How to Succeed in Evil - 02

by Patrick E. McLean

  “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 is 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 — requires a quietude that is in danger of going extinct.

  To make matters worse, the modern world has 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 seem 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. 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.

  Edwin’s father had been with British Intelligence during the war. He had become a master of the dirty tricks of the business. And, unwittingly, he had passed some of these skills on to his son.

  Of course Edwin’s father had not done this consciously or overtly. What kind of man would sow such seeds in his own child? But Edwin was exposed to a certain way of thinking. As a precocious child, eager for his father’s affections, he had learned quickly and well. Even now, as Edwin sits in his high office, towering over the lesser people, his father’s words are with him.

  “No matter how smart you may be. No matter how much money you have at your disposal. No matter strength of arms or argument, you simply cannot force people to do a thing. It costs too much. For all the bombs we dropped, for all the lives that were lost, in the end, this is why the Nazis could not prevail. There is not enough money in the world to truly command and control a populace. All you can reasonably hope to do is create a situation where it is easier for people to do what you want than it is for them to do what you don’t.

  “Then, none will oppose or seek to thwart your aim. It will appear to them that you are merely helping them do what they want. In the end, there is no defense against cooperation.”

  In this pearl of remembered wisdom, Edwin sees the error of his ways. He has tried to control Barry. And he has done so without a proper mechanism for control. That was the flaw. It’s not as terrible an error as it could have been. He had not attempted to work against Barry’s native instincts, but he had tried to limit him to the destruction of a single building. Predictably, this had proved costly, unwieldy and impractical. Barry is not a surgical instrument. He is an avalanche. But how to take advantage of the avalanche?

  Edwin watches hour after hour of news coverage of Barry’s rampage. For the time being, the destruction has stopped. Hard-working news organizations are using all of their skills to whip people to a fever pitch, even though nothing is happening. They show clips of buildings collapsing, walls of dust engulfing fleeing people and pointless interview after pointless interview with the men and women on the street. As if the ordinary people matter.

  It is what Edwin calls the hysterical blindness of democracy. How can the ordinary person matter in a world where some can knock over buildings and others can fly? Why do the sheep not see it? Why are they not outraged? Why do the sheep not rise up to trample the wolves?

  As soon as he asks this question, the answer appears on the screen. A young man, with a tattoo of ram’s horn covering half his face and bits of metal protruding from the other half, speaks with all the sincerity he can muster. “Yeah, I don’t want anyone to, like, get hurt or anything. But I feel for him, you know what I’m saying? Sometimes I just want to bust shit up. Take it to the man. Like, like, all these corporations. He’s like a, a symbol. Like a spokesperson. You know. For all the little people.”

  Surely this one is the smallest of the small, thinks Edwin. And still he identifies with the mighty. And in that insight the secret is revealed. They do not tear down their violent and destructive idols because they like to believe that they too are mighty.

  Edwin’s desk is covered with information about Barry. Pictures, school transcripts, protective services records, anything that has ever been committed to paper. And in the middle of it all is a picture of Barry in the 3rd grade. His hair is mussed and his smile looks wide enough to split his face. Scrawled across his forehead in red magic marker are the letters C R O. The letters are in a child’s handwriting, but far from innocent. They knew they were taking advantage of the dumbest kid in the class.

  The subtitle on the TV changes to “Riots Break Out.” Now the camera crew follows the boy with the tattoo on his face from car to car as he stomps windshields and kicks in headlights. And there it is. How can one make money from a spokesmodel for destruction? For anarchy? For worse than anarchy.

  Once the question is properly phrased, the answer is obvious.

  “Agnes?” Edwin’s voice cracks from days of disuse. He tries again, this time a little louder, “Agnes?” She comes quickly, fueled by the hope that her beloved Edwin has returned to himself. At first Edwin says nothing. He stands and unrolls his sleeves. He straightens his tie. Once again he dons his jacket of severe grey. Then he buttons the middle button and turns to his secretary.

  “I need two things. I need a fashion designer, one with talent, but who will use English in a way that I can understand. And I need Barry’s current location.”

  Agnes makes a note. “Designer, check. As for Barry, Topper has him.”

  Edwin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Topper? Really? One can never be sure what he will do next.”

  “Yes,” says Agnes, “but one can certainly fear.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Down But Not Out

  Excelsior lies on the ground in the center of a pulverized concrete outline of his body. Because Excelsior is so proud it will be difficult for him to ever admit that he was knocked unconscious, so let’s just say that, right this moment, he’s not very interested in opening his eyes. That is, until someone starts kicking him in the ribs.

  Ordinarily, this kick wouldn’t hurt Excelsior, but he’s just been through the beating of his life (so far) and his ribs are a little tender. He cries out in pain. Then he opens his eyes and sees the ugliest man he has ever known.

