From the hallway, Selene hears Topper ask, “Hey, Edwin what’s the C R O stand for?”
“Cromoglodon,” says Edwin, naming the awful thing he has just made.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Taking a Meeting
Over the next few months, the Cromoglodon remains relatively calm. He destroys a few vehicles and breaks a few windows. He also tears down a statue of a Civil War general, but since nobody remembers who the statue commemorates, only the pigeons are put out.
In an unusual spasm of sensibility, law enforcement agencies are given a standing order to leave the Cromoglodon alone. Under no circumstances are they to attempt to apprehend him. Yes, he is bad. But he is so bad, that attempting to catch him will only mean more pain and destruction. So the Feds claim jurisdiction and do nothing.
But this does not mean that Cromoglodon’s life is peaceful. He has created new movements in the herd. Inexplicably, the Cromoglodon is hot. Hotter even than the heroes that have tried to stop him. Magazines pay top dollar to paparazzi daring enough to get a shot of the Cromoglodon in action. When a photographer captures an image of Barry tearing a tour bus in half over his head, t-shirts are printed with the caption, “Who says the big city isn’t friendly!”
The media has a field day. And why wouldn’t they? It’s been a slow news summer and the Cromoglodon is a ratings dream. The fearsome creature just keeps on giving. First, he’s disaster news, then he becomes human interest and finally he crosses over into fashion and style. He is a hit. It becomes impossible to have a first-rate party without the Cromoglodon in attendance. And if he wrecks the joint (as he does, twice) it only serves to give new meaning to the term smashing success.
When two news anchors are horribly injured trying to interview the Cromoglodon their ratings shoot through the roof. Talk shows resound with questions like:
“How do you pronounce Cromoglodon?”
“What does it mean?”
“Why doesn’t he have a spokesperson?”
“Do you know who’s he dating?”
In this strange summer it seems the world has lost sense of itself. And story after story is spoon-fed to lazy reporters and venial news directors by a well-oiled public relations machine. A machine that is designed, assembled and financed (through a dizzyingly complex structure of front companies) by none other than Edwin Windsor.
An op-ed piece in a major newspaper describes the Cromoglodon as “A superhero for the post-modern age. The ultimate deconstructionist.” Another ‘thoughtful’ journalist writes, “Who cares that he doesn’t have a concern about outdated conventions of mortality? He is a symbol to all the oppressed and disenfranchised. Striking at the system itself – the only hero strong enough to combat the real villain, instead of acting as a repressive extension of an oppressive consumer culture.”
And when the frenzy reaches its height, Edwin strikes. But strike is too severe a word for what Edwin does. Edwin taps precisely and with great effect. It all starts with a left turn.
“This isn’t the way to my hotel,” says the passenger. In the front seat of the town car, an Armenian kid pulls his chauffeur cap lower on his forehead.
“Is will be fine. I professionalism.” Vasak figures everything will be better if he plays dumb.
“Hey Goddamn it. That’s my hotel over there,” Mike Hainer isn’t used to the people who work for him, even the temporary help, making mistakes. He’s a busy man. An important man. One with no time to fix other people’s mistakes.
“Yehghvelch,” Vasak says.
“Yegwich? What the hell is a Yegwich? Look this is simple, I need to go to the Plaza. Sprechenzie habla Plaza hotel?”
Vasak nods and flashes him a moony grin. The hell with it, Hainer thinks. He’ll get to the wrong hotel, have this guy fired and take a cab to the Plaza. So he’ll be late for his next thing. It’s not like he’s never been late to a thing before. He returns his attention to the stack of papers in his lap.
For Mike, there is always a stack of papers or a person demanding his attention. Mike Hainer is in charge of a frighteningly large sporting goods conglomerate. And over the last 20 years, he has wrangled his company from an obscure manufacturer of running shoes, into the premiere athletic brand in the world. The logo on his hand-tooled leather briefcase is the same logo that marks more than 80% of the world’s finest athletes. From soccer to snowboarding, golf to gymnastics, Pysche has burned its brand on the world of sport.
But that’s something of a problem. Pysche has grown so fast and been extended so far, Mike isn’t sure that are any worlds left to conquer. The proposals in front of him include sponsoring tee ball leagues and hiring archeologists to forge his logo within the centuries old ruins of Mayan Ball courts. Mike doesn’t like any of these ideas. He is of the mind that it’s time to invent a new sport. One that is faster-paced, has frequent breaks for commercials and that will allow every aspect of the game to be sponsored by corporations hungry for a piece of the increasingly fragmented public eye. If he could just figure out a way to make the outcome of the game hang on how much fans bought during the game…
The towncar’s undercarriage scrapes along the ground as Vasak drives into a below-ground parking deck. Finally, thinks Mike, this waste of time can come to an end. On to the next waste of time. Growth is always an uphill battle.
Vasak stops the car in the center of an empty level of the parking deck. “Where is this?” asks Mike. Vasak does not answer him. In keeping with his instructions, Vasak unbuckles his seat belt and leans across to the passenger seat. He feels around for the seat controls. He moves the passenger seat all the way forward. “What are you doing?” Mike demands.
Vasak opens the car door. He turns to his passenger and says, “Mechshelevdevel.” Then he gets out of the car, locks it with the key fob and walks away with a happy bounce in his step.
“What is going on?” says Mike. It occurs to him that he might be in trouble. He tries the door. When it doesn’t open, he gets angry. “Oh you Slavic Son of a Bitch! I’ll have your job for this. When I get through you won’t even be allowed to drive an ox cart full of dung in your native CrushinglyFuckingPooristan!”
Vasak doesn’t break stride. He knows the angry man is right. He is going to lose his job for this. But a strange little man had paid him a lot of money to drive this limo. And the little man had promised a lot more when the car was delivered. What did Vasak care that Mr Hainer was upset? It was not like Vasak could afford to buy Psyche’s shoes anyway. Besides, he was through with driving angry, dull business men around.
Hainer looks around the empty parking lot. He still doesn’t fully comprehend what is going on, but he has seen enough bad in-flight thrillers to know that it might not be good. Is it the Russian mafia? Is this some kind of shakedown? He begins to get scared.
He yells until he is red in the face. He pounds on the window with his fist and then his shoe. He is so worked up, he does not hear the car locks click open. A tall, elegantly dressed man bends down and slides into seat next to him. Now he understands why Vasak moved the seat forward. This man is very, very tall.
The man unbuttons his jacket and says “Mr. Hainer. I have a proposal for you.”
“And who in the hell are you?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Pitch
