“I don’t care,” says Edwin. He strides towards a stand of scrub pine, thinking to conceal himself as he makes his way around to the garage. But when the air horn blows again, this time louder and accompanied by the roar of a diesel engine, he cannot resist turning his head.
Descending the hill and rushing on to the front lawn is what appears to be a flatbed truck loaded with a bulldozer. The truck accelerates directly towards the house, but before it gets there, the driver appears to have second thoughts. The cab flails one way, then another. But it is largely irrelevant, the mass of the trailer and bulldozer have been put into motion. The cab jackknifes and now the trailer drags it towards the house.
“Inertia,” thinks Edwin.
The trailer hits the house sideways. The effect is impossible to adequately describe, but just imagine that someone has nuked the entire Victorian era. Frilly bits and doilies and bits of antique china fly everywhere. The entire first floor of the house is sheered from the foundation and shoved fifty feet backwards. The upper story and half comes crashing down on the truck.
In the patrol car, from a safe distance, Deputy Earl struggles to process the instantaneous conversion of a two-story Plantation House into a deconstructed, post-modern ranch. Try as he might, too many contradictory images and facts crowd his mind. So he sits there with his mouth open. After a moment he turns to Agnes for some kind of context or explanation.
As Agnes watches survivors emerge from the demolished house, she is consumed by thoughts of Edwin’s safety. “You see,” she asks the deputy, “Do you see what happens?”
The deputy just stares.
“Now,” Agnes continues, “I am going to say I told you so. And then you are going to turn on your lights and we are going to race down there and restore order. Do you hear me young man?”
The deputy has gone back to staring at the carnage. He manages to nod his head in agreement. “My sheriff’s in there,” is all he can say.
After a brief pause, Agnes says, “I told you so.” The deputy turns on the lights and starts down the hill.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Rescue
Topper falls out of the truck. It does not diminish his mood.
“WHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That was awesome! Topper: 1. Gone With the Wind House: 0!” After a brief victory dance, Topper searches for his friend. “Edwin! Edwin! Where are you big E? I’m here to rescue you.”
Topper clambers over the frilly debris and walks towards a man lying on the ground. It’s not Edwin. It’s a young man clad in only a loincloth and a feathered headdress. He is bleeding from his head. The injured boy looks up at Topper and asks, “What happened?”
“I hit the house so hard I musta blown the clothes right off of you!”
“I need a doctor.”
“Yeah, you need a lot of things,” Topper agrees. “But this conversation bores me. Let’s talk about what I need. I’m looking for a tall guy. In a suit. Real serious. Looks like he’s never had any fun.” The boy does not answer. He passes out. “Oh, you’re useless. Edwin! Edwin!”
Edwin emerges from the darkness. He is covered in filth, but still manages to maintain his poise. Over his left arm he carries what is left of his suit jacket. It is easy to see how any man who has just been through Edwin’s ordeal could be angry. Perhaps even enraged at the affront to dignity. But not Edwin. As he surveys the destruction, he finds it depressingly pointless. A fitting ending to the entire episode, yet deeply regrettable.
Topper is ecstatic. “Yes!,” he cries, “I saved you. I’m a FRIGGIN’ hero!”
Edwin sees a jacket hanger amid the rubble. He bends down and picks it up. As he puts his jacket on the hanger he says, “No rescue was required.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you see the truck and the bulldozer and the BOOOM! Whattya want, a friggin’ cavalry charge?”
“Yes, yes, extremely destructive. But what if I had been on the first floor?”
“Ah, first floor isn’t tall enough for you,” counters Topper. Edwin knows better than to explore the absurdity of Topper’s logic.
“Why did you depart from protocol?”
“Agnes wouldn’t tell me what it was!”
“No doubt from fear that you would take matters into your own hands.”
“Yeah, well, I did and now you are rescued,” says Topper.
Edwin frowns at Topper. Edwin also frowns on the entire idea of the ends justifying the means. Just because it worked out this time, doesn’t mean it was a smart thing to do.
