How To Succeed in Evil (5 page)

People often marvel at how Excelsior hasn’t gotten any older with the passing years. Gus wonders why the big freak never became a man. Guess he didn’t have to. God only knows what the public would do if they ever found out how moody and insecure their mighty hero really is.

Gus stands next to Excelsior and looks out to sea. After a moment, Gus realizes that there is a severed arm lying on the sand next to Excelsior. Gus grunts and lights a cigarette. The flash from the lighter makes the wrinkles on his face seem deeper than Abraham Lincoln’s. After a long drag, Gus says, “Anybody see it?”

“Those things will kill you,” mumbles Excelsior.

“Yeah? Is that right? Is that what did him in?” Gus points at the severed arm with his cigarette.

“No, I did,” mumbles Excelsior

“What did you do?”

Excelsior looks up at Gus. His eyes are brimming with fresh tears. Gus tries not to sneer. “I ripped his arm off. I couldn’t save him, Gus. I couldn’t save any of them.”

Gus feels awful about his next question, but it’s his job. “Anybody get pictures of it?”

“Is that all you care about?”

“No, I care about a lot of things,” this is a lie. Gus really doesn’t really care about much anymore. As far as he is concerned the world can go to hell in a handbasket. Just so long as it’s quiet about it. Sure, Gus wants to do the right thing. For most of his life he has been fervently patriotic. He’s done more right and noble things than an ordinary person has even thought of. But, honestly, he just can’t bear the goddamned aggravation anymore. He takes a long drag on the cigarette and let’s the smoke out with the words, “So what’s it gonna take?”

Excelsior blinks twice, not sure what’s going on. “What?” Excelsior asks.

“What’s it gonna take this time? What’s it gonna take to get you up off your ass and back in the game?”

“Game? You think it was a game to those people on that plane?”

In fact, Gus does think it’s a game. It’s all a big game with rules that aren’t fair. In fact, the game is so unfair, Gus can’t even quit. But Gus knows it’s the wrong thing to say. So he lies. “No. I don’t think it was a game to them. I know their count. I’ve read their names. But I don’t give a damn about them. And neither do you. You know why? They’re dead. They’re of absolutely no use to me or anybody else. In fact, now they are just a giant pain in the ass. We’re gonna have to raise the plane from the bottom of the ocean, recover the flight recorders and comb the wreckage for remains. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to salvage a plane from those depths?”

“I’ll do it.”

“No you won’t either. That’s why there are dive teams. That’s why there are aeronautical boards. You gonna find out what went wrong with the plane or the pilot? You gonna redesign a jet engine? Rewrite a service manual? Retrain pilots?”

“No,” says Excelsior, as if he was a sullen teenager.

“That’s right, because you’re not any good at those things are you?”

“No.”

“You’ve never even been to college.”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” Excelsior says.

“You’re damn right. Because it’s not your job to be smart. It’s not my job to be smart. That’s what we got smart people for!” Gus is yelling. His words sound like they have been played on a barbed wire fiddle with a bastard file bow. His yell degenerates into a barely controllable cough. Excelsior feels pity.

“Gus, I screwed up.”

Gus might be old, but his will is steel. He shuts off the cough and says, “Yeah kid, it happens. Happens all the time. World’s an imperfect place.”

“It’s been happening to me a lot.”

“What can I tell you? You got streaks just like baseball players.”

“But I don’t like screwing up. I don’t like looking bad.”

“Well, nobody saw this one, so you’re not going to look bad.”

“Yeah but I know. I know what I did.”

“Then be A MAN! Tough it out. We all make choices. We all got regrets.” There is another coughing fit. Gus fights it down and continues, “But you live with it. You patch it up and move on.”

“But what about the next plane?”

Gus softens his tone. “Son, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t build the plane, you didn’t fly the plane. And when it started to go down, you were the chance that came after their last chance. Now I can see you’re feeling mighty low about this, and I am sorry, but if you never tried, they’d be just as dead.”

“Maybe I should just stop trying.” Alarm bells go off in Gus’ head. This isn’t working. Gus’s whole job is to handle the big guy. Make sure he keeps trying. To this end, Gus is authorized to use whatever methods he see fit. Flattery, bribery, football metaphors, even appeals to reason – anything, just so long as it keeps the big guy in the game.

“You can’t stop trying.” Gus says, playing for time.

