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 his 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 had Edwin lay awake, wondering what he could have done differently. How could he 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 to 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 Edwin found himself in 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 had 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
Agnes is dignified, gracefully age’d 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 and stood 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 this 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 a “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 talking 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 effect 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 was something you could 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 Neru 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 midget is insane.
At one point in his life, this midget 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 someday they might have to face him in a courtroom. And they didn’t want the midget angry at them. But all of his classmates thought to themselves, “Y’know, one day that midget is going to snap.” The drive, the insane pressure, the self-denial, and the fact that the midget 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 midget 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 I said, he’s insane. But the second most important thing for you to know is — the midget has more fun than