Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

“What!”

“The numbers do not lie Lifto. In lieu of some special advantage like invisibility or an ability to walk through vault walls or even a telepathic ability to talk to coins — anything that might change this cost matrix — I cannot advise your entry into the bank robbing business.”

“But this is just Hypothetical Lifto!”

“Yes, well, Hypothetical Lifto and Actual Lifto have quite a bit in common I’m afraid.”

“So you want for Lifto to work as receptionist?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if a crime makes you less money than working a regular job, perhaps you should find another law to break.”

Lifto is silent for a long time. Edwin can sense the tiny wheels of Lifto’s mind turning. And even though they are most certainly missing a few teeth, Edwin is glad to have gotten them spinning. That is worth something isn’t it? Edwin knows how foolish hope is, but perhaps, for just a moment, he indulges in it. Finally, Lifto lets out a long sigh and says, “I wish you had told Lifto sooner.”

Agnes is still sitting her post in the lobby. She has refused to follow Edwin’s instructions. But their disagreement is wearing on her. Edwin is right, of course. It is her job to keep his time clear and focused, but this was a favor. A favor to an old and dear friend. It should not be too much to ask. But the world has changed in many ways over the course of Agnes’ lifetime. No matter how hard she tries, it never seems to make sense.

Agnes Plantagenet is old enough to remember a time without superheroes. A time with bad men, surely, but before Villains of the capital V. When the only costumes were uniforms and everyone did their bit and went home. Of course there were heroes. But they had a quiet satisfaction about them. And their sense of accomplishment did not disappear with age, infirmity or the changing winds of fashion.

She can’t pinpoint the exact moment that the world changed. It has been gradual and insidious. And, if she’s perfectly honest, she tries not to pay attention to popular lunacy. She had not realized how bad it had become, until the televisions were installed in the lobby.

Of course, she understands the need to keep track of television coverage of the Cromoglodon for billing purposes. The variable nature of the beast’s clothing has allowed the reverse sponsorship to become increasingly sophisticated. They have even been approached by a few companies who want to be positively associated with the Cromoglodon. Agnes sees this as yet another sign of the end times.

Every day the screens are filled with people running about in costumes with odd logos on various parts of their spandex clad bodies. They always shout horrible slogans at one another as they fight in the most destructive manner imaginable. Agnes can’t see it as anything other than a very disturbing game of, “Look at me! Look at me!”

How has it come to this? Perhaps, she thinks this way because the old always struggles to understand a changing world. These thoughts are reassuring, because it suggests to Agnes that things are as they should be. Most of the time, she suspects that something has gone horribly wrong.

Of course, there have always been exceptional people. Agnes can remember Mrs. Sally Heckinsforth, the woman who had managed to win the Village of Hugglescote’s gardening competition for 22 years in a row. Sally had a way with plants that was simply otherworldly. It was even said that she trained the ivy outside her kitchen window to make tea. Of course it was an exaggeration. But even if it had been true, the good Mrs. Heckinsforth would not have donned a skin-tight green suit and trained all the hedges in the village to throttle passerbys for their change purses.

No. Mrs. Heckinsforth had been content with her garden and afternoon tea and outliving her husband and a thousand other ordinary acts which made for a life well-lived. But these days, that doesn’t seem to be enough. Agnes despairs.

Her mood has not been helped by the success of the Cromoglodon. As a result of his runaway popularity, all manner of wannabe’s have sought out Edwin. Of course, that is where Lifto has come from, but there have been scores of others. All much worse. The job of insulating Edwin from all of them is wearing on her. On some days it has been impossible for her to get any other work done at all.

So when the elevator doors open, she knows what is coming. She doesn’t know exactly what he will look like or what absurd powers he will claim, but she knows, as surely as a rough beast is slouching towards Jerusalem to be born, that another idiot is coming.

The elevator doors open to blackness. Utter darkness. Not a darkness that is darker than any mortal has ever known. Agnes guesses that is the desired effect. Why else would anyone disable the elevator’s lights? An arm emerges from the darkness wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue. The arm drops and a smoke bomb bursts on the floor.

How utterly predictable, thinks Agnes as she watches the otherwise pristine lobby fill with smoke. How absolutely and completely not terrifying. How much more work for the cleaning crew.

A figure emerges from the smoke, and with a flourish of his cape he announces, “I am Mistevio!” He peers intently at Agnes over the corner of his high collar. He fancies that his eyes are dark pools in which the souls of lesser beings are swallowed. But Agnes is not afraid. She has long ago stopped reacting to men who wear eyeliner.

“Yes, Mr. Mistevio. And what can I do for you?”

“I am here to have a battle of wits with the one they call Windsor!”

“I fear Mr. Windsor would find little sport in such a contest.”

“Do you dare to trifle with Mistevio, Master of the Darkness, Holder of Men’s Souls, Sorcerer of Simulacra, Prism of Reality…”

Agnes can see that this man is unlikely to come to a timely conclusion on his own. So she cuts to the chase, “Do you have an appointment?”

“MISTEVIO needs no APPOINTMENT!”

“I am going to take that to mean that you do not, in fact, have an appointment.” Mistevio’s opens his eyes as wide as he can, and rocks his head side to side in a small, yet ridiculous motion.

Agnes holds up the appointment book. “Mr. Mischief, or whomever you are, is there any reason for me to check the appointment book?”

“Tell Windsor that I am here for him,” Mistevio says, ending with his most sardonic laugh.

“I do not want to open this book to find that you have been misleading me.”

Mistevio squints between eyeliner and mascara, “If you open the book, you will read what I wish you to read. If I wish you to see an appointment, you will see an appointment. If I wish you to believe that you are reading In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, that is what you will find on the pages.”

“I think I would require a much thicker appointment book.”

“The strength of my mind will bend your reality to mine.”

“Oh heavens, mind control.”

“Mind control. Muahahahahahahahah!”

“Very well,” says Agnes, “try me.” She leans in and locks eyes with Mistevio. Contempt flows freely over the top of her reading glasses.

Mistevio does not wither. He reaches deeply into himself and imagines sinister forces pouring through his pupils, across the aether and into the very depths of Agnes’ soul. Down to the small child within all of us that is afraid of dark rooms with open closet doors. Agnes’ eyes defocus. Mistevio gets excited. This has never happened before. It was working! It was finally working!

But, Agnes is not falling under Mistevio’s spell. Agnes is watching the three television screens behind him. They all showing a variation on the same theme. A man wrapped in leopard skin emerging from a bank. He lifts a car and hurls it towards the police. And then another. And another. There is also some amateur footage of a car sailing though a bank teller. As the camcorder skews awkwardly to the right she can read the villain’s lips so clearly she can almost hear the words, “I am Lifto.”