“Yeah, well what good does it do?”

“What good does it do? Son, you’re a symbol. A shining beacon of hope for all those ordinary people out there. Look up at that hill.” Gus gestures at the thousands of houses that dot landscape. “You’re a symbol to all of those people. You make them feel safe at night. And around the world, you’re a symbol of America’s greatness. You can’t quit boy. You can’t let all those people down, because, you’re, you’re…” Gus waits for it.

“Excelsior?” says Excelsior.

“Who?” Gus shouts.

“Excelsior!”

“That’s right. You’re the big man. Bigger than this. Hell, you’re the big man so those little people don’t have to be. Because they can’t be. So what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna walk it off?”

“You’re gonna suck it up!”

“I’m gonna take one for the team.”

“All of that. You’re gonna get right back on that horse. That big white horse. And you’re gonna ride off into the sunset. So that when the little people need you again, you’ll be there for them.”

“Yeah!”

“Hell yeah,” says Gus. Excelsior stands up. The breeze catches his cape. It floats free, exposing the logo on his chest, that strange device of heraldry from a bygone age. Excelsior is a hero again.

Mission accomplished, thinks Gus. “Now get your sorry ass off this beach so I can go home. This cold is killin’ my arthritis.”

“Sorry Gus. I really am. You you mean the –”

“Don’t be sorry.” Gus doesn’t want to listen to this sensitive guy bullshit. “Just, just get outta here. And,” Gus flicks his cigarette butt at the severed arm, “throw that thing into the middle of the ocean will ya?”

“But it’s somebody’s arm.”

“Not anymore, it’s an ex-somebody’s arm.”

Excelsior picks up the arm and flies out to sea with it. Gus watches him go. When he’s far enough away, Gus shakes his head. That freak is held together with spit and bailing wire, he thinks.

As Gus walks off the beach, he prays that he doesn’t live long enough to see Excelsior crack.

Chapter Eight 

A Giant Laser in Space

Dr. Loeb is wrong about a lot of things. For example, Dr. Loeb believes that he sounds like an Austrian mastermind. He believes that, through hard work, he has eradicated all trace of the Lower Alabama Cracker he was born with. He believes the long hours he has spent watching Arnold Schwarzenegger movies has paid off. Dr. Loeb is wrong about a lot of things.

Right now, Dr. Loeb is meeting Topper. When he says “I ham pleased to meet you,” his accent wanders back and forth in the linguistic no man’s land that lies along the Alabamo-Austrian border.

As always, Topper says what’s on his mind, “What gives? What’s with the accent?”

Edwin’s not comfortable with this exchange. People either love Topper or hate him. There is no middle of the road. This could go badly.

“Vaht do you mean?” Dr. Loeb asks, losing control of his accent in his misguided attempt to cross the deep chasms of the vowel sounds.

Topper juts his chin out aggressively. This is not a good sign. “Why are you talking like that? Aren’t you just some kind of Lowland Alabama Redneck?” Edwin holds his breath.

“Aw sheet man, I ain’t gonna skeer nobody talkin like dis. Least-wise not trying to take over the world. Like, man, when you’re dropping a guy in a shark tank, you cain’t say, ‘Hey man, feed ‘at bitch ‘em sharks over ere.’ You gotta say something cool like -- Difpose off him.” Dr. Loeb looks to Edwin for confirmation. “Right man?”

“Yes-s-s-s,” says Edwin. “Topper if you’ll excuse us? “

Topper does not move. He stares at Dr. Loeb. Dr. Loeb is not sure why, but he is uncomfortable under the little man’s gaze.

“Dispose of him?” Topper asks. “Dispose of him?”

“Yeah man. Y’know. ‘Dispos hof hem! Ziss infstant!’”

Topper’s face broadens into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. You’re gonna be alright.” He slaps Dr. Loeb on the arm and heads for the door.

“Thank you Topper. We have plans to make,” Edwin says, as he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Dr. Loeb perks right up. “Awww man! A plottin’ and schemin’!”

Now both Edwin and Topper stare at Dr. Loeb as if a plant is growing out of his head. As Topper leaves the room he mutters under his breath, “Holy crap, he’s as crazy as fruit bat in a badminton net.”

“Would it be okay if’n I talked in the evil accent some more?” Dr. Loeb asks.