  “Jesus Gus, lay off.” Gus does no such thing. He continues his generous application of shoe leather.

  “C’mon lard-ass. No laying down on the job. You ah, ack, ack, ack,” the cough silences Gus.

  “Easy, Gus, easy,” says Excelsior. He sits up and instantly regrets it.

  Gus hacks and spits. Even before the hunk of lung butter hits the sidewalk, the old man crams another cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “C’mon pissant, you’re not going to spread the blinding light of American sunshine lying down there on your duff.”

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  Gus lights the cigarette. On the side of the lighter, the faded memory of an Airborne logo is almost visible. The smoke that Gus exhales from the first drag is so strong it is more blue tha
n white. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he continues, “now you know what I feel like when I get out of bed. Candyass. In the entire history of walking tall, kicking ass and shitting bullets, so far you’re the only hero hasn’t had to carry on after he’s had a beat down. Time to tough, tough, auHooooo hough hough hough.” Gus coughs his lungs down to a wheeze once again.

  Excelsior gets to his feet. Jesus this hurts. He hasn’t ever hurt like this before. He feels a little nauseous. This sucks. He reaches out to comfort Gus, but Gus slaps his hand away.

  “TOUGHEN YOU UP,” Gus roars with surprising force. “What, you turning fag on me now boy? Is that what you’re doing? Don’t you go all sensitive on me just because you got your ass kicked. That’s how it starts. Saw a whole platoon go fag during the Battle of the Bulge.”

  “Up close and personal?”

  “You keep joking, flyboy, I know what it means to take a beating and keep on going.”

  “Yeah, you look it.”

  “Aw, you’re just jealous ‘cause I’m so goddamned pretty,” Gus’s skin draws tight across his skull as his faceleather twists into a smile.

  “Okay, okay. You win. You’re tough. The only guy who could kick your ass was John Wayne.”

  “Bullshit. He was an actor. I’m the real thing.”

  “So where is he?” Excelsior asks as three vertebrae in his back realign with distressingly loud pops.

  “You mean the guy who cleaned your clock?”

  “No, the... I mean… yeah,” Excelsior says. It finally sinks in that he has, for the first time, been defeated.

  “He’s over there a ways.”

  “All right,” Excelsior says as he rolls his neck, “I’ll be right back.”

  “No you don’t. We’ve got orders.”

  “Orders?”

  “We’re falling back. We’re going to regroup.”

  “Fall BACK?!” Excelsior discovers that it hurts to yell with a broken rib. He was also learning that it hurts to breath, hurts to stand, hurts to twist — in fact, he was beginning to get the idea that everything hurts when you have a broken rib. Was this the way ordinary people felt all the time?

  “Protocol. We’ve got to come up with a game plan.”

  “But he just got lucky.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “You didn’t even see what happened,” says Excelsior.

  “Saw the whole thing on satellite. You got your tights-wearing ass handed to you.”

  “I was careless.”

  “Like that’s a surprise. Now listen to me, son,” Excelsior hates it when Gus calls him son. They are almost the same age. He figures that Gus is upset because he’s grown older while Excelsior hasn’t. But Gus is always pissed, so how could he tell? Excelsior wonders if the only thing holding the old man together is anger.

  “Son,” Gus repeats himself to make sure he has Excelsior’s attention, “we ain’t ever seen anything you couldn’t beat without really trying. Now, I know you’ll get him. I know you will. You’ll beat his ass until it glows like a ring-tailed baboon.”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “But right now, we’ve got orders to pull back. Re-group and come up with a game plan. We keep making this thing angry and it’s just going to destroy more of the city. Hurt more people. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Excelsior sulks. He says “No,” when what he means is, “I don’t care. I just want to get back into the fight.”

  Gus is pleased to hear rage and frustration in Excelsior’s voice. Of course, they’d known this day would come. But you can never know — really know — how a man will react to losing. In Gus’s mind it was like combat. The guy you thought was the toughest hombre for miles around would sometimes go to pieces after the first artillery shell. Meanwhile, the little guy you figured was only good for making coffee would come walking back from the battle with a leg full of shrapnel and a spear full of scalps. Sure, Excelsior had lost, but it hadn’t taken the fight out of him. That was good.

  They walk off together. Gus tries not to cough. Excelsior tries not to limp.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Cromoglodon is Born

  Deep within the brothel, Barry is sleeping. His gigantic chest heaves up and down in a way that is out of proportion with the tiny snoring noises he is making. Next to him, a blond girl named Selene hugs herself in a sheet and weeps with relief.

