Director Smiles awakes with a jerk. He realizes that Excelsior is watching him. Smiles is afraid before he can even fully wake up. “I have to go to court,” says Excelsior. Smiles nods. “Is it your fault that I have to go to court?” Smiles nods again. Excelsior frowns. “Rule 1 — no more court cases.” Smiles nods. “Rule 2 — you don’t pick and choose the emergencies anymore. You send me everything, I choose what I’m going to help with.”
“But you can’t possibly — ” Smiles protests.
“I can. And I will. Send me everything. If Gus wakes up, it takes priority.” Smiles nods again. He opens his mouth to speak, but Excelsior is gone.
Chapter Fifty-One
Excelsior Throws Down the Gauntlet
Excelsior takes the stand with surprising dignity for a man wearing a cape and tights.
“Hold up your right hand and solemnly swear, I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
Excelsior says nothing. The Bailiff starts to repeat the oath. Excelsior says, “This is bullshit.”
Judge Perkins is so startled that he says, “Excuse me?”
“I said it’s bullshit. That’s the truth. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Son, I’ve never charged a man in tights with contempt before. But don’t think that means I won’t.”
Excelsior holds up a small black box. “You know what this is? Of course you don’t. This is a pager. A very special kind of pager. And when it goes off, it means that something bad is happening somewhere in the world. Very bad. The kind of bad only I can handle.”
Judge Perkins pounds his gavel. “Mr. Excelsior, you will sit down! Or you WILL be held in contempt!” Excelsior reaches over and takes the gavel out of the judge’s hand.
“I have a headACHE,” Excelsior says as he crushes the gavel into dust. He turns back to the courtroom, “This pager has gone off three times since this bullshit trial started. I have never had to put up with this kind of nonsense before. He’s a bad man. A very, very bad man,” he says, pointing directly at Edwin Windsor.
“Objection!” Topper says. “The only bad man here is you. We have evidence, sworn affidavits!” Topper waves a pile of papers in the air. Excelsior squints and the papers are on fire. Topper drops the documents and stomps them out.
Edwin watches all of this as if it is happening on a television screen.
Excelsior continues, “Because I’m here at this farce of a trial, people are dying.” He reads from the pager. “A bridge collapsed in Oregon. There’s been a cave-in in Pennsylvania. And 134 brave souls are trapped on an experimental submarine at the bottom of the North Sea. These are all people I could be helping. But am I?
“No, I’m sitting here listening to this criminal. And just because he hasn’t been convicted doesn’t mean he hasn’t committed crimes.”
“I have committed no crimes,” says Edwin.
“He’s an accessory to every major villain I’ve faced in the last five years. This man is the brains behind the bad guys. The guy, behind the guy, behind the guy. Now I have to listen to him insult me? Bullshit. This costing people’s lives. I am out of here.”
Topper shrieks, “As you can see, he’s dangerous and unbalanced! Prone to fits of rage! He has an irrational hatred of my client. This man recognizes no law but his own.” Excelsior’s eyes flash again. Now the back of Topper’s suit is on fire. He runs around in a circle trying to put it out.
Excelsior steps from the witness stand and walks to Edwin. “And you. If you’ve got a problem with me, be a man. Don’t try and let the courts do your work. You want a piece of me? You chickenshit suit. You can have a piece of me. Any time. Any place. Anyway you want to go. We’ll do it.”
Edwin looks at him with infinite calm. Excelsior turns on his heel and walks towards the door. He thinks that the matter is concluded. But the sound of a chair scraping against the hardwood floor tells him he is mistaken. When he turns around, Edwin stands in the middle of the courtroom.
“Fine,” says Edwin.
“Fine?” asks Excelsior, unable to believe what he is hearing.
“Your terms are acceptable.”
“Oh, you don’t know when to quit.”
“If the time for quitting presents itself,” says Edwin, “I will quit promptly and well. Let’s settle this.”
“So what’s it going to be, Windsor?”