Edwin forces a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“So, you haf come to realize ze vizdom of my plank?”

“Yes, your, p-lan. The giant laser in space. There are difficulties, but the idea is not completely without merit.” Edwin struggles to get it out. He detests lying in all forms.

“Vat? You just put ze lazar into space?”

“Yes, yes, right there. You’ve touched on an interesting point. For the moment, we’ll ignore the expense, and near impossibility of constructing a laser in the megawatt range and focus on the transport issues. How, exactly, would you put it into space?”

“Vee vould put it on ze rocket.”

“It’s  very expensive to put something on a rocket. And something as heavy as your death laser – you were planning on calling it a death laser or something like that? Weren’t you?”

“Lazeradicator.”

“Ah yes, much more colorful. Something as heavy and substantial as a Laseradicator,” Edwin says this last word as if it is something awful that he can neither spit out or nor swallow, “would assuredly require more than one rocket. That’s multiple rockets, plus assembly once the parts are in space.”

“So, se Space Shuttle,” says Dr. Loeb, feeling like he is catching on.

“I think it is unlikely that NASA would be keen on helping you with your laser project.”

“Lazeradicator.”

“Yes, it’s a fine name, but that's not the problem. No matter what you call it, you can't sneak it past NASA. And even if you could, it would cost you $10,000 per pound just to get your unbuildable laser into space. How much does it weigh?”

“I don’t know.”

Edwin is encouraged by this response. It suggests that Dr. Loeb has not lost contact, entirely, with reality. “That’s because it can’t be built. Now, I’m all for vision and daring. Especially when these qualities are combined with patience and intelligence – but, really, it’s like this – You can find a solution to one impossible problem. But two impossible problems? The complexities don't add. They multiply.”

Dr. Loeb gives him a blank look. Edwin wonders if this is because Dr. Loeb has never heard of multiplication.

“I’m saying that it can’t be done.”

“But I have a lot of money,” says Dr. Loeb.

“And you should keep it. Someday, you will have a good idea. That money will be used to finance it.” Someday, thinks Edwin, is the day that never comes. “Let’s try it another way. What would you do with your laser?”

“I vould destroy Vashington!”

“Why?”

”Vhat do you mean, it’s Vashington?”

“Yes, and since the British burned it in 1814, it has remained inviolate. And increasingly picturesque.”

“So?”

“How do you plan to make money from destroying the capital of the United States of America?”

“Vell, then I vould be feared.”

“Then you would be broke. Having spent all your money on a laser, and getting it into space, you would then destroy a perfectly good city and get nothing in return.”

“But, but, but”

All the motorboat noises in the world aren’t going to get Dr. Loeb out of this one. Edwin folds his hands and pronounces his stern judgement. “Your business model is deeply flawed. I cannot see the benefit of, much less the possibility for, a giant laser in space.”

For the first time during the whole session, Dr. Loeb does not have a ready and horribly ill-informed reply. He cocks his head. The accent falls away completely, “So what am I gonna do?”

“You’re going to make me a small promise,” says Edwin, “Can you do that?”

Dr. Loeb nods

“You must promise me that, from now on, if we can’t think of a good reason for you to do something, you won’t do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s try it another way. Why do you want to take over the world?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to do. I am a villain.” Dr. Loeb says this like it is the most natural and obvious thing in the world. “I have a secret lair. I have ziss jacket. Ze right haircut. I am ze evil mastermind.”

“Okay. Okay. Right there. Let’s say you took over the world.”

“Yes. Ja, I like ziss,” says Dr. Loeb, clapping his fat hands together.

“You are lord and master of all creation,” says Edwin.

“Domination!,” he says, nodding so vigorously his jowls seem in danger of breaking free and rolling down his neck.

“What then?”

Dr. Loeb’s mouth hangs open. He has no answer.

“What good would it do, to control the whole world?”

“But, that’s what I’m zupposed to do!”

“Why?”

“Because, well, everybody knows ziss. Ze supervillain iz to take over the world.”

“Of course. But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems like a prudent question. You’re about to devote a considerable amount of your time and effort to reach a goal. Is this goal worthwhile?”

“I didn’t not become ze villain, ze super-villain I am, to be prudent.”

“That’s good. That’s the kind of thing that helps me. Now,” Edwin leans in to emphasize his question, “Why did you become a villain?”