make tea. Of course it was an exaggeration. But even if it had been true, the good Mrs. Heckinsforth would not have donned a skin-tight green suit and trained all the hedges in the village to throttle passerbys for their change purses.

No. Mrs. Heckinsforth had been content with her garden and afternoon tea and outliving her husband and a thousand other ordinary acts which made for a life well-lived. But these days, that doesn’t seem to be enough. Agnes despairs.

Her mood has not been helped by the success of the Cromoglodon. As a result of his runaway popularity, all manner of wannabe’s have sought out Edwin. Of course, that is where Lifto has come from, but there have been scores of others. All much worse. The job of insulating Edwin from all of them is wearing on her. On some days it has been impossible for her to get any other work done at all.

So when the elevator doors open, she knows what is coming. She doesn’t know exactly what he will look like or what absurd powers he will claim, but she knows, as surely as a rough beast is slouching towards Jerusalem to be born, that another idiot is coming.

The elevator doors open to blackness. Utter darkness. Not a darkness that is darker than any mortal has ever known. Agnes guesses that is the desired effect. Why else would anyone disable the elevator’s lights? An arm emerges from the darkness wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue. The arm drops and a smoke bomb bursts on the floor.

How utterly predictable, thinks Agnes as she watches the otherwise pristine lobby fill with smoke. How absolutely and completely not terrifying. How much more work for the cleaning crew.

A figure emerges from the smoke, and with a flourish of his cape he announces, “I am Mistevio!” He peers intently at Agnes over the corner of his high collar. He fancies that his eyes are dark pools in which the souls of lesser beings are swallowed. But Agnes is not afraid. She has long ago stopped reacting to men who wear eyeliner.

“Yes, Mr. Mistevio. And what can I do for you?”

“I am here to have a battle of wits with the one they call Windsor!”

“I fear Mr. Windsor would find little sport in such a contest.”

“Do you dare to trifle with Mistevio, Master of the Darkness, Holder of Men’s Souls, Sorcerer of Simulacra, Prism of Reality…”

Agnes can see that this man is unlikely to come to a timely conclusion on his own. So she cuts to the chase, “Do you have an appointment?”

“MISTEVIO needs no APPOINTMENT!”

“I am going to take that to mean that you do not, in fact, have an appointment.” Mistevio’s opens his eyes as wide as he can, and rocks his head side to side in a small, yet ridiculous motion.

Agnes holds up the appointment book. “Mr. Mischief, or whomever you are, is there any reason for me to check the appointment book?”

“Tell Windsor that I am here for him,” Mistevio says, ending with his most sardonic laugh.

“I do not want to open this book to find that you have been misleading me.”

Mistevio squints between eyeliner and mascara, “If you open the book, you will read what I wish you to read. If I wish you to see an appointment, you will see an appointment. If I wish you to believe that you are reading In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, that is what you will find on the pages.”

“I think I would require a much thicker appointment book.”

“The strength of my mind will bend your reality to mine.”

“Oh heavens, mind control.”

“Mind control. Muahahahahahahahah!”

“Very well,” says Agnes, “try me.” She leans in and locks eyes with Mistevio. Contempt flows freely over the top of her reading glasses.

Mistevio does not wither. He reaches deeply into himself and imagines sinister forces pouring through his pupils, across the aether and into the very depths of Agnes’ soul. Down to the small child within all of us that is afraid of dark rooms with open closet doors. Agnes’ eyes defocus. Mistevio gets excited. This has never happened before. It was working! It was finally working!

But, Agnes is not falling under Mistevio’s spell. Agnes is watching the three television screens behind him. They all showing a variation on the same theme. A man wrapped in leopard skin emerging from a bank. He lifts a car and hurls it towards the police. And then another. And another. There is also some amateur footage of a car sailing though a bank teller. As the camcorder skews awkwardly to the right she can read the villain’s lips so clearly she can almost hear the words, “I am Lifto.”

The bad video is replaced by an animation that reads “Circus Man Crisis.” On another TV an old man wearing a cape shaped like a windsock is giving commentary. This is bad, thinks Agnes, very, very bad.

Mistevio is completely unaware of the televisions behind him. His eyes are locked on his prey. And, all in all, he thinks he’s doing pretty good. Agnes is in his thrall. That’s what those books on mesmerism had called it, “thrall.” Now it is time to command her.

“Arise woman!”

Agnes ignores him completely. She is watching S.W.A.T. vans surround the outside of the building. As a helicopter flies by on the screen, and she can hear it outside her window.

