How to Succeed in Evil - 02

by Patrick E. McLean

  Like a junkie, he cannot refuse.

  Chapter Two

  Vorld Domination

  Edwin Windsor leans back in his chair. His long form is all angles and ease. Well over seven feet of him stretches from immaculately polished wingtip to slightly loosened tie. At the end of this day, he displays the rumpled elegance of a man who is perfectly at ease in a suit. Examining his face, one might mistake him for a serene mystic of the East. Except for a wrinkle that surfaces between his eyebrows.

  This is frustration. Client-induced frustration. Deep inside him, Edwin believes that his life would be perfect if not for his clients. But, unfortunately for Mr. Windsor, his life is his clients. He is a most unusual kind of consultant. In all their myriad shapes and forms, consultants are a kind of parasite. At best symbiotic but, in all cases, useless without a host.

  Even though he knows it is hopeless, he must try again. He interrupts the flow of babble that has engulfed him.

  “So, Dr. Loeb,” he says, “tell me about your business plan.”

  Blood rushes to Dr. Loeb’s shaven head. He is wearing a Nehru jacket that is a little too small. The collar seems to prevent the blood from returning to his torso. It festers and turns purple. Edwin thinks that Dr. Loeb’s head resembles an obscene Christmas tree bulb. Perhaps he will have an aneurysm. This thought does not alarm Edwin. But if it has to happen, Edwin would prefer for it to happen outside of his office. Just when the pressure seems to reach intolerable levels, Dr. Loeb releases it by screaming, “VORLD DOMINATION!”

  Dr. Loeb’s face returns to a more reasonable shade. Now Edwin has a ringing in his ears. In an effort to clear some of the insanity from the room he says, “That’s really more of a goal than a plan.”

  “DOMINATION! DOMINATION! DOMINATION!”

  Clearly, Dr. Loeb is insane. All of Edwin’s clients are insane, but not all of them are so obnoxious about it. Edwin tries to appease the man in the hopes that this interview might end sooner. “I’ll just put down mergers and acquisitions,” he says as he pretends to scribble something on a pad.

  “Ja, JA. Acquisitions! I will overtake ze vorld. And if you help me mit my endeavoring, I vill grant to you a small island as your revard. Say, Aftsralia. Muhahahahahaha HAHA AHHAHAHAHAHAH!”

  As the laughter continues, the wrinkle of frustration digs deeper into Edwin’s forehead. Australia? How insulting. Edwin’s standard arrangement is 35% of the post-laundered gross. Edwin is not in the real estate business. And even if he were, Edwin knows that Australia is a mere 5% of the Earth’s surface. Australia is not enough. To say nothing of the fact that Edwin does not keep score in yards. He keeps score in dollars. 35% of the world’s wealth. Now that is a goal.

  Most important, taking over the world is an impossibility. The foolish conceit of a deluded mind. But his clients never seem to understand this. The less equipped they are to control themselves, the more they want to control the world. Why not start with a small island? A city block? An apartment building? One’s own temper?

  Edwin knows that reasonable goals are not buildings levelled, damsels abducted or heroes taunted — these are not the ends. They are the means. The end is wealth. For lack of a better term, money. Edwin can help the clients who have power or abilities and are willing to live by their own moral code. But this creature? This Dr. Loeb? All he seems to have is a shaved head and a formidable command of the cliches of villainy. This is a colossal waste of Edwin’s time.

  Sensing that Edwin’s attention has wandered, Dr. Loeb shouts “AUSFSTRALIA!” again. He gargles on the word. Edwin flicks his eyes to Dr. Loeb. What is this obsession with land? True, it is the only thing they’re not making any more of. But time — time is the only thing you can’t buy. Edwin wonders why he is wasting his time with this idiot. One more try, he thinks, and then I will be done.

  “Why are you yelling?” Edwin asks.

  “I’m excited.”

  “Please try to control yourself.”

  “Vell, I, ja, okay.”

  “Now, I am also excited. Because if you are this excited, you must have a wonderful plan — a brilliant idea with which to take over the world. Please, tell me what it is, so I can help you.”