Topper looks at Edwin. The judge comes out from behind his bench. The reporters lean in. The sketch artist scribbles furiously, attempting to complete a drawing of Topper chasing his own flaming ass.
“Clubs,” says Edwin.
“Clubs? You got to be kidding, you want to fight me with a club? You’ll get killed. Besides, it’s not your style.”
“Golf clubs. Tomorrow, 8:15, Belvedere Country Club. If you win, the case is dropped and I no longer advise villains. If I win, you leave me, and my clients, in peace.”
“Fine, I’ll be there,” says Excelsior.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Front Nine
Edwin, Topper, Edwin’s caddy and Judge Perkins have assembled on the first tee. The only way the Judge would agree to such an unusual form of arbitration was if he presided over it. And now the Judge is faced with this first ruling. Excelsior is late. As the Judge kicks one of the tee box markers he considers how long he should wait before declaring a forfeit.
The next time he looks up, his problem is solved. There, in the sky, is a wondrous sight. A man flying in cape and costume, but this time, his silhouette includes a bag of golf clubs. As Excelsior flies closer he calls out, “Is this Belvedere?”
“It is sir,” answers the Judge, “and you are late.”
“Sorry,” Excelsior says, “all these damn golf courses look alike from the air.” As Excelsior descends, a gust of wind buffets him. He twists and loses control of the golf bag. Clubs rain down on the first tee and everyone runs for cover.
“Oh, Jeeze,” says Excelsior. His comment about finding the golf course is a lie. He had no idea that it would be so difficult to handle the golf clubs in flight. He has dropped them several times on the flight over.
“You know,” says the Judge as he emerges from behind a golf cart, “if you kill me, you forfeit the match. I want that to be clear. Now, we will proceed with match play on a hole-over-hole basis. A hole that is tied is halved and does not push to the next hole. USGA rules will govern play. If you need a ruling, don’t hesitate to ask. Good luck.”
“Yeah,” says Topper, “touch both clubs and come out swinging.” The Judge gives Topper a stern look. Topper asks, “What, you gonna hold me in contempt of golf course?” Judge Perkins considers it.
Edwin ignores this exchange as he surveys the first hole. Par four, 421 yards. Not difficult, but at about 270 yards the fairway narrows dramatically. On any other day, he would be tempted to hit a long drive and push for a birdie. But not today.
Topper takes the driver from the caddy and hands it to Edwin. “Just belt the crap out if it.”
“Three wood,” says Edwin, not taking his eyes off the hole.
“Three wood?”
“Yes, please.”
“I don’t know if I can let you do that. He’s gonna hit it a mile. You know he’s gonna hit it a mile. You can’t have this punk out-driving you.”
“Topper, the only thing I care about is him outscoring me.”
“All right, but don’t come crying to me when you don’t respect yourself in the morning.”
Edwin steps up to his ball. He takes a quick practice swing. Then he very plainly, very simply hits the ball 230 yards down the middle of the fairway. It kicks high in the air and come to rest.
“Nice pitch,” says Topper. “I like it. Reminds me of myself. Very short.”
“Yes, I get it already,” says Edwin.
As Excelsior takes the tee box, there’s no way he could look more out of place. Even in an environment where men have taken pride in wearing plaid with plaid, the absurdity of a man in a cape
playing golf cannot easily be explained. On top of which, Excelsior holds his driver as if it is a bird that he has crushed the life out of, and keeps on crushing, just to be sure. His practice swing is a cross between a slap shot and a seizure.
Topper laughs. He has finally found someone with an uglier swing than his own. One of the damned mocking the other. Edwin reserves judgement. The look of a swing matters little. What can he do with it? With this kind of thinking, Edwin tries to insulate himself from surprise. He believes that he is prepared for anything. Edwin is wrong.