“Arise!” Mistevio says. Perhaps Agnes is partially deaf. Perhaps Mistevio is just desperate. Agnes set her jaw and stand up. She turns on her heel and makes for Edwin’s office. This was all her fault. If she had never asked him to meet with that horrible man… She just hoped Edwin wouldn’t be too angry with her.

“Woman, I have not commanded you to go!” Mistevio shouts, arms spread wide.

Agnes blinks and turns around. “My goodness, are you still here? I had forgotten about you completely.”

Mistevio deflates. He is a failure. Worse, he is a non-threatening failure. He slinks across the lobby and presses the call button for the elevator. But the waiting proves too uncomfortable. He bows his head and scuttles into the stairwell. It is a long way to walk, but Mistevio is familiar with downward mobility.

Chapter Forty-Two 

The Death of Culture

Lifto is uncomfortable under Edwin’s gaze. The silence is terrifying. Why doesn’t the tall man say anything?

Lifto was going to explain that he had robbed several banks on his way over to the appointment, but somehow, he cannot. The words have frozen in his throat. And still, Edwin just stares at him. Outwardly, the tall man is emotionless.

Lifto knows he has screwed up. He can’t imagine why he should be afraid of Edwin, but all the same he feels threatened. They say that Edwin is not a man to be trifled with. But they never say why. When the door opens, Lifto jumps.

Agnes says, “Edwin dear, a moment?”

Edwin rises from his chair and walks to the door.

“I’m terribly sorry, but it would appear that Mr. Lifto—” Agnes began

“The Magnificent,” Lifto says without much force.

“—has been an exceptionally naughty boy.”

“Yes, I know. He was just about to explain it to me.” A helicopter roars by, rattling the windows.

“The authorities have surrounded the building. I’m afraid you will have to cut your meeting short.”

“Your meeting Agnes, yours,” says Edwin. He looks out the window. Far, far below he sees tiny figures in riot gear cordoning off the streets. The police do not concern Edwin. They are well-trained and well-leashed. The real question is why are they waiting? Edwin’s lobby should be overrun by men with mustaches and Lexan shields.

Edwin has no interest in protecting Lifto. Or even aiding him at all. There will be no stand-off. No negotiation. No daring last minute escape. He will tell Lifto to turn himself in. But how to get Lifto to take his advice? “Agnes, are you pleased with yourself?”

“Edwin now is not the time.”

“Small mistakes, Agnes. It is the small mistakes that compound into disaster.”

“Edwin, I am sorry,” Agnes says, losing her patience, “but what are we going to do?”

“I think you have done enough for one day.” Edwin is feeling powerless. He realizes he’s taking it out on Agnes, but can’t seem to do anything else. He watches the ants erect barricades far below and tries to get a handle on himself. There is a knock on the window.

Edwin looks up. On the other side of the glass floats –

“EXCELSIOR!” roars Lifto as he lifts Edwin’s magnificent redwood desk over his head. His leopard skin cape falls to the ground. Now the world has no defense against the sight of his absurd, bulging redness. “I will defeat you! Now all will know the true strength of Lifto the Magnificent!” Lifto steps forward and begins to hurl the desk through the window.

“STOP!” yells Agnes. As if the universe was a sensible, orderly place, everyone freezes.

Agnes advances on Lifto. “PUT. IT. DOWN.” Lifto looks around uncertainly. He returns the desk to the ground.

“This office is filled with nice things and I will not see them wrecked by the horseplay of a few overgrown children!”

“Ma’am, you’d best stand aside,” Excelsior says, the midwestern earnestness in his voice flattened by two inches of safety glass.

“And you,” she exclaims, whirling on the flying hero without missing a beat, “of all people you should have the decency to use a door.”

“What?”

“You know very well what I mean. You are a mere instant from destroying a three-story wall of glass in order to get to this, this —

“LIFTO THE MAGNIFICENT,” roars Lifto.

“Be SILENT!” shrieks Agnes. Lifto shrinks into the floor and wishes he was somewhere else. Edwin opens the balcony door. There is nothing to do but play it through. From far below he hears the wail of sirens.

“Excelsior, if you please,” says Edwin, every bit the gracious host.

All of this is confusing to Excelsior. Usually when he apprehends a dangerous supervillain, he is subject to instant attack upon arrival. Air-to-air missiles. Laser beams. Courtesy just doesn’t compute. He is certain it is some kind of trick. But even if it is, it’s nice for a change. He floats over to the balcony and touches down gently.