  “I have plans for a giant laser.”

  Please, don’t say “in space,” Edwin thinks. Anything but another giant laser in space scheme.

  “A giant laser!” cries Dr. Loeb. His eyes dart from one side of the room to another, looking for those who would steal his secret and sinister plan. Seeing that the coast is clear, he bellows “IN SPACE!” Once again, maniacal laughter.

  Edwin rubs the bridge of his nose and waits.

  “You’re not laughing,” says Dr. Loeb.

  “That is correct. I am not laughing.”

  “But why? Do you not see the beauty of my sinister plan? Is it not unstoppable?”

  “Unstoppable?” Edwin asks. “It’s unstartable.” Edwin gets up, buttons his suit jacket and walks from the room. He has decided that Dr. Loeb is the ultimate waste of time. A sunk cost. A waste so wasteful, so irredeemable, the only rational thing to do is to make future decisions as if Dr. Loeb had never existed.

  “You’re coming back, right? I mean, ja?”

  Chapter Three

  Ghosts of Clients Past

  No doubt, you are familiar with the cramped wight-warrens of the modern business world. Perhaps you are one of the unfortunates who spends your every working hour longing to escape these narrow, frustrated places where the smell of cheap carpet hangs low amid poorly ventilated cubes. These places where the lesser demons of distraction run riot through phone systems and email. These places where the plants are plastic, the worker apes hairless, hunched, and pale. And hopeless. Oh, so hopeless.

  When these worker apes dream of their reward after death, their Heaven looks a lot like Edwin’s office. It occupies the top of a high tower that has the benefit of the cleanest air and clearest light in the city. And if you didn’t know what Edwin does, you could easily mistake it for a temple dedicated to a clearer and more civilized religion than the world has ever known.

  Edwin’s office is the size of a football field. On two sides, three-story windows reveal the city spread out below. Edwin’s desk is a simple slab carved from the heart of a redwood tree. The surface is clean. Most notably, there is no computer.

  This office is a place designed for the contemplation of lofty matters. If it were any kind of temple, it would be a temple of clarity. This is a room constructed to capture God-like intellect. Here one can nod to Apollo as he drives his blazing chariot across the sky. And here, Apollo will nod back.

  This is the room Edwin abandons. Edwin is frustrated that he must relinquish such a space to Dr. Loeb. None of this shows on Edwin’s face. None of it shows in Edwin’s thoughts. But all the same, the carefully controlled emotions are there. They are pouring into a giant cistern of feeling hidden deep within him.

  As Edwin walks the long hallway to his lobby, visages of past clients stare out at him from the walls.

  Here, a picture of Aluminar, whose semi-metallic skin flashes as Edwin passes. Aluminar once attempted to mine the center of the Earth and convert part of its molten core into counterfeit nickels. Edwin had advised against this scheme, suggesting that if one was going to use the power to tunnel effortlessly through the Earth for mining, perhaps gold or oil would a more profitable objective. Aluminar had not seen it that way. He had never returned from his storybook attempt to reach the center of the Earth. Perhaps he was still down there? Or perhaps he had encountered one of the several elements that rendered him powerless and inert. Whatever the case, the hole he had created in the poor soil of Eastern Oregon had collapsed in on itself. And now, only a nameless sinkhole marked Aluminar’s grave.

  Next on the wall is The Voodoin’. Edwin had been able to persuade him that the proper use of his powers was to provide zombies as cheap temporary labor to large manufacturing concerns. It had been an exceptionally profitable scheme. But The Voodoin’ h
ad no love for business. He retired to his native Haiti where he indulged his first love, the sport of baseball. He exhumed the bodies of many famous baseball players and reanimated them so he could watch them play on his own bizarre field of dreams hidden deep in the mountains.

  Perhaps most absurd among the collection is The Carolignian, a man who had the power to transform himself into a warrior monk from the time of Charlemagne by rubbing a bit of dead flesh that he claimed was the foreskin of St. Paul. Edwin had not asked questions. He had merely harnessed the man’s powers to make money. But soon after the money started rolling in, the Carolignian had disregarded Edwin’s advice, demanding of him “If God is for me, who can be against me?” As it turned out, a great many people could be against him. Edwin had never known the victory of secular humanism to be so bittersweet.

