Excelsior pauses a little longer than he should. Off-stage Gus is motioning frantically for him to continue. Better just to get it over with, Excelsior thinks.
“There are some who call me a hero. I’m not completely comfortable with that. I’m just a guy who was blessed with some talent. And I feel that means I should help out where I can. In fact, I think we should all help out where we can, don’t you?
“And I’ll tell you something else, and it might be the most important thing I have to say. I can’t do as much as you think I can. You. You guys have the power to be the real heroes. No, no, I’m serious.
“Sure I can knock an asteroid out of space. Sure I’ve combated all manner of threats to our American Way of Life. Combatted and overcome. But I can only be in one place at a time. And, when you get right down to it, they don’t let me stay in one place for very long these days. The world is a dangerous place, so I have to stay hoppin’.
“But what I want to tell you is you guys, the little guys, you’re in there, y’know wherever it is that you’re in, day in and day out. And there’s millions of you. There’s only one of me. Think about that. There’s only one of me. So not only do you guys,” he tries for a dramatic pause, but it suffocates in cheese, “outnumber me. You guys, are my heroes.”
The applause is polite, but not heartfelt. He is the hero. Who was he to take their heroes away? As Excelsior leaves the stage, he hears the Master of Ceremonies say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please a big round of applause for the one, the only, the UNDEFEATED EXCELSIOR!”
Arrgh. Undefeated. Excelsior hates the word. Gus slaps him on the shoulder. “Good speech. Good speech. Now let’s go shake some hands.”
Excelsior’s hatred for handshakes and small talk, distracts him from self-loathing. Which is good, because they’re on him in a flash — the VIPs of the VIPs. They are all men of importance and accomplishment. They are all rich and envied.
Excelsior doesn’t envy them. He doesn’t want to work in the business world, so they mean nothing to him. He shakes hands, gently and carefully, steeling himself against any possible flinch reflex. “Thanks, thanks for coming out. Thanks for all you do. No, I mean it, you guy are the real heroes.”
It goes well, until Rick Apedis. Excelsior shakes his hand like all the others. He mutters a few empty phrases before he realizes that the man isn’t making small talk. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I said my company’s image is being wrecked by the Cromoglodon.”
Gus says, “Well, you got your logo all over him like he was a goddamned stock car. What do you expect if people are upset with you sponsoring a menace like that?”
“I’ve noticed that you haven’t stopped him,” says Apedis.
Excelsior’s face freezes. The man is right. Excelsior looks to Gus. Gus says something about security and priority and proportional response.
“That’s bullshit,” Apedis says. He points to Excelsior, “I think he hasn’t stopped the Cromoglodon because he can’t.” The group of powerful men fall silent as they wait for Excelsior’s response. The question hangs in the air. Is it possible to defeat the world’s most powerful Superhero?
Gus breaks the spell with his aw-shucks, West Texas drawl turned up to 11. “Of course he can stop that beast. But jes’ how much of this city do you want to lose in the process? I mean, me? Hell I don’t care. I’m a rancher’s son. Let our boy and that Cromogogomagomadon get a fussin’ and feudin’ — hammer this ol’ town flat as West Texas. Suits me just fine. I’ll move on in and raise cattle.”
Gus gets one, strained laugh.
“No sir, we’re waiting until we can get this brute out onto open ground where nobody’s gonna get hurt, exceptin’ of course the Gommagomacommadon hisself, then Excelsior here will batter him something fierce. But until sech time, Excelsior’s gonna do what he’s always done. Act in a way that protects the lives and the property of the citizens of the greatest country in the world. The United States of ‘Mercia. Let’s hear it for the big fella. Excelsior!” And Gus starts applauding. Such a cheap trick, but it works. Out of habit, everyone in the room joins in the applause.
Gus leans close to Rick Apedis and says, “Why don’t you step into the back and we’ll finish this conversation.” Before Rick can answer, he is flanked by two large men in suits.
In the back Rick is still angry. “Look, your little speech session doesn’t change anything. I still don’t think you can stop him.”
“I can too stop him,” says Excelsior, “if they’d let me.”
Rick looks at Excelsior. Then he turns to Gus. “It’s obvious I should be talking to you.”
