Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

But Dr. Loeb is a game little rooster. “I will DEFEAT YOU,” he cries as he redoubles his assault. Such as it is. Excelsior backhands Dr. Loeb the length of a football field. Dr. Loeb lies in the dust and moans quietly to himself.

“Thank you,” says Edwin. “You were saying about the Cromoglodon?”

“We know you control him Mr. Windsor. We’ve spoken with Apedis. This needs to be stopped. You need to stop him. Or I will.”

“You are mistaken, I control no one. And I am not certain that he can be controlled.”

“This is a courtesy visit Mr. Windsor.”

“Oh, courtesy, of course. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. We have lemonade and a light lunch in the blockhouse.”

“Do you know who I am?” asks Excelsior. “Do you know what I can do?”

“I know who you are. I know all you can do is what you are told.”

“What?”

“Was it your idea to come here? To talk to me like this?”

“Well, no, but after conferring with—” Excelsior stammers, trying to think of something to say. Of course Edwin speaks the truth of it. It was all true. The last thing that Excelsior wanted to do is come to the desert and talk. But Gus had made him. He had said it was time to fire a shot over Edwin’s bow.

“So, after being told to come here,” Edwin continues.

“It’s not like that.”

“Really?” says Edwin, unblinking in the bright desert sun, “You really wouldn’t rather be pounding away at the Cromoglodon right now. Perhaps standing over him brandishing a piece of reinforced concrete with which to knock him unconscious, or batter the life out of him for once and for all.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“No, you are not. You are hardly a moral agent at all.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You are a puppet. A puppet who is not even aware of his own strings.”

Excelsior gets hot behind the eyes. He is sick of this. Sick of being called a puppet. And deep down, sick of it being true. But this is the only way he knows to live life. Even the thought of change terrifies him.

Fear wells up in Edwin. He wonders if he has gone too far, but his iron reason keeps a grip on his fear. This is the gambit. It must be played. And if he fails, there is no point in running or cowering.

Dr. Loeb finds his second wind. “YOU CANNOT STOP ME!” He cries as he claws to his feet. His thick rubber gloves smear through the desert earth like newt pads and runs inside the blockhouse. The tension is broken.

Excelsior watches Dr. Loeb go. “He’s insane, right?”

“Yes.” Edwin decides to try another tack. “You must be tired of having your life run by other people? Why should you possibly care that the Cromoglodon chooses to wear a particular brand of clothes? How does he harm anyone by doing that? It should be nothing to you when compared to the destruction and lives lost. Yet you are concerned with the welfare of a company. Clearly you are not a hero. You are something else. What are you?”

“I am a hero. I am THE hero.”

“And who has convinced you of that?”

“What are you talking about? It’s true!”

“Truth,” Edwin says with disdain, “is easily manufactured. Let me ask another way. Are there any choices you make that are your own?”

“Yeah, I—” and here Excelsior is interrupted by a strange feeling.

“I cannot sympathize with you, because you’re not a person. You’re a thing. An instrument. A tool driven around by ideas not your own.”

“You don’t know,” Excelsior says in something very like the voice of a five year old child. But he can think of nothing else to say. How does Edwin know?

“Who sent you here? Who is your controller?” As soon as he says it, Edwin realizes this is the wrong question to ask. It cannot be a singular person. It has to be a committee. Only a committee, bought and paid for by powerful people, could be this stupid.

Before Excelsior can respond there is a flash of light and the house behind them explodes. As debris rains down around them, Edwin calmly steps into the lee of the blockhouse and waits for the ringing in his ears to subside. Excelsior follows him and kept talking. Edwin understands none of it.

When his hearing returns, the first thing Edwin hears is Dr. Loeb. “MY LAZERADICATOR is a SUCCESS! My lovely all-powerful satellite in the sky!” Dr. Loeb stands with his hands on his hips and gloats over the destruction he believes his satellite-mounted laser had wrought.

Excelsior says, “I see your game Windsor. A Giant Laser in space eh? We’ll see about that.” There is a rush of air and a tremendous boom. Excelsior is gone.

He’s back in an instant. He’s holds a cylindrical satellite that has TELSAR IX painted on the side. “Now I’ve stopped you Windsor. Just like I’m going to stop the Cromoglodon.” Excelsior crushes the satellite with his palms until it is no larger than a softball.

“NOOOOOOOO!” howls Dr. Loeb. He collapses upon the earth and works dirt into his scalp.

Confident in his victory, Excelsior flies off at a leisurely pace.

Edwin taps the hunk of aluminum with his foot. Undoubtedly, some meth addict in Nebraska is now bemoaning the loss of his satellite television signal, but Edwin fails to see how that harms him in any way. Edwin can think of no better way to cement the illusion of a non-existent satellite in Dr. Loeb’s mind than the absurd farce that has just played out. Edwin steps back as the little man rushes over and clutches the destroyed satellite to his chest and sobs.

“Don’t worry Herr Doctor. We will rebuild. We will make it better,” Edwin says. And this time, Edwin thinks, I will charge you more.

As Excelsior flies East he is enveloped in high cumulonimbus clouds making their way across the prairie. Below him there might be rain showers or hail or tornados, but this altitude is fraught with staggering amounts of beauty. He checks his speed so he can enjoy his progress between the towering columns of water and the magnificent pillars of light that seem to hold up the sky. If this was a movie, music would be playing.

The lack of a film score does not trouble Excelsior. The song of victory thunders in his heart and the wind applauds in his ears. He feels at home. He is on an equal footing with the elements, and need not disguise his power. He isn’t going to accidently tear a layer off the atmosphere. Even if he flies through a cloud, the hole will repair itself. Here in the sky, everything is right with Excelsior.

Then, the whispers start. At first, they’re so soft, he can’t understand them. The rolling tympani and soaring strings in his heart are not overpowered, but they are tainted. Tainted by words. Somewhere over Kansas, he begins to question his victory. The whispers of doubt grow louder and louder.

“Puppet.”

“Moral Agent.”

“Hero.”

“Control.”

Excelsior stops. He realizes that the words’ haunting him are in Edwin’s voice. He pieces them into the conversation he has just had. He doesn’t like the things that Edwin said. Edwin made him feel stupid. Excelsior knows he’s not the brightest guy. That’s okay. But he doesn’t like feeling stupid. And he doesn’t like feeling that Edwin is right.

And Edwin is right.

Excelsior can’t remember the last time he took matters into his own hands. The last time he’d made a decision that really mattered. And he certainly can’t remember making a decision against Gus’ wishes. He loves the old man. On some level, he feels guilty that Gus has gotten older while he has remained young. He tries not to think about the day when Gus is going to die, but when he hears that cough rattling through the old man’s chest like a pile of dead leaves blowing across concrete…