With a grunt, Excelsior heaves the club backwards. As he begins his downswing, the corner of his cape wraps around his driver and locks off on itself. Excelsior lunges forward with all of his mighty strength. The club bends in half. Excelsior pulls himself off-balance and falls down just as the carbon fiber shaft explodes. Lying flat on his back, he tries to piece together what has just happened. The unmolested golf ball still sits on the tee.
Topper is overcome by a fit of hysterical laughter. The caddies snicker. Even Edwin permits himself a smile. Excelsior stands and brushes the club fragments from his hair. Only Judge Perkins manages to keep a straight face. “One,” he proclaims solemnly.
“What do you mean? I didn’t even touch the ball!”
“Rule 14,” says the Judge, “forward motion made with the intent of fairly striking at and moving the ball. One stroke.”
“What about my club?”
“I don’t think it will do you much good now,” says the Judge, with no humor.
Excelsior accepts another club from his caddy. This time he makes contact with the ball. There is an awful, hollow sound. The ball rises quickly, but leaks off to the right, disappearing into the rough nearly three hundred yards from the tee.
Edwin wins the first two holes without incident. After his drive, Excelsior removes his cape and plays as an ordinary man would. Badly, but without trying to take advantage of his considerable powers. On the fourth hole things get interesting again.
It’s the first par five of the round. Straight open, straight ahead. The wide, welcoming fairway is marred only by a single pit bunker. Again Topper begs Edwin to use his driver. Edwin ignores him, as does his caddy. Edwin calmly knocks his ball 280 yards out into the middle of the fairway. Solid, but uninspired.
“That’s noble work ya doing there, grinding it out,” says Topper.
As Excelsior surveys the hole, he has a feeling that it is his time. This is the way it always happens. He starts off taking it on the chin. He gets knocked through buildings, maybe blasted by a few energy bolts. Then, just when everyone has started to lose hope, he rallies and wins the day in a spectacular fashion. Usually with an uppercut.
“Windsor, I’m going to put this one on the green for you.”
“Best of luck,” Edwin says.
“You don’t think I can do it?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Excelsior turns back to his ball. He’s got it figured out. He has been tensing too many muscles. The muscles weren’t doing anything useful. They were fighting each other rather than letting the physics of the swing work for him. But maybe, just maybe...
He takes the club back slow and accelerates mightily as it comes back through. His wrists unlock and BOOM! The head of the club is moving so fast when it hits the ball that the golf ball explodes.
“Son, I’m getting tired of your shenanigans,” says the Judge. “Are you going to settle down and play golf, or are you going to keep this up the whole round?”
“But I’m not trying to…” Excelsior beats his club against the ground in brute rage.
“And that’s another stroke,” adds Topper cheerily.
“Aw come on!” protests Excelsior.
“Yeah, you big flying boy scout, you might as well just give up now,” says Topper.
“No penalty,” says the Judge, “Rule 5, paragraph 3 — if the ball breaks into pieces as the result of a stroke, the stroke shall be replayed without penalty.”
“All right. Win one for the good guys. Throw me another ball there, caddy.”
Topper sneers at the mention of the “good guys,” but Edwin’s face remains serene.
Excelsior smiles as he tees his second ball. Finally, something has gone his way. He has gotten a lucky break.
“Keep your head down,” says his caddy. Keep your head down. Like you were in a war. And wasn’t he? Excelsior has always believed that golf was a game for old, fat men, but now that he’s in it, he is surprised by how much pressure the game is putting him under.
Excelsior strikes the ball well. It only flies 320 yards, but this does not bother Excelsior. He tells himself that he will have it figured it out by the end of the round. His childlike joy at this shot slips away when he remembers that he has lost every hole up to now. But this is it. This is the turning point. No doubt about it.
Edwin plays a fairway wood for another 230 yards. This leaves him a straightforward pitch into the green. Topper watches it with a frown, “No imagination. No daring,” Topper says.
“Would you be content with a hole in one?” asks Edwin.
“Only if it had style.”
