Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

Rick Apedis taps Excelsior in the middle of the odd logo emblazoned on his chest. “You should never blame the puppet,” he points to Gus, “when you can blame the man who pulls the strings.”

“Yeah, yeah, you made your point. We’ll look into it.”

“I’ll expect you do significantly better than that. I have a standing tee time with Jim Buchanan. Senator Jim Buchanan.”

Gus scowls. Excelsior looks confused.

“Such an innocent. In addition to a terrible slice, Jim has oversight of your little agency here. Including the old man’s pension and salary. He pulls both your strings. So FIX THIS.”

Apedis walks off, feeling full of himself.

Excelsior decides he’s had just about enough. He looks at Gus and says, “You know, you guys can’t stop me either. What could you do, if I just decided to beat that jerk within an inch of his life?”

“Never happen. You don’t have the stomach for it. Besides, I’d get to him first,” Gus growls, searching through his pockets for a bottle of aspirin.

“No Gus, seriously, you can’t stop me from going after the Cromoglodon. Do you have a contingency plan for that? For stopping me?”

Gus hooks his thumbs in his belt. He looks Excelsior right in the eye. “Somewhere, somebody’s got a plan. There’s probably a bunch of real smart assholes with soft hands thinking on it day and night. I bet you it’s real complicated and expensive as well. Me, I don’t like to think so much. So you get outta line and I’m just gonna whup you silly.”

Excelsior smiles at the cocksure man. But his laughter trickles off when he realized Gus isn’t laughing with him. There is no way on Earth that Gus could beat him in a fight. He’s old. Older than dirt. And he’s only human after all. Then why is Excelsior uncomfortable? Why does he look away first?

The desert doesn’t care. There are many climates that seem to go out of their way to support and encourage life. But not the desert. If you can hack it, then fine, you can stay. Otherwise, out, out brief candle, this way to dusty death. The desert just doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s why mystics of all shape and size have sought out the barren places of the world. In the desert, there’s no place to hide from the light. A metaphor, there is no place to hide from the truth? But then why do madmen feel at home in the desert’s harsh environs? Maybe there is no truth? Maybe there is only predictably shifting deception. The creep of shadow across dry and rocky ground as the sun transits the sky.

But whatever the case, it is a fact that in this particular piece of desert, workmen are putting finishing touches on a very lovely house. It is white, two stories tall and gives the appearance of having plenty of room for Mom, Dad, Junior, Sis, Baby and Spot. More than enough room in fact. Because the entire family is out on the lawn. They are two-dimensional cut outs. Even the dog.

For this very special occasion, Dr. Loeb has adopted a costume of a lab coat and thick, elbow-length rubber gloves. He rushes about frantically, sweating and shouting orders that everyone ignores. In his mind, Dr. Loeb is the lynchpin which holds this entire enterprise together. Like the two-dimensional dog on the spray painted lawn, it is a poor fantasy. But then, a hint of power is all that Dr. Loeb needs to keep him going. His clock isn’t very accurate, but it’s easy to wind.

“What is ZISS!” he screams, pointing to a rock that has been spray painted green instead of being cleared from the Simulated Lawn Area (SLA). “Haf I not TOLD you! Wirklichkeitstreue! Realism! Realizm in everysing.”

The workmen ignore the tantrum. Like the heat and the dust, Dr. Loeb is just another inconvenience on this job site. A man in white overalls, gets sick of listening to Dr. Loeb. He walks over and removes the rock from the lawn. “Sorry, Doc,” he says.

Dr. Loeb yells after him, “And well you should be! Be thankful I do not haved killing you!” It is so hard finding quality henchmen these days, thinks Dr. Loeb. Then he stomps off to the blockhouse.

As Loeb enters the relative cool of the observation post, he snaps at one of the technicians. “Zou! Are zou monitorifing those clouds on the horifzon? Vill they intervere vith our test viring?”

The actor at the console turns around and looks at Dr. Loeb as if he’s insane. Which, of course, he is. But before the actor can say anything, Edwin emerges from the cool darkness. “High cirrus. Nothing more than ice crystals that have lost their way in the upper atmosphere, Dr. Loeb. They will not interfere with the test of your satellite.”

“Lazeradicator!”

“Lazeradicator, my mistake.”

Of course the clouds will not affect the “satellite” test. There is no satellite. Hidden within the target house is a compact array of pyrotechnics equipment. When the theatrically large red button on the command console is pressed a flash of light will erupt upward, followed by an explosive fireball. As light moves too fast for the naked eye to detect its progress, it will appear to all the world and, most importantly, to Dr. Loeb, that the test house has been vaporized by an impossibly powerful laser beam from space.

In the corner, another actor stares at two sine waves interacting at random on an oscilloscope. It’s beginning to hurt his eyes. The sign above his station reads ‘Telemetry.’ Dr. Loeb is drawn to the flickering green light on the screen. He stares at the interplay of the squiggly lines and pretends to know what they mean. Doctor Loeb slaps his hands together and cries “Excellent. You are doing excellent work.”

“Dr. Loeb, we have prepared a viewing chamber for you upstairs,” Edwin says, trying to corral the child into his playpen. Just then, a rumble, very much, but not exactly, like thunder, reverberates through the blockhouse. Edwin thinks that the explosion has been triggered prematurely, but through the reinforced glass he can see that the house is still there.

“You zee!” Dr Loeb cries, “Details. DETAILS! You have overlooked ze storm! I vill have you executed!” He slaps the man at the oscilloscope in the back of the head and hurries out of the blockhouse. Edwin looks to a man who is watching weather radar on yet another computer screen.

“I don’t know what he is talking about. Radar’s clear.”

Outside, Dr. Loeb spins in frantic circles as he scans the horizon “Vere is the weather? Vere is the weather?” Edwin raises his eyes to the sky and sees a man descending from the sky, cape fluttering lightly in the wind.

“Excelsior,” Dr. Loeb cries with perverse glee. “He has come to thwart my evil plan!”

How very odd, Edwin thinks, that Excelsior should pay a visit to the one client of his that he can be certain has broken no laws. Edwin meets the hero’s approach with a calm and level gaze.

“Edwin Windsor,” Excelsior says. It is not a question.

“MANFUL COMBAT!” Dr. Loeb cries as he flings himself at Excelsior’s waist. Excelsior ignores him.

“I’m here to stop you Mr. Windsor.” Excelsior says in his most official hero voice.

“Stop me from doing what, exactly?”

“YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT ME!” shrieks Dr. Loeb, slapping Excelsior’s legs repeatedly with his rubber gloves.

The somewhat obscene slapping noise disturbs Excelsior. “Uh, what is this guy?” he asks

“I’m sorry. He’s harmless. Just try to ignore him,” says Edwin. Excelsior does his best to tear his attention away from the spectacle clawing at his knees.

“It’s the Cromoglodon. He needs to be stopped,” says Excelsior.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” says Edwin.

“LOOK YA LITTLE FREAK, KNOCK IT OFF!” Excelsior yells so loud that it rattles the triple-paned windows in the blockhouse.