“Oh you bastard, don’t you take this away from me. You can’t. I rescued you. Look! Just look at it.” Topper gestures wildly at the truck and bulldozer embedded within the wreckage of the collapsed plantation house. He admires the spectacle for a moment, then returns to pleading, “Edwin, please don’t take this from me. I need this. I rescued you.”
Edwin takes a deep breath. What does it matter? It’s all a sunk cost now. “Very well Topper, you have rescued me. Thank you ever so much. Now where is Agnes? Not in the truck I hope.”
There is a shriek as the stripper falls out of the truck cab. As she staggers off, the Sheriff pleads with her from the door, “C’mon honey, come back. They’s a sleeper cab in the back.”
“She is most certainly not in the truck,” says Edwin.
“Edwin!” Agnes cries. She rushes to Edwin and hugs him. “Are you hurt? What have these Philistines done to you?”
“I am fine.”
“Yeah,” says Topper, chest swelling with pride. “He’s fine ‘cause I rescued him.”
“I am so sorry Edwin, I could not stop him. I turned my back and…”
“It’s all right, Agnes. It has all worked out for the best.”
“Yeah, thanks to Topper it’s all a big fat happy ending,” says Topper.
“Edwin, what has happened to your suit? And what is that awful smell?” asks Agnes.
“I am afraid that is the smell of pig.”
“Oh my God.”
Edwin holds up the jacket. It is utterly destroyed. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to find something off-the-rack at this late hour,” says Agnes. Edwin shudders at the thought of trying to make do with something cut for the lowest common denominator that is the mass.
Survivors of every shape and kind emerge from the house. Some flee immediately. Others wander the grounds in mute amazement. Seeming to wonder, did the plane crash? How am I still alive? And hey, I wasn’t in a plane. I was in a house. Houses don’t fall out of the sky?
The sheriff recovers what little dignity remains of his office and asks the obvious question, “Where’d all these slippery faggots come from?”
Dr. Loeb emerges from the shadows to answer the Sheriff, “They haff been brought here and held against their vill. As haff I. I am afraid mine mater has quite lost her mind.” He points to a figure wandering about on what is left of the front lawn.
The Sheriff turns and he sees Iphagenia Rielly staggering around her lawn like a cross between a Can-Can girl and Mardi Gras float that came in third in a demolition derby. All he wants to do is go home and sleep it off. So he calls in the State Police. He calculates that his cousin, a good, dull, churchgoing man, has been sleeping for at least eight hours. Let him worry about it for a while.
“What are we going to do now?” asks Agnes.
Edwin puts an arm around Dr. Loeb’s shoulders. “We are going to build a giant laser. In space.” Edwin does not smile.
Alabaster, who is really Daniel, has not bothered to run. He knows it is over. He knew it had been too good to be true. He sits on what was left of the front steps and waits for the hammer to fall. Every time he closes his eyes he sees visions of his sons working at Dairy Queen. Every time he opens them he realizes he is going to jail. Edwin walks over to him. Alabaster does not plead. He does not try to bargain. He just sits there and waits for the tall man to exact his revenge.
Edwin considers him for a moment. Then he says, “Daniel, you are an intelligent man and en
tirely without scruple. A totally self-interested agent who seems to care only about money.” With a flick Edwin presents his card. “If you find yourself in need of work, contact me. I can use a man like you.”
Daniel takes the card, not entirely sure of what has just happened. Perhaps he’s not going to jail. But why won’t this feeling of dread desert him?
Clarence decides that he’s done with the entire state of Alabama. When the truck had hit the house, he had been tossed into the sleeper cab. Now that he’s crawled out, he’s decided he doesn’t care about any of this. And why should he? He and his crew are due in Virginia day after next to tear apart a WWII-era generator factory for the Department of Defense. The DoD should have more than enough juice to get him out of whatever ridiculous jam this is. This bullshit is clearly somebody else’s problem. So he fires up the truck and drives away. That night he leaves frilly bits of house scattered across three states.