“Hey,” says Excelsior.
“What do you want from us, Mr. Apedis? I told you, he’s not going after the Cromoglodon.”
“I think I have some say in that,” says Excelsior.
Gus whirls on Excelsior. “I told you, it’s not your job to think. That’s what we have smart people for. Now be quiet and let me handle this.”
“The problem is not the Cromoglodon,” says Apedis.
“What do you think the problem is?” says Gus.
“A man named Edwin Windsor.”
“Who’s he,” blurts Excelsior, “What’s his superpower?”
“He’s very, very smart. You see, he’s using the Cromoglodon to—”
“Blackmail you?” asks Gus.
“So to speak. He approached the head of Psyche and I for sponsorship rights to the Cromoglodon.”
“But you said you didn’t sponsor the Cromoglodon,” says Gus.
“I didn’t. Psyche did. Psyche sponsored the Cromoglodon with my logo.”
“Oh,” says Gus. “That is smart. And evil. Really, really evil.”
“It’s worse, it’s a monthly contract, to the highest bidder. So next month—”
“– the price is going to be bid even higher.”
“We can’t afford to have any more damage to our image, so we must outbid. Whatever it takes. And this will go back and forth until both companies are broke. And then he will move on to the next industry.”
Excelsior still doesn’t get it. “Gus, we have to stop the Cromoglodon! You have to give me another shot. You gotta.”
Gus shakes his head, “No. This rich bastard’s right. The Cromoglodon’s not our problem. Our problem is the guy who’s calling the shots.”
Rick Apedis taps Excelsior in the middle of the odd logo emblazoned on his chest. “You should never blame the puppet,” he points to Gus, “when you can blame the man who pulls the strings.”
“Yeah, yeah, you made your point. We’ll look into it.”
“I’ll expect you do significantly better than that. I have a standing tee time with Jim Buchanan. Senator Jim Buchanan.”
Gus scowls. Excelsior looks confused.
“Such an innocent. In addition to a terrible slice, Jim has oversight of your little agency here. Including the old man’s pension and salary. He pulls both your strings. So FIX THIS.”
Apedis walks off, feeling full of himself.
Excelsior decides he’s had just about enough. He looks at Gus and says, “You know, you guys can’t stop me either. What could you do, if I just decided to beat that jerk within an inch of his life?”
“Never happen. You don’t have the stomach for it. Besides, I’d get to him first,” Gus growls, searching through his pockets for a bottle of aspirin.
“No Gus, seriously, you can’t stop me from going after the Cromoglodon. Do you have a contingency plan for that? For stopping me?”
Gus hooks his thumbs in his belt. He looks Excelsior right in the eye. “Somewhere, somebody’s got a plan. There’s probably a bunch of real smart assholes with soft hands thinking on it day and night. I bet you it’s real complicated and expensive as well. Me, I don’t like to think so much. So you get outta line and I’m just gonna whup you silly.”
Excelsior smiles at the cocksure man. But his laughter trickles off when he realized Gus isn’t laughing with him. There is no
way on Earth that Gus could beat him in a fight. He’s old. Older than dirt. And he’s only human after all. Then why is Excelsior uncomfortable? Why does he look away first?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Giant Illusion in SPACE
The desert doesn’t care. There are many climates that seem to go out of their way to support and encourage life. But not the desert. If you can hack it, then fine, you can stay. Otherwise, out, out brief candle, this way to dusty death. The desert just doesn’t care.
Maybe that’s why mystics of all shape and size have sought out the barren places of the world. In the desert, there’s no place to hide from the light. A metaphor, there is no place to hide from the truth? But then why do madmen feel at home in the desert’s harsh environs? Maybe there is no truth? Maybe there is only predictably shifting deception. The creep of shadow across dry and rocky ground as the sun transits the sky.
But whatever the case, it is a fact that in this particular piece of desert, workmen are putting finishing touches on a very lovely house. It is white, two stories tall and gives the appearance of having plenty of room for Mom, Dad, Junior, Sis, Baby and Spot. More than enough room in fact. Because the entire family is out on the lawn. They are two-dimensional cut outs. Even the dog.
