Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

Of course, the police go berserk. They lay into Barry with everything they have. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, tear gas grenades, tasers — one guy even tries a can of restraining foam. The bullets bounce off. The tasers tickle. But when the Sergeant sees Barry eating the restraining foam like it’s peanut butter, that tears it. Time to call for backup. And not just more guys. This is more than cops can deal with. It’s time for a whole different kind of guy.

“Dispatch this is Charlie 3-1, Code 30P Code 30P”

“Roger that Charlie 3-1,” says the otherworldly voice of the dispatcher. “Confirm code three-zero papa.” the voice of the dispatcher is as calm as if she was seated in a lotus blossom upon the right hand of Buddha himself.

There is an explosion. The Sergeant ducks. It’s probably a gas main. But with this guy, how do you know? He keys the mike as the echos from the explosion finish bouncing off the buildings behind him. “Yes, goddamn it 30P! Request immediate back up!”

Just to be sure, the dispatcher checks the manual. She has never before received a Code 30P. Code 30 is the standard call for backup. Officer Needs Assistance. The addition of a ‘P’ designates it as a call for backup with superpowers. She reads it twice to be sure. And then she passes it up to her supervisor. He checks the manual and then he passes it up.

The request keeps getting passed up, up and up. Until, eventually, it get so high up the chain of command that it makes a small black box vibrate and beep on a nightstand. And next to the nightstand, Excelsior sleeps face down on the bed. He ignores the pager. It goes off again and again.

From across the room, a high-pitched warble comes from the strange logo emblazoned on Excelsior’s skin-tight outfit. Excelsior opens his eyes. He wasn’t aware they had placed a communicator in there. They must really be desperate if they are tipping their hand now.

He rolls over in bed, and smells it. It is the foulest stench imaginable. And it is coming from the layer of black slime that covers his outfit. Slime? Yeah, now it comes back to him. He had spent the better part of two days fighting some incredibly dense and rubbery creature that had crawled out of the Laurentian abyssal. Who knows what the hell it was? Let the scientists wade around in what was left of that foul, slime covered-beast and figure it out. All Excelsior knows is that he killed it. Well, he had broken off a lot of pieces and it had stopped moving. But the horrible thing had taken a toll on Excelsior. And now, from beyond the grave, it has filled Excelsior’s bedroom with a stench that is a cross between the dumpster behind a discount sushi joint and a sinking oil tanker with a backed-up toilet.

From inside the filth-covered suit a man’s voice says, “Bishop Six? Bishop Six, can you hear me?”

Excelsior sits up and rubs his face. This is a mistake. The smell gets stronger the higher you go in the room. Jesus, where had that thing been?

“Bishop Six, are you there? We need you.”

“Yeawp. You sure do,” Excelsior says through a yawn. “Call me back in an hour.”

“Bishop Six! Bishop Six this is control. Are you receiving?”

He rolls over in bed and tries to ignore the voice. How much more do they want from him? He needs sleep, after all. Why can’t they handle their own problems for once? Excelsior turns on the television. As the suit harasses him and the beeper rattles on the nightstand, he flips through the news channels. He’s hoping he can see himself in action against that awful thing. That might motivate him to get out of bed. But unbelievably, it seems his battle hasn’t even made the news.

“Bishop Six, this is control.”

The people on the other end aren’t getting the message. “I said call me back in an hour.” Ordinary people! No sense of gratitude. They don’t want to know how weird and dangerous the world really is. They like to sleep soundly at night. And who could blame them? That’s all he wants to do, get a little sleep. Maybe he should have let that slimy thing destroy Canada. It’s not like Excelsior knows anybody in Canada. He doesn’t even like hockey.

But Canada borders the United States. Which means that there’s was a chance that thing might have edged over into Vermont, or Michigan. So Excelsior had swung into action. He wears the Red, White and Blue, and is sworn do defend the US of A. Even the cold, flat parts that everybody moves away from when they get out of high school.

Excelsior flings the covers from the bed. He walks over to the suit and taps the logo. “This is Bishop Six, go ahead.

“Bishop Six, we’ve got a situation.” They’ve always got a situation. “There’s a man knocking down buildings.”

“Just buildings?” asks Excelsior as he looks around for something to breathe through. The smell next to his costume is almost completely unbearable.

“Affirmative, just buildings.”

“Isn’t that what insurance is for?” wonders Excelsior. He hears scuffling noises as someone new grabs the microphone.

“Son, what in the hell have I told you about thinkin’!?!” Gus’s phlegmy drawl roars through the speaker. “Insurance is for acts of God and Nature, not superpowered freaks like you. No insurance company on earth will cover the pain in the ass damage you do.”

“Aren’t you dead yet?” Excelsior asks, somewhat in jest.

“I’m too mean to die. And too pretty.” Excelsior hears Gus turn away from the microphone and cough for a while. “Now we’ve got a little problem up around 108th street.”

“Gus, I’m running on two hours of sleep.”

“Yeah, well I’m 155 years old and you don’t hear me complaining.”

“You didn’t spend the last two days bashing your brains out against a monster from the bottom of the ocean.”

“Hell, I tried for that duty. But I pulled the short straw and had to settle for dealing with your sorry ass.” Excelsior smiles in spite of himself and the smell.

“All right. Let me get a cup of coffee in me. I’ll pound this guy flat as a manhole cover and then you buy me lunch.”

“Now listen, this one is a little different.”

“Different?” Excelsior says with a snort, “They’re all different aren’t they, Gus? But they’re all the same in the end. They all get pounded flat.”

“No, you just listen to—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. 108th and what?”

“Spackster Ave, but listen, we’ve had —”

Gus’s voice is cut off abruptly as beams of pure light leap from Excelsior’s eyes and vaporize the costume. No point in saving it. No dry cleaner on Earth would have been able to get that smell out. But the smell that is coming from the ashes is even worse. Now the room smells like burnt, oily, fish hair. Time for another place to live. Excelsior goes to the closet for another suit. He’s already thinking about lunch. He’s gonna make Gus buy him a steak. A big one.

Excelsior steps out the window and is at Spackster and 108th Street in a blink. The destruction covers a block and a half. He had no idea it was this bad. The cops have seen him and pull back. They drag their wounded with them as they go. What happened here? Excelsior circles over the rubble, searching through the clouds of dust. He sees a squat figure, standing all alone. He doesn’t look all that threatening. He looks big, sure, but he looks tired and a little lost. Somehow dissipated and harmless. Excelsior thinks about asking him if he needs help, but as soon as the guy sees Excelsior, he throws a steel I-beam at him.

Yup, thinks Excelsior, that’s the bad guy. He fades back to catch the I-beam. The last thing he needs is that landing on a pre-school or something. Oh he’d never hear the end of that. He heaves the beam over his shoulder and gets a good grip on it. He doesn’t want to hit guy too hard with this thing — then he’ll just have to go chase him down. But, yeah, he’s gonna hit this guy in the face with an I-beam. Big fella should be able to take it. After all, he’s just knocked down a bunch of buildings.