foiled.
Edwin’s father had been with British Intelligence during the war. He had become a master of the dirty tricks of the business. And, unwittingly, he had passed some of these skills onto his son.
Of course Edwin’s father had not done this consciously or overtly. What kind of man would sow such seeds in his own child? But Edwin was exposed to a certain way of thinking. As a precocious child, eager for his father’s affections, he had learned quickly and well. Even now, as Edwin sits in his high office, towering over the lesser people, his father’s words are with him.
“No matter how smart you may be. No matter how much money you have at your disposal. No matter strength of arms or argument, you simply cannot force people to do a thing. It costs too much. For all the bombs we dropped, for all the lives that were lost, in the end, this is why the Nazis could not prevail. There is not enough money in the world to truly command and control a populace. All you can reasonably hope to do, is create a situation where it is easier for people to do what you want, than it is for them to do what you don’t.
“Then, none will oppose or seek to thwart your aim. It will appear to them that you are merely helping them do what they want. In the end, there is no defense against cooperation.”
In this pearl of remembered wisdom, Edwin sees the error of his ways. He has tried to control Barry. And he has done so without a proper mechanism for control. That was the flaw. It’s not as terrible of an error as it could have been. He had not attempted to work against Barry’s native instincts, but he had tried to limit him to the destruction of a single building. Predictably, this had proved costly, unwieldy and impractical. Barry was not a surgical instrument. He was an avalanche. But how to take advantage of the avalanche?
Edwin watches hour after hour of news coverage of Barry’s rampage. For the time being, the destruction has stopped. And hard-working news organizations are using all of their skills to whip people to a fever pitch, even though nothing is happening. They show clips of buildings collapsing, walls of dust engulfing fleeing people and pointless interview after pointless interview with the men and women on the street. As if the ordinary people mattered?
It is what Edwin calls the hysterical blindness of democracy. How can the ordinary person matter in a world where some can knock over buildings and others can fly? Why do the sheep not see it? Why are they not outraged? Why do the sheep not rise up to trample the wolves?
As soon as he asks this question, the answer appears on the screen. A young man with a tattoo of ram’s horn covering half his face and bits of metal protruding from the other half, speaks with all the sincerity he can muster. “Yeah, I don’t want anyone to like get hurt or anything. But I feel for him, you know what I’m saying? Sometimes I just want to bust shit up. Take it to the man. Like, like, all these corporations. He’s like a, a symbol. Like a spokesperson. You know. For all the little people.”
Surely this one is the smallest of the small, thinks Edwin. And still he identifies with the mighty. And in that insight the secret is revealed. They do not tear down their violent and destructive idols because they like to believe that they too are mighty.
Edwin’s desk is covered with information about Barry. Pictures, school transcripts, protective services records, anything that has ever been committed to paper. And in the middle of it all is a picture of Barry in the 3rd grade. His hair is mussed and his smile looks wide enough to split his face. Scrawled across his forehead in red magic marker are the letters C R O. The letters are in a child’s handwriting, but far from innocent. They knew they were taking advantage of the dumbest kid in the class.
The subtitle on the TV changes to “Riots Break Out.” Now the camera crew follows the boy with the tattoo on his face from car to car as he stomps windshields and kicks in headlights. And there it is. How can one make money from a spokesmodel for destruction? For anarchy? For worse than anarchy.
Once the question is properly phrased, the answer is obvious.
“Agnes?” Edwin’s voice cracks from days of disuse. He tries again, this time a little louder, “Agnes?” She comes quickly, fueled by the hope that her beloved Edwin has returned to himself. At first Edwin says nothing. He stands and unrolls his sleeves. He straightens his tie. Once again he dons his jacket of severe grey. Then he buttons the middle button and turns to his secretary.
“I need two things. I need a fashion designer, one with talent, but who will use English in a way that I can understand. And I need Barry’s current location.”
Agnes makes a note. “Designer, check. As for Barry, Topper has him.”
Edwin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Topper? Really? One can never be sure what he will do next.”
“Yes,” says Agnes, “but one can certainly fear.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Down But Not Out
Excelsior lays on the ground in the center of a pulverized concrete outline of his body. Because Excelsior is so proud, it will be difficult for him to ever admit that he was knocked unconscious, so, let’s just say that, right this moment, he’s just not very interested in opening his eyes. That is, until someone starts kicking him in the ribs.
Ordinarily, this kick wouldn’t hurt Excelsior, but he’s just been through the beating of his life (so far) and his ribs are a little tender. He cries out in pain. Then he opens his eyes and sees the ugliest man he has ever known.
“Jesus Gus, lay off.” Gus does no such thing. He continues his generous application of shoe leather.
“C’mon lard-ass. No laying down on the job. You ah, ack, ack, ack,” the cough silences Gus.
“Easy Gus, Easy,” says Excelsior. He sits up and instantly regrets it.
Gus hacks and spits. Even before the hunk of lung butter hits the sidewalk, the old man crams another cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “C’mon pissant, you’re not going to spread the blinding light of American sunshine lying down there on your duff.”
“I don’t feel so good.”
Gus lights the cigarette. On the side of the lighter, the faded memory of an Airborne logo is almost visible. The smoke that Gus exhales from the first drag is so strong it is more blue than white. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he continues, “Now you know what I feel like when I get out of bed. Candyass. So far you’re the only hero in the entire history of walking tall, kicking ass and shitting bullets hasn’t had to carry on after he’s had a beat down. Time to tough, tough, auHooooo hough hough hough.” Gus coughs his lungs down to a wheeze once again.
Excelsior gets to his feet. Jesus this hurts. He hasn’t ever hurt like this before. He feels a little nauseous. This sucks. He reaches out to comfort Gus, but Gus slaps his hand away.
“TOUGHEN YOU UP,” Gus roars with surprising force. “What? You turning fag on me now boy? Is that what you’re doing? Don’t you go all sensitive on me just because you got your ass kicked. That’s how it starts. Saw a whole platoon go fag during the Battle of the Bulge.”
“Up close and personal?”
“You keep joking flyboy, I know what it means to take a beating and keep on going.”
“Yeah, you look it.”
“Aw you’re just jealous ‘cause I’m so goddamned pretty,” Gus’ skin draws tight across his skull as his faceleather twists into a smile.
“Okay, okay. You win. You’re tough. The only guy who could kick your ass is John Wayne.”
“Bullshit. He was an actor. I’m the real thing.”
“So where is he?” Excelsior asks as three vertebrae in his back realign with distressingly loud pops.
“You mean the guy who cleaned your clock?”
“No, the ... I mean… yeah,” Excelsior says. It finally sinks in that he has, for the first time, been defeated.
“He’s over there a ways.”
“All right,” Excelsior says as he rolls his neck, “I’ll be right back.”
“No you don’t. We’ve got orders.”
“Orders?”