For this very special occasion, Dr. Loeb has adopted a costume of a lab coat and thick, elbow-length rubber gloves. He rushes about frantically, sweating and shouting orders that everyone ignores. In his mind, Dr. Loeb is the lynchpin which holds this entire enterprise together. Like the two-dimensional dog on the spray painted lawn, it is a poor fantasy. But then, a hint of power is all that Dr. Loeb needs to keep him going. His clock isn’t very accurate, but it’s easy to wind.
“What is ZISS!” he screams, pointing to a rock that has been spray painted green instead of being cleared from the Simulated Lawn Area (SLA). “Haf I not TOLD you! Wirklichkeitstreue! Realism! Realizm in everysing.”
The workmen ignore the tantrum. Like the heat and the dust, Dr. Loeb is just another inconvenience on this job site. A man in white overalls, gets sick of listening to Dr. Loeb. He walks over and removes the rock from the lawn. “Sorry, Doc,” he says.
Dr. Loeb yells after him, “And well you should be! Be thankful I do not haved killing you!” It is so hard finding quality henchmen these days, thinks Dr. Loeb. Then he stomps off to the blockhouse.
As Loeb enters the relative cool of the observation post, he snaps at one of the technicians. “Zou! Are zou monitorifing those clouds on the horifzon? Vill they intervere vith our test viring?”
The actor at the console turns around and looks at Dr. Loeb as if he’s insane. Which, of course, he is. But before the actor can say anything, Edwin emerges from the cool darkness. “High cirrus. Nothing more than ice crystals that have lost their way in the upper atmosphere, Dr. Loeb. They will not interfere with the test of your satellite.”
“Lazeradicator!”
“Lazeradicator, my mistake.”
Of course the clouds will not affect the “satellite” test. There is no satellite. Hidden within the target house is a compact array of pyrotechnics equipment. When the theatrically large red button on the command console is pressed a flash of light will erupt upward, followed by an explosive fireball. As light moves too fast for the naked eye to detect its progress, it will appear to all the world and, most importantly, to Dr. Loeb, that the test house has been vaporized by an impossibly powerful laser beam from space.
In the corner, another actor stares at two sine waves interacting at random on an oscilloscope. It’s beginning to hurt his eyes. The sign above his station reads ‘Telemetry.’ Dr. Loeb is drawn to the flickering green light on the screen. He stares at the interplay of the squiggly lines and pretends to know what they mean. Doctor Loeb slaps his hands together and cries “Excellent. You are doing excellent work.”
“Dr. Loeb, we have prepared a viewing chamber for you upstairs,” Edwin says, trying to corral the child into his playpen. Just then, a rumble, very much, but not exactly, like thunder, reverberates through the blockhouse. Edwin thinks that the explosion has been triggered prematurely, but through the reinforced glass he can see that the house is still there.
“You zee!” Dr Loeb cries, “Details. DETAILS! You have overlooked ze storm! I vill have you executed!” He slaps the man at the oscilloscope in the back of the head and hurries out of the blockhouse. Edwin looks to a man who is watching weather radar on yet another computer screen.
“I don’t know what he is talking about. Radar’s clear.”
Outside, Dr. Loeb spins in frantic circles as he scans the horizon “Vere is the weather? Vere is the weather?” Edwin raises his eyes to the sky and sees a man descending from the sky, cape fluttering lightly in the wind.
“Excelsior,” Dr. Loeb cries with perverse glee. “He has come to thwart my evil plan!”
How very odd, Edwin thinks, that Excelsior should pay a visit to the one client of his that he can be certain has broken no laws. Edwin meets the hero’s approach with a calm and level gaze.
“Edwin Windsor,” Excelsior says. It is not a question.
“MANFUL COMBAT!” Dr. Loeb cries as he flings himself at Excelsior’s waist. Excelsior ignores him.
“I’m here to stop you Mr. Windsor.” Excelsior says in his most official hero voice.
“Stop me from doing what, exactly?”
“YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT ME!” shrieks Dr. Loeb, slapping Excelsior’s legs repeatedly with his rubber gloves.