Chapter Twenty-Two
23 Seconds
When Iphagenia is admitted to the emergency room she is diagnosed with dehydration and extreme sexual exhaustion. But by the time she is discharged, she is no longer in control of her fate. Topper works quickly. As it turns out, the judge with jurisdiction over Hims Chapel, Alabama is yet another of the Sheriff’s cousins. And he thought that Topper was even funnier than the sheriff did.
Normally the argument required to deprive someone of their Power of Attorney and commit them, involuntarily, to a mental institution, takes months. And in cases where staggeringly large amounts of money are involved, years can pass with no resolution. It is necessary to prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the person in question is a danger to themselves or others.
This usually takes days of expert testimony, a careful presentation of meticulously prepared evidence, and, quite often, the deliberation of a jury. But as Topper sips a glass of the Judge’s fine bourbon, he make his case with a handful of photographs and one sentence. “She’s friggin’ crazy.” The judge laughs and signs the paper that transfers control of the entire Rielly estate to Eustace Eugene Rielly. The generous bribe also helps.
Then comes the obligatory stack of legal forms for Dr. Loeb to sign. Topper rattles through them quickly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Happy Mother’s Day. Sign here. Initial here. Sign here, here and here.” Somewhere in the middle of the thick stack of forms that Dr. Loeb signs to commit his mother, is a very special contract. It looks like all the others. Across the top it says, Power of Attorney. There are a lot of “Powers of” going on in this case. But this one is different. This form grants Edwin Windsor a complete Power of Attorney for all of Eustace Rielly’s (dba Dr. Loeb) affairs.
Of course, these legal machinations will not hold up to a concerted assault. But Iphagenia has gone around the bend, so she can initiate no legal action. Edwin’s special genius will save him trouble with Dr. Loeb. Restraint. Edwin isn’t going to seize the money all at once. This isn’t a smash-and-grab job. He will bleed it off slowly. Imperceptibly. Imperceptible to Dr. Loeb at least. And along the way he will make certain that Dr. Loeb gets good value for his money. Edwin is going see that Dr. Loeb fully realizes the fantasy of being a powerful and successful supervillain. In Edwin’s eyes it is a fair bargain. And he is certain that, if he could spare the several years it would take to explain the matter to Dr. Loeb, he would see it that way as well.
So it is that Dr. Loeb betrays his own mother, gains control over her and, for 23 seconds, is heir to one of the largest fortunes in the United States. But before he can squander a penny of it, Edwin snatches it from his grasp.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A New Suit
Bone-weary, Edwin enters the private aviation terminal in Mobile, Alabama. As the automatic doors slide open, a wall of cool, processed air envelopes his body. Tendrils of vapor coalesce and spin through the thickened atmosphere outside. As the doors close, Edwin is almost able to forget the world outside the airport.
That is the point of the modern airport, isn’t it? Featureless monotonic travelspace providing uniformly grim comfort to the weary traveler. England, New England, New Delhi and Detroit all the same. Where you might be going and where you might be delayed are indistinguishable until you exit the airport. And no matter how awful your locale, the mediocre plastic womb of the airport is always there for you.
For this and many other reasons, Edwin loathes airports. In fact, in this state of distress and undress, Edwin loathes everything. In a dirty undershirt, tattered and ruined pants, shoes still full of filth, he is a stark contrast to the uniformed plastic of the airport terminal. Edwin recognizes that fatigue and distress color his emotions and distort his thinking, but at this point, there is little he can do about it. The only thing for it is a hot shower and a proper change of clothes. Such necessities seem, at best, hours away; and what would be the point of cleaning up now? He can think of nothing more depressing than putting a clean body back into filthy attire.
On the far side of the terminal, Agnes is making arrangements with the flight crew. Edwin can hear that there has been some mixup with refueling. In her very polite way, Agnes is raking an airport official back and forth over the coals of her proper and righteous indignation. Edwin is confident that she will have it sorted out soon enough. Or, at the very least, she will have a roasted civil servant for her trophy case.