  And finally, Brainitar. Brainitar had cost Edwin dearly, both financially and personally. He admitted, only to himself, that he had made a terrible mistake when he had been sucked in by Doctor Grapewigget’s mad obsession. Steven Grapewigget had invented a way to remove his brain from his perfectly healthy body and implant it in an ageless, multi-function robotic pod. He hoped to prolong his life indefinitely and prove that this was the next logical stage in human evolution.

  Edwin cared for none of that. But with the vast parallel-processing resources of the human brain now in a machine interface, he devised a way for Brainitar to plug directly into the futures market. Using a combination of Brainitar’s unique insight and a massive array of supercomputers, he had devised a seemingly infallible trading scheme.

  But it had never been implemented. A factor unknown and perhaps unknowable had ruined everything — the phantom itch. It was a phenomenon experienced by amputees, in which the missing limb was still felt to be there to such an extent that the amputee would feel heat, cold or itching sensations. As an unforeseen side effect of Brainitar’s transplant, the memory of his entire body became an itch he could not scratch. The brain inside the jar was driven insane by ceaseless and uncontrollable sensation.

  Long nights Edwin had lain awake, wondering what he could have done differently. How he could have detected this madness. Insanity was hard enough to see in a normal person who was attempting to cover it up, but how do you read it into the folds of a brain suspended in liquid? There were no facial expressions. No chance of human warmth or contact. None of the thousand bits of information that we all rely on in our everyday exchanges with others.

  None of Edwin’s clients had ever really followed his advice. But it was Brainitar who was most to blame for the spot in which Edwin found himself now. A great portion of Edwin’s own fortune had been tied up in Braintiar’s scheme. And when Brainitar had decided, inexplicably, to hold a large dam hostage, Edwin’s investment was lost.

  Because of Brainitar, Edwin now has cash flow problems. Once again Edwin is forced to wade through the sludge at the bottom of the barrel of evil as he searches for an untapped resource. Someone with talent. Someone with potential. Someone completely unlike Dr. Loeb.

  Right now, Edwin wants to know how Dr. Loeb made it through his screening process.

  Chapter Four

  A Child of Faded Empire

  In the midst of the cavernous, modern lobby, Edwin’s secretary sits behind an early Victorian partner’s desk. The herringbone accents, brass fittings, and top inlaid with hand-tooled leather is at odds with the modernist decor. But, as Agnes is fond of saying, one mustn’t surrender to the modern merely because it is here. It is important to put up some kind of a fight.

  Agnes is dignified, gracefully aged and looks a trifle like Winston Churchill in drag. If you mentioned the resemblance to Agnes, she would be flattered. She is an unreconstructed Limey and, as they say on the island seat of that lost empire, frightfully proud of it. There is no dual citizenship for Agnes. Heavens, no. Her loyalty is to the crown and what it stands for. And her prolonged stay in this heathen country has only strengthened her upper lip and her determination to set a more civilized example for the wayward colony.

  At one time, an unfortunate person had seen fit to refer to Agnes as an “executive assistant.” Agnes would have none of it. She denounced the term as “barbarous jargon,” and declared herself uncomfortable with the prominence of the syllable “ass.” She is a secretary. She does not merely assist. She keeps order. And perhaps it is her smoldering, blue-haired rage for order that prevents her from jumping as Edwin storms into the lobby. Or perhaps it is that, after her long years of service to Edwin, she has seen it all.

  “What is that?” Edwin asks, gesturing towards his office.

  Agnes shuffles a few papers and ignores him.

  “Agnes? How did that waste of time find its way on to my schedule?”

  “I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Agnes carefully collates the papers on her desk into a stack. She folds her hands and looks to Edwin with her chin high in the air. “Now, how can I help you, Mister Windsor.”

  “That lout in my office.”

  “Dr. Loeb, yes, what of him?”

  “Why am I wasting my time on him? He has no powers. He’s obviously an idiot. There’s no potential there for us to make any money. Why did you not prune him from my schedule?”