The somewhat obscene slapping noise disturbs Excelsior. “Uh, what is this guy?” he asks
“I’m sorry. He’s harmless. Just try to ignore him,” says Edwin. Excelsior does his best to tear his attention away from the spectacle clawing at his knees.
“It’s the Cromoglodon. He needs to be stopped,” says Excelsior.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” says Edwin.
“LOOK YA LITTLE FREAK, KNOCK IT OFF!” Excelsior yells so loud that it rattles the triple-paned windows in the blockhouse.
But Dr. Loeb is a game little rooster. “I will DEFEAT YOU,” he cries as he redoubles his assault. Such as it is. Excelsior backhands Dr. Loeb the length of a football field. Dr. Loeb lies in the dust and moans quietly to himself.
“Thank you,” says Edwin. “You were saying about the Cromoglodon?”
“We know you control him Mr. Windsor. We’ve spoken with Apedis. This needs to be stopped. You need to stop him. Or I will.”
“You are mistaken, I control no one. And I am not certain that he can be controlled.”
“This is a courtesy visit Mr. Windsor.”
“Oh, courtesy, of course. Can I offer you some refreshment?”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I. We have lemonade and a light lunch in the blockhouse.”
“Do you know who I am?” asks Excelsior. “Do you know what I can do?”
“I know who you are. I know all you can do is what you are told.”
“What?”
“Was it your idea to come here? To talk to me like this?”
“Well, no, but after conferring with—” Excelsior stammers, trying to think of something to say. Of course Edwin speaks the truth of it. It was all true. The last thing that Excelsior wanted to do is come to the desert and talk. But Gus had made him. He had said it was time to fire a shot over Edwin’s bow.
“So, after being told to come here,” Edwin continues.
“It’s not like that.”
“Really?” says Edwin, unblinking in the bright desert sun, “You really wouldn’t rather be pounding away at the Cromoglodon right now. Perhaps standing over him brandishing a piece of reinforced concrete with which to knock him unconscious, or batter the life out of him for once and for all.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“No, you are not. You are hardly a moral agent at all.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“You are a puppet. A puppet who is not even aware of
his own strings.”
Excelsior gets hot behind the eyes. He is sick of this. Sick of being called a puppet. And deep down, sick of it being true. But this is the only way he knows to live life. Even the thought of change terrifies him.
Fear wells up in Edwin. He wonders if he has gone too far, but his iron reason keeps a grip on his fear. This is the gambit. It must be played. And if he fails, there is no point in running or cowering.
Dr. Loeb finds his second wind. “YOU CANNOT STOP ME!” He cries as he claws to his feet. His thick rubber gloves smear through the desert earth like newt pads and runs inside the blockhouse. The tension is broken.
Excelsior watches Dr. Loeb go. “He’s insane, right?”
“Yes.” Edwin decides to try another tack. “You must be tired of having your life run by other people? Why should you possibly care that the Cromoglodon chooses to wear a particular brand of clothes? How does he harm anyone by doing that? It should be nothing to you when compared to the destruction and lives lost. Yet you are concerned with the welfare of a company. Clearly you are not a hero. You are something else. What are you?”
“I am a hero. I am THE hero.”
“And who has convinced you of that?”
“What are you talking about? It’s true!”
“Truth,” Edwin says with disdain, “is easily manufactured. Let me ask another way. Are there any choices you make that are your own?”
“Yeah, I—” and here Excelsior is interrupted by a strange feeling.
“I cannot sympathize with you, because you’re not a person. You’re a thing. An instrument. A tool driven around by ideas not your own.”
“You don’t know,” Excelsior says in something very like the voice of a five year old child. But he can think of nothing else to say. How does Edwin know?
“Who sent you here? Who is your controller?” As soon as he says it, Edwin realizes this is the wrong question to ask. It cannot be a singular person. It has to be a committee. Only a committee, bought and paid for by powerful people, could be this stupid.
Before Excelsior can respond there is a flash of light and the house behind them explodes. As debris rains down around them, Edwin calmly steps into the lee of the blockhouse and waits for the ringing in his ears to subside. Excelsior follows him and kept talking. Edwin understands none of it.
How To Succeed in Evil Page 18