  She doesn’t know exactly how it can be, but the child-man sleeping next to her is responsible for the destruction outside. If he is angered, he could easily destroy this building and everyone in it. It isn’t the most comfortable of situations, but it isn’t exactly unfamiliar to Selene. All manner of powerful men come to the Evanston Street brothel. Men who could, with a word or a wave of a hand, also obliterate the building and everyone in it if they aren’t kept happy. You don’t need superpowers to do damage. But Selene knows many, many ways to make a man happy.

  Selene has been with a lot of men. It has not always been pleasant, gentle or even consensual. But now she is lucky enough to work in a good establishment. The clientele is exclusive and the rates are high. A girl like Selene can do much worse. Most girls like Selene do.

  Still, she has seen more than her share of hard times. And when they were lined up for Barry to take his pick, she prayed that one of the other girls would strike his fancy. In spite of her efforts to hide, or perhaps because of them, Barry was drawn to her. Selene is of a definite type — light skin, hair so blond it is almost white and impossibly pale blue eyes. To some men she is irresistible. Barry is one of these men.

  She saw no spark of intelligence or mercy in his face. In fact, from the way he looked, Selene couldn’t figure out why he was not drooling. When he wrapped his awkward arms around her, she feared the worst. But he had been gentle. Gentle, inexperienced and — most amazingly of all — tender. She would not have been surprised to learn that she had taken the man-child’s virginity.

  As they moved beneath the sheets, in spite of the tenderness, she could feel his pain. There were oh so many ways to wrong the flesh. And Selene knew that each of these wrongs left a mark. The damaged always recognize one another. She would have known Barry’s pain even at the bottom of a dark ocean. When they joined, the impossibly dense cords of muscle in his back writhed beneath her fingertips.

  Hours later, the door to Selene’s room opens and clean light floods in. Selene gasps. Silhouetted in the doorway is a tall figure. Her pupils contract and adjust to the flood of light. Edwin enters the room.

  Barry does not wake. Topper peeks out from behind Edwin’s knee and says, “You see? I told you! I knew it would work. It was beauty killed the beast!” Topper’s eyes linger on Selene. He loves women with that fresh from the bed look.

  Selene looks away. She can remember being with him, even if Topper has forgotten. Some girls like the little man. They think he’s cute or funny. But when Selene touched him, she felt anger crawling around underneath his skin. For weeks afterward she had nightmares of the anger breaking free and swarming into her body.

  But Topper’s anger is nothing compared to the tall one. He isn’t hot with anger. He is cold. So very cold. Without really knowing why, she leans over and covers Barry with her arms. “Please don’t hurt him,” she says to Edwin. “He didn’t mean to do it.”

  Edwin looks at her with surprise as if noticing, for the first time, that someone else is in the room. “Mean to do it? I’m not sure he means to do anything, in the conventional sense. As for hurting him, I wouldn’t know how. Not physically at least. And I’m sure I wouldn’t know why. His talents are far too valuable to me.” Selene doesn’t like the way Edwin speaks. In his words she hears reasons, reasons, reasons, but no emotion. She realizes that if he can come up with a reason, he can do anything. There is no mercy in him. No warmth. Just cold.

  Edwin turns and gestures to the people standing outside the room. They enter reluctantly. “Dress him.” Edwin commands.

  “But, but, but...” says the designer.


  “We have a contract,” Edwin says, “a contract you do not wish to break.”

  It takes three people to lift Barry and slip a shirt of unique fabric over his head. The material is completely black and clings like Spandex. It looks like an ordinary athletic T-shirt, but it is much, much more. Next come the pants, the same material but loose, like warm-up pants. And finally, a tight skull cap with the letters CRO in heavy gothic letters across the front.

  Selene feared the worst when she saw Edwin in the doorway, but clothes? What is going on? She doesn’t understand at all.

  “Now,” says Edwin to a man holding a tablet computer, “turn it on.” The man taps the screen and Selene becomes scared again. She doesn’t like any of this. She wishes she could hide between the mattresses. Why doesn’t Barry wake up? But maybe that would make things worse.

  Selene jumps when the garments make a high-pitched whine. “Can I go?” she asks.

  “No,” says Edwin, not bothering to look at her. “We may need you.”

  “Oh yes,” says Topper, “She is exceptionally talented.”

  Barry’s shirt changes from black to white and back again. A flurry of images and logos tear across the fabric. A diagnostic runs on the pants and hat. The images sweep outward to glowing white and then condense into a white dot in the center of his chest. The white dot bounces around the limits of the fabric like a pixel ball in a game of pong.

  “Is that all you came here for? T-t-to make him into a television?” Selene asks.

  “Yes,” says Edwin. He turns and leaves the room.

  From the hallway, Selene hears Topper ask, “Hey, Edwin, what’s the C R O stand for?”

  “Cromoglodon,” says Edwin, naming the awful thing he has just made.