  “I’m not sure I care for your tone.”

  “Agnes, please.”

  “It’s true,” Agnes grants, “he is a trifle substandard. But we are in something of a dire strait here. Clients have been dropping left and right. Dr. Spocktopolis has gone completely around the bend. He is refusing his latest invoice.”

  “That’s a collections issue.”

  “Yes, a matter for the Unstoppable Auger. Unfortunately, he seems to have let his name go to his head and has been stopped, rather decisively, by the authorities.”

  “Ah,” says Edwin. He does not like mundane details. He likes them even less these days, when all the details are less than flattering.

  “Ah, indeed,” says Agnes, not without sympathy. “These are trying times for us all.”

  “Yes, but there is simply no way that buffoon can help us. And why does he affect such a horrible Austrian accent?”

  “The accent is horrible, and out of place. Many of your clients want to be something they aren’t, but I have a good feeling about this Dr. Loeb.”

  And there it is. A feeling. Agnes is very old and very dear to Edwin, but a feeling? Edwin has no time for feelings. Feelings are fickle, fallible. Feelings fall apart, melt away or reverse without the slightest warning or provocation. To build a decision on feelings is to set a foundation in quicksand. Feelings! Even data can be falsified or misleading. But logic is something you can always rely on. Logic is the bedrock upon which Edwin constructs his world.

  “He’s not a Doctor,” says Edwin, “This is lunacy. Show the man from my office. I’m going to the club.”

  “Edwin! Please! This is no time for golf,” Agnes protests. The elevator doors close behind Edwin and she falls silent. She is old, but she is determined to keep from talking to herself for as long as she can manage.

  She turns back to her desk, and finds Dr. Loeb staring at her. “Excusing me, but vhere is Mr.... I mean, Herr Windsor... Vindsor. Where did he go?”

  “Mr. Windsor has been called away on urgent business. But fear not, he has left instructions for me to reschedule your appointment for a later date.”

  Dr. Loeb jumps up and down enthusiastically. Oh dear, Agnes thinks, I must discover how this will pay. She smiles at the odd man in the Nehru jacket, swallows her distaste and asks him if he would care for a cup of tea.

  Chapter Five

  It's a Par Four Life

  Right now, the most important thing for you to know is that the dwarf is insane.

  At one point in his life, the dwarf was wound very, very tight. He was driven. Consumed by the ambition to be the best trial lawyer ever. When he graduated top of his class from law school, no one made the obvious jokes. They were all afraid that so
meday they might have to face him in a courtroom. And they didn’t want the dwarf angry at them. But all of his classmates thought to themselves, “Y’know, one day that dwarf is going to snap.” The drive, the insane pressure, the self-denial and the fact that the dwarf in question was named Topper, all pointed in that direction.

  And snap he did. A shrink might call it a psychotic break. A fat Italian guy named Tony might tell you that Topper had become a real menefreghista — a guy who just doesn’t give a damn. But both Tony and the psychiatrist would miss the whole truth. The truth is that one day, the dwarf looked back over the terrain of his life and realized that he hadn’t had any fun. He hadn’t had a life. What he’d had was an obsession. An obsession that he didn’t want anymore. So he decided to get a new one. Topper decided it was time to have some fun. Actually, Topper decided it was time to have all the fun.

  Sure, Topper has his problems. Topper has his demons. And, as has been established, he’s insane. But the second most important thing for you to know is this: the dwarf has more fun than anyone else involved in this story. Including you.

  And right now, he’s playing golf.

  Topper waddles up to center of the tee box and stabs a tee into the ground as if putting the finishing touches on a back-alley murder. He clutches his driver as if he is afraid it’s going to wriggle free from his grasp and abscond with his wallet. He waggles forward. He waggles backwards. He heaves the club at the ball in a bizarre jerking motion that only the most generous observer would call a swing. The club misses the ball completely.

  Standing at a safe distance, Edwin says, “One.” Topper does not hear him. Topper is already swinging again. And missing again. And again. After surviving three of Topper’s attempts, the ball takes on an air of invulnerability. Topper searches for a way to play the whole thing off.