Nearby, Topper has passed out in an uncomfortable seat. There is a misleading innocence that gathers around him as he sleeps. Perhaps it is just his childlike size. But this veil of innocence is perforated by boozy snores that presage the titanic hangover condensing within him.
In his exhaustion, Edwin paces around the terminal. There is little point in sitting in one of the plastic terminal chairs. They are too small. Everything built for the public is simply the wrong scale for him. And Edwin, exhausted though he may be, will not offend dignity by sitting on the floor. Even the prospect of a rest seems as if it will be small consolation.
It is optimism (as much an analytical sin as pessimism) that has cost Edwin one of the few truly great bespoke tailored suits in the world. As great generals look back on massacres, Edwin considers the events that have led to the destruction of his suit. How could he have been so blind? How could he have thought that he was dealing with civilized people?
When Agnes asks such questions he brushes them off. But as Edwin paces the terminal, these questions hang on him like medals of defeat. Was he wrong to assume that people could be even remotely rational? Why does he see the world in a way foreign to those around him? Are the tasks he sets himself inherently hopeless?
Despair drapes the great man like a shroud. Of course, Edwin has made money. He always manages to make money. But what he can never seem to do is make sense of the world. Even as he thinks these things, he knows it is the fatigue thinking them. But he cannot stop himself. He cannot even stop his pacing. Just like he cannot stop trying to talk sense to the insensible.
He crosses his hands behind his back and bows his head. Chin touching his chest he considers the tattered remnants of his suit pants. The light grey and clean, rational lines have been horribly blotted and marred by all manner of filth. The left pant is torn halfway up the calf. This is the garb of some sweaty, maladjusted and weak-minded adventurer. Can his current state really be the reward for his long efforts?
He hears the automatic door behind him open and close. As the crisp, measured clicks of dress shoe heels draw closer to him, he turns. The afternoon light reduces the approaching figure to a silhouette. The outline of a man in a bowler hat, carrying something draped across his arm.
Edwin smiles. Truly, Agnes thinks of everything.
“Mr. Giles,” says Edwin, “I am so glad you can join us.”
Mr. Giles returns a withering gaze that speak volumes. “Mr. Windsor, you look a fright. What have you done to my suit?”
“It is not my fault, I assure you. But I have, you should be glad to know, escaped unharmed.”
Mr. Giles does not reply. Instead he re
moves his hat and drapes the garment bag across a row of seats. “I have heard of your plight. And, at the request of your secretary, I have traveled a great distance in a short time.”
Edwin appraises himself in the mirror and likes what he sees. He has scrubbed his skin and now it glows a rosy pink. His time in the sun has given him a little color, and it lends him, if only temporarily, the air of a healthier, more physically adventuresome man. Perhaps, one who enjoys the tedious pastime of yachting.
Mr. Giles has a different assessment. The jacket lies improperly across Edwin’s shoulders. No one else may ever notice this flaw in the work, but for Mr. Giles, it cries out for adjustment. He is keenly aware that he only has a finite amount of suits left in him. And he wants each to be better than the last. “Shall have to tune the jacket a little,” he says in a tone that attempts to downplay the seriousness of the matter.
“What’s wrong with it?” Edwin asks as he turns and smoothes the jacket across his midsection. The dark blue fabric moves like a second skin. The suit is magnificent.
“Hmm,” says Giles. “You can wear it back to the city, but then you must give me some time with it.”
“Very well.” Edwin tugs gently on his shirt cuffs. He takes a moment to enjoy the somber, dark blue. Edwin has slogged through the filth and the absurdity to find himself in command of vast financial resources once again. Now, he can fund any scheme he deems reasonable. No more small time. No more attempting to explain the quality of the opportunities he can create to investors blinded by troublesome and antiquated morals.
“I should like another suit,” Edwin says.
“Very good Mr. Windsor.”
“Black, I should think.”
How To Succeed in Evil Page 11