Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

Excelsior looks at the clouds for a long time. He tries to come up with a name for what he’s feeling. Eventually, he gives up and keeps flying. He decides he will ask Gus about it. He is sure to be in a good mood. Not only has Excelsior delivered the message to Edwin, but he has managed to take out a dangerous space-based laser weapon at the same time. Pretty good day’s work, thinks Excelsior.

He arcs high over the city and searches for the staging area. There it is, a parking lot filled with vans and trailers. They are ready to handle anything he might bring back. But this time, all he’s bringing back is success.

Gus struggles down the steps of a modular trailer. “Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ! How come every time there is a shitstorm, you’re smack in the middle of it?”

“What?”

“I gave you one job. One job shit-for-brains, and you screwed it up.”

“What?!? I told him. I told him just like you told me!” Excelsior says. He’s not sure what’s going on.

“I am too old for this shit you understand? Too OLD. Why did you destroy that satellite?”

“You mean the giant laser in space?”

“Laser? What laser? There was no space laser. I’ve got ThromCast on my ass because you tore something called GeoSynchronous relay #7 out of the sky. Do you have any idea how much that satellite cost?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t. But it’s a lot. Tell me you just set it down somewhere. Gave it to somebody as a lawn ornament?”

“Uh, I crushed it into a small ball.”

“You did WHAT? Why?”

“They blew up a house with it. The little man with the shaved head and the —”

“Just shut up. You just shut up.”

“But Gus—"

“Shut up. You don’t do anything. You don’t say anything. I’ll take care of it. You understand?”

“Look it was—”

“That’s talking. I don’t want you to do that.”

“But—”

Gus looks at him hard. Excelsior thinks about telling him off once and for all. Flying away and never coming back. Gus’ hard guy act is interrupted by a coughing fit. He hacks and hacks and hacks. The color drains out of his face. His lips turn blue. Gus staggers. Excelsior catches him before he reaches the ground. “Help!” cries the most powerful man in the world.

EMTs rush over with equipment. After a few minutes with the oxygen mask, color returned to Gus’ face.

“Gus, I’m sorry,” says Excelsior.

Through the mask Gus says, “Just don’t do anything. Just don’t do anything until I tell you. Or until they figure out if I’m dead or not.” An EMT reaches for the pack of cigarettes in Gus’ breast pocket. “GODDAMN IT! Get your hands off of those. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” says the EMT.

“Yeah, but I do. So deal with it.”

Excelsior watches them wheel Gus away. None of it makes sense. Why is Gus angry? Why can’t he explain it to him? He was there. He saw the laser. He had seen the house explode. He had gone straight up and there was the satellite. Could he have gotten the wrong one? Maybe he should go back and check? No, that would just upset Gus more. Why does Gus get to do what he wants even though it’s killing him?

Excelsior feels like he can’t do anything right. Worst of all, can’t do anything without permission. He doesn’t understand any of it. But right then and there, he decides that it is Edwin Windsor’s fault. Excelsior isn’t going to do anything to upset his sick friend. He's not going to break the rules. But he decides, when he gets a chance, he’s going to get Edwin Windsor. The tall man has to pay. Excelsior just knows Edwin is behind it all.

Edwin has been doing well for himself. It shows in his office. The room has retained its essential clarity, but Edwin has adorned it with trophies of civilization. On one wall is a large bas relief sculpture of a man fighting a centaur. It is one of a handful of pieces looted from the Acropolis by Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin. Unlike the others, this particular frieze didn’t quite make it into the British Museum. If it were recognized for what it was, art historians and museum curators would be quick to pronounce it priceless. But Edwin and his exceptionally discreet art dealer know otherwise. Everything has its price. Like the lesser piece by Rodin that occupies a pedestal by the west window. Or the medieval tapestry that depicts the Mongol sack of Baghdad in 1258.

In many ways, the tapestry is Edwin’s favorite piece. It is both cautionary and inspiring. The Mongols had torn across the surface of the earth like a pitiless force of nature. Ruthless and efficient, they used a practical code of laws and the barest handful of people to control the largest empire the world has ever known. And they did this by sparing valuable people and rewarding talent rather than tribal affiliation.

As Agnes passes the wall hanging, she doesn’t think about any of this. She’s surprised that Edwin has seen fit to obtain and display such a musty old rag. She approaches his desk and waits for Edwin to finish writing.

Edwin does not look up. “Yes?”

“Your 3 o’clock appointment is here.”

“My 3 o’clock? I was not aware that I had any appointments today. ”

“Well, yes, you did not have any appointments and now you have one.”

Edwin looks up sharply.

“That’s the thing with appointments,” say Agnes, “You start off with none, and then, despite one’s best efforts, they pop up like mushrooms.”

“Agnes—”

“Edwin, please, I need you to meet with this man. He is the grand nephew of one of the women I play whist with. And, whist players being in short supply in this benighted country, it seemed a good idea to curry favor by –”

“Agnes, there are hundreds, if not thousands of people trying to waste my time. It is your job to keep them from doing it.”

“Yes, but I was hoping”

“Hope,” says Edwin, “is a dangerous emotion.”

“I was hoping,” Edwin’s hand goes to his forehead. Agnes knows he is upset.

“Send the man away. I have no time for this foolishness.”

“He calls himself Lifto.”

“Agnes, please, I’ve already had my fill of nonsense from Dr. Loeb and his outrageous demands for a secret lair.”

“That is your own fault. Build the child a playpen and have done with him.”

“I will not. It serves no purpose.”

“It will serve to remove him from your misery. Now let me give you a quick precis of your 3 o’clock appointment.”

“You are a disappointment to me Agnes,” says Edwin. He regrets it as soon as he says it.

“Very well,” says Agnes, stiffening with emotion. “I will show him out.”

As Edwin watches her go he changes his mind. “Agnes. All right, I will see him.”

“No, no, You are too right, I should not impose on your precious time.” Now she’s sticking the dagger in. This aggravates Edwin even further. She’s getting what she wants, but now she wants more? Emotions are so difficult and confusing. Edwin rises from his desk.

“Agnes, you are dismissed for the rest of the day.” Edwin puts on his suit jacket and walks to the door of his office. Agnes blocks the way.

“Edwin, I am—”

Edwin is cold and formal. “You are in my way.” Agnes says nothing. She steps out of Edwin’s path and looks down at the floor.

As Edwin walks to the lobby, he smoothes the lapel of his suit jacket and buttons the middle button. In the lobby a man stands and says, “I am Lifto the Magnificent!”

Lifto the Magnificent is not, in any conventional sense of the word, magnificent. He is squat, hairy and is wearing a purple unitard. He is excited. He’s meeting Edwin Windsor. This must mean his career is finally taking off. He knows he has talent, what he needs is someone to help him reach the next level. He believes that Edwin is that man. This is very, very exciting.