All Topper knows for sure is, every time he tries to think about his emotions, it gets him into trouble. But if he gets laid when he feels like getting laid and throws a tantrum when he feels like throwing a tantrum, somehow, everything works out. He calls it advanced Zen. Eat when you’re hungry. Sleep when you’re tired. And when you feel like doing something, just do it already. Why resist?
“Guy just needs to get laid,” Topper sums up as he exits the elevator at the top of Windsor Tower. He barges into Edwin’s office. Without breaking a stride, he says, “All right Beanpole. Time to snap out of it. We’ve already got one Lincoln memorial, we don’t need another.”
Edwin sits low in his chair, the tips of his index fingers touching in front of his nose. He does not turn to look at Topper.
“What, now you’re gonna give me the silent treatment? That’s gonna get you nowhere. Because, let me tell you something. I’m louder than any silence.”
Edwin looks up and to the right. As if he is recalling a piece of valuable information.
“Yeah, yeah. You just keep thinking. THINKING! THINKING! THINKING! That’s the problem. You’re unhappy because your all the time thinking and none of the time living!”
Edwin’s gaze wanders to the ceiling.
“And just because I found that in a fortune cookie doesn’t mean it’s not true. What is it? Is it that you made a mistake? C’mon! I make mistakes all the time, you don’t see it getting me down, do you? You can’t give up!”
Edwin looks at Topper. He realizes that looking at Topper is a mistake. It only serves to encourage him.
“Yeah, yeah, look at me. See how short I am? You know, when they told me I was gonna be a midget, I said no way. I said un-hunh. I said screw you. And then they held out the book and showed me where it said, 4’5” and under is the classification for dwarf. And I said, there is no way I’m going to be a midget. You just watch me. And you know what I did? Do you?”
Edwin closes his eyes.
“I started hanging out with tall people. I started doing the things they did. I went out for the basketball team. I even thought lofty thoughts. Yeah, me. And I did this for a whole year. So I get back to the doctor and they measure me again. Still 4’4” and half. They called me a midget. I called them assholes. Then I went out and bought shoes with a half inch lift. And forgot all about it.
“Which is what you need to do. Forget about it. It’s a mistake, sure. Ya screwed it up. Everybody screws up. Who cares? Just roll on to the next thing. You just roll on. Get me. Roll on.” Topper turns dramatically and heads towards the door. Any other man would be enjoying a false hope that Topper is done with his sermon, but Edwin knows better.
Sure enough, as soon as he reaches the office door, Topper spins on his heel and says, “And you know what happened? Three years later, I grew that extra inch. Hunh? Hunh? What does that tell you?” Topper pauses. Edwin does not react. Topper leaves the room with a “harumph.”
With serenity restored to his office, Edwin wonders if Topper really has grown that extra inch. He makes a mental note to have Topper measured if the opportunity presents itself.
In the lobby, Topper takes a few deep breaths.
“Were you able to cheer him up?” asks Agnes.
Topper shakes his head.
“Well, I suppose we shall just have to ride it out again.”
Topper asks, “What do you mean again?”
“It happened once before. Oh that was a dreadful year.”
“Year? You gotta be kidding me. He was like that for a year?”
“Well, it doesn’t happen often,” says Agnes defensively.
“Somebody’s got to toughen that kid up.”
“Oh, I am certain that is the answer,” Agnes says, her tongue curling around the sarcasm.
“C’mon Agnes, I feel guilty enough about this as it is.”
“Guilty enough? I scarcely think that is possible.”
“I gotta make it right somehow.”
“Oh no,” says Agnes, “You’ve had your chance. And, I might add, you have failed to bring him out of his funk.”
“I can do it. I swear I can.”
“I am as close to being sorry about this as I can be about anything that regards you, but I have no more faith to waste on you.”
“Aw, Agnes, I know I’m a screw-up. The trouble is I don’t fit, see? I’m the wrong size.”
“Really?” Agnes raises an eyebrow as she says, “I would have suspected that your trouble is that you fit all kinds of places where a decent person should never go.”
“Oh, there you go again, always beating on me.”
“If it is too much for you, I can only suggest that you put yourself out of my misery.”
In defeat, and finding no solace, Topper scuttles into the elevator. ”Fine, fine, you mean old bat. But I’m gonna make this right. You’ll see.”
“Away with you, you vociferous munchkin. I would sooner put out mine own eyes with a tuning fork than admit you have done something correctly!”
Topper sticks his head out of the elevator. “Velociraptor what? What does that even mean?”