In spite of himself, Excelsior is beginning to like Topper. At least he’s game. Unlike the bloodless ghoul he is matched against. What’s the point of winning if you can’t enjoy it? This time, Excelsior steps up to his ball with total confidence. His caddy hands him an iron as if it is some mighty weapon from a Norse saga with a string of unpronounceable consonants for a name.
And then, in the long light of the early morning, with the strength of a god and perfect lie, Excelsior swings. The club head coils around his body even as his hips and shoulders begin to turn in the opposite direction. By the time the club head starts down, the momentum of the swing is transformed into a force of nature. His wrists unlock at the perfect moment. Just as the full power of the motion is about to be transferred into the ball, Excelsior lifts his head. The club hits the ground three inches behind the ball. Somehow, he manages to make enough contact that the ball squibs thirty yards down the fairway.
Excelsior realizes that he is going to lose this hole. And the next hole. And all the holes after that. And he will have to play all of them. Even though he knows how it will turn out. He sneaks a furtive look at the judge and wonders which rule and paragraph covered slaughter?
He tries to steady himself. He hates this game with every fiber of his being. It is a devilish creation. A way for the weak and decadent to mock the strong and virtuous. He could reduce this golf course to a wasteland with three quick passes.
His caddy taps him on the shoulder, “Yer still away.” Make that four passes, thinks Excelsior. A fourth pass just to make sure all the caddies are dead.
Miraculously, mercifully, Excelsior’s third shot makes the green. He misses his putt and leaves it six feet past the hole.
“Would you like to know what your problem is?” Edwin asks.
“People like you who make money off the misery and suffering of others?” Excelsior returns.
“No, no, no. With your game. You’re not used to working at anything, it’s all been given to you.”
“How about you play your ball and I’ll play my ball and you play a little side game of shut up,” Excelsior counters.
Edwin sinks his putt. “Birdie,” he says, as he wins another hole.
Now Excelsior thinks about losing. Losing the side, losing the match, losing the bet. He will have to grant Windsor free rein, allow him and his clients to operate with impunity. With each step it sinks in a little more. Because of him, the good guys are going to lose.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Turn
By the eighth hole, Edwin feels that he has the entire match within his grasp. Tie it on 9, win it on 10 does not seem out of the question. Then he will have the privilege of playing out the rest of the holes by himself. Just for the enjoyment of it.
You might think it would be a rare treat for Edwin to best someone with su
perpowers. But it is not. Excelsior has proved to be so little competition that Edwin isn’t finding much joy in the game. It feels like uninspired work. Like hanging siding or bagging groceries. Something that requires a person to wear a one-piece jumpsuit. Edwin shudders at the thought.
He can not fathom why Excelsior has accepted this wager. It must be some vestigial sense of honor, highly irrational, yet still active in the herd. It doesn’t really matter. Edwin knows how to exploit a lucky bounce when he gets it. And immunity from the world’s most powerful superhero — and the ability to sell that protection — is certainly a lucky bounce. Some might see this as a license to steal, but Edwin doesn’t think of it like that. He thinks of it as a license to print money. Steal, and you may get rich. Print money and you have power.
Edwin addresses his ball. He has never been more certain of his swing. But as the club makes contact with the ball, he feels a queer sensation in his hands. The ball leaves the tee with a frightening amount of topspin. The club head separates from the shaft and flies straight up. Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong.
There is Excelsior, grinning at Edwin’s misfortune. Edwin ignores him. He’s looking at his club. No defect is visible, but the shaft is twisted and mangled. It is unexplainable, undeniable. Somehow a perfect swing has resulted in an awful shot.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Topper asks. He grabs the club out of Edwin’s hand. “What happened?” Edwin ignores Topper. His only concern is what to do now.
“I guess you’ll just have to start hitting the driver,” says Topper.
“Four wood,” says Edwin.
“Four wood? FOUR WOOD! Are you out of your mind?!” Topper asks.
“I know I’ll hit it straight.”
“And you’ll still have 220 yards left to go!”
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