Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

Topper indicates a half-naked women walking by. “Finally, they bring out the good looking ones.” The other men grunt their agreement. The women have not changed at all. The liquor has just worked its sacred and profane magic.

Clarence still won’t let it go. “Yeah, you’d have to be a lawyer. Me? I made my way by driving a truck. Then I bought a truck. Then I bought another truck and got somebody to drive the first one. I’m a self-made man.”

“Not me,” says the sheriff as he stares at pair of giant breasts, “My uncle got me this job.”

Clarence points at Topper. His finger floats and bobs in time with the slow waltz of alcohol sieving through his liver. “But you, little man, you couldn’t drive a truck. No way.” He holds his hand out over the floor, “You must be at least this tall to ride this ride.”

The Sheriff laughs a little too loud.

“Whattya mean I can’t drive a truck?” Topper says, suddenly very serious.

“No way. No how.”

“You mean like one of those trucks you’ve got out front? I can’t drive one of those trucks? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“You gonna put some money behind that, or are you all talk?” Topper asks.

This gets the Sheriff’s attention. “Boys, boys, I’m afraid I can’t let you gamble in this county, unless I’m in on it. I got 500 says the midget can’t drive.”

“I got five thousand says the midget can’t drive. If anybody will cover it,” says Clarence, thinking that he is calling Topper’s bluff.

Topper smiles and pulls a gigantic roll of bills out of his pocket. “I’ll cover all the action.”

“There ain’t no way in hell,” says Clarence.

“Ah, bullshit. I’ll drive your Tonka truck, all I need is a good pair of legs,” Topper says, slapping the nearest stripper on the thigh. He peels off a couple hundred and says, “C’mon Darlin’, now I’m going to sit on your lap for a while.”

This time it is a hurricane. Whatever, thinks Excelsior. He is still pissed at that snotty waiter from that French restaurant. He’s ready to uncork on just about anybody or anything. It’s odd though, in 70 years they’ve never asked him to fight a hurricane.

Excelsior isn’t sure he can pull it off. But so what? If he fails, maybe they’ll stop calling him all the time. And then a black thought – What if he messes up on purpose? Just drops the ball? Would it be over? Could he take a night off? Love a woman? Have a family? Would they take the pager back? Maybe throwing the game is the smart thing to do. Because if he stops this hurricane, will they call him for every hurricane? But deep inside, he knows he can’t throw the game.

Nobody understands. Nobody appreciates his situation. All those crazy bastards with gadgets and powers coming out of the woodwork. And he has to stop them. He doesn’t know how his powers work, not really. And he certainly doesn’t how some freaky alien ray gun works. And what about chemical warfare? His skin might be impenetrable but what about his lungs? The whole thing is risky. Excelsior meant higher, not indestructible. Not necessarily. And when he gets hit, or shot or bombed, it hurts. Excelsior is a good deal more nervous than most people know.

Last year, he had been hit with a beam weapon and was unable to feel his leg for two months. And then, after the “incident” with Sinestro, he forgot all the words he knew that began with the letter ‘r’. He’s still not sure he has them all back yet. At least he no longer locks up when somebody asks him if he needs a receipt.

Coming across the panhandle, Excelsior slows a little. Daytona rushes past him on the left. Orlando on his right. He skims the ground at 150 feet. Less chance of getting messed up in air traffic down here. The worst he might do is rattle some windows. He decides he doesn’t care. A flick of a thought and he has broken the sound barrier. He can feel the air compress in a wedge in front of him. What is a mere mathematical consideration for students of aerodynamics is something he can actually feel with his fingertips. It’s good. He’s going to need to move a lot of air tonight.

Thinking it might be useful, he rips the top off a water tower in Hollywood, FL. But who knows? It’s not like there’s a playbook for this kind of thing. He grips the wedge of metal so tightly that steel seeps between his fingers. Then he sets his heroic jaw and accelerates.

The sound of the wind whipping past the edges of the metal is an angry, ceaseless ripping. He loves the sound. He is mighty. A god set to do battle with the elements. He gives it more speed. Below and behind him the windows of a strip mall shatter as he passes

As Miami Beach disappears beneath him, he tries to remember which way hurricanes spin. Clockwise? Counter? Does it matter? He decides to head directly into the wind and batter the storm into submission. Should he start from the bottom or the top? He decides it is best to cut it off at the knees like a quarterback you want to cripple. Get angry. Get tough. Time to end this thing’s career.

Even as he amps himself up, he feels the air get colder and thicker. It takes a greater effort to maintain his speed. The sky and the sea become the same shade of grey. Visibility drops to zero. And then he hears the howl. As if the world is dying. The storm sounds hungry, eager to teach him a lesson about power.

It is 500 miles wide, 400,000 times bigger than a man. It is nothing more than a heartless, unpredictable, inevitable and remorseless set of natural coincidences. But to Excelsior it seems the storm has an evil will of its own. Excelsior is dwarfed, humbled by the wall of wind and water before him. And inside the costume, inside his bowels, he knows fear.

He puts it from his mind. Isn’t he a hero? Heroes don’t feel fear. Or don’t have time to feel fear flying that fast. There is nothing to do but fly the pattern. Get it done. He banks to the right and gives it all he is worth. In spite of the rain and the wind, the metal grows hot in his hands. He grips it tighter and loves the pain.

The sky explodes with moisture, as if the sea has been ripped from the ocean floor. He chokes on the air. Yet still he flies faster and faster in tighter and tighter spirals. He yells at the top of his lungs. His hands grip through the metal in several places. Of course he is more than human. But even he has limits. And reaching beyond the limits is a test of will, rather than power.

Around and around and around and around. Until finally the wind drops. He slows and catches a glimpse of the stars. He has broken the storm.

But this time, the laws of physics cannot be denied. Even as Excelsior stops circling, the fluid in the center of his skull keeps spinning at a frightening rate. Dizziness overcomes him. The horizon spins. The now flat ocean exchanges places with the sky again and again as he fights to make progress towards land.

He hits the beach like an artillery shell. Sand explodes outward. In the bottom of a crater, he vomits seawater. Exhausted, he collapses into his own vomit. Is this victory? He doesn’t care. All he wants to do is lie here for a moment.

Curious faces peer over the lip of the crater. There are a thousand questions they could ask, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Can we help?” But when a small boy speaks from the crowd he asks the question on everyone’s mind. “Did you save us?”

Excelsior nods as he wipes a strand of spittle from his chin. “Yeah kid, today, I did.”

Excelsior stands up. He doesn’t want them to see him like this. But as soon as he’s up, his legs give out. Only his ability to fly prevents him from collapsing onto the sand again. He throws the boy what he hopes is a jaunty salute, and heads up into the sky.