Agnes returns to her work with a dismissive gesture. “Just don’t make things any worse than they already are.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Calling Forth Nemesis
Mighty forces call forth their own resistance. The bigger they are, the more they weigh. The harder they fall. The more friction they generate when they move. The faster they are, the harder they have to be able to brake to make the corner. Nature counterbalances the power she bestows. Sometimes not elegantly. Sometimes not obviously. But there is always a balance.
As Barry revels in his newfound might, he does not imagine that there might be some kind of a catch. After all, he has never been to college. He has never studied Greek drama. He’s never heard of Nemesis, The forces of retribution called forth by the prideful actions of the hero to bring about his downfall. And even though he’s not a hero, the same principle applies. Hubris is the nail that sticks out. Sooner or later, it gets pounded flat.
Barry has always been strong, but he’s never known how strong. But then, he’s never had occasion to put his strength to the test. Now that he’s knocking down buildings, everything just feels right. In fact, it feels like buildings just aren’t big enough any more. He needs bigger buildings. He needs mountains.
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 war
ble 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.
Excelsior dips low, skimming six feet off the ground. This is the part where the bad guy usually starts running. Only this guy isn’t running. He’s not moving at all. He’s just standing there, looking stupid. Oh well, thinks Excelsior, batter up. And he swings.
But when the I-beam connects with the guy, something funny happens. The I-beam hits him and stops dead. The force rebounds through the steel and Excelsior knocks the wind out of himself. He’s so shocked he falls down. What the hell? That’s never happened before. He looks up. The guy is walking over to him. His face is a little red from where the I-beam hit him, but other than that, he appears to be unharmed.
“Okay buddy,” Excelsior says as he starts to get up. But he doesn’t get there. The guy grabs his foot. He looks so harmless, and is so nonchalant about it, Excelsior doesn’t even see it coming. People aren’t supposed to grab him. They’re supposed to be afraid of him. Excelsior tries to twist free. But he can’t. He can’t? He’s almost got enough time to say, “Hey!” before the guy lofts him over his head and slams him into the ground.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Back and forth, back and forth. Even after the first couple of impacts, it’s still kind of a joke to Excelsior. He’s never been beaten. And there’s no way this guy, with his messed up forehead and his eyes too close together, is going to be the first. Enough is enough, thinks Excelsior. He tries to fly away. But it doesn’t work. The guy is too heavy! How is that possible?
The earth keeps slapping him around. This is getting bad. Excelsior panics. He starts flailing in every direction, but it’s no use. The guy just keeps bashing him against the ground. He bashes Excelsior so many times that the remnants of a nearby building just gives up and collapse completely. Everything goes dark for Excelsior.
Hiding behind a pile of rubble, Topper sees the
whole thing. Cocky as he is, at this moment, he’s glad he’s small. He had no idea Barry was so powerful. He thinks of all the times he slapped Barry and feels a little queasy. Barry grows bored with hammering the ground with Excelsior. He tosses the limp body over his shoulder like a child who is no longer interested in a toy.
“What a beast!” Topper thinks as he watches Barry lumber off. “What could possibly overcome a beast like that?” As soon as he asks the question, the answer becomes obvious.
Chapter Thirty-Two
How to Make Advantage from Avalanche
Edwin is not depressed. He is absorbed in thought. Since no one has said anything helpful to his present line of thinking, he has not seen the need to respond. In the fundamental monotasking of deep thought, all else was noise in the signal.
Edwin is certain that the world has become dumber as a result modern technology. There are simply too many interruptions. Deep thought — original thought — required a quietude that is in danger of going extinct.
To make matters worse, the modern world had also been seduced by data. And why not? It is easier to crunch numbers than to reason. Numbers offer such reassurance. Reassurance and more. When you combine these numbers with the theoretical framework of the physical sciences, they seemed to deliver the insight of a god.
The volume and pressure of a gas are inversely related. The motion of a body with a known velocity and mass can be described by a parabola. With these two bits of knowledge, even the dullest sheep can plug the right numbers into the right tables and use artillery to blow apart the world. Napoleon proved this when he used the intellectual wonder of calculus to conquer Europe.
But the concepts of the physical sciences are ill-applied to a world filled with acting men and women. The psychologic, the economic, these are matters for which no equation can reliably provide guidance. For today’s statistical relationship is sure to be turned on its head tomorrow by a change of preference or fancy. Electrons can be excited, but they do not panic. Observe as many favorable conditions for a riot as you like – better yet, set them – and still, a riot may not occur. Most frustrating of all, you may never know why your plan of domestic unrest was foiled.
How To Succeed in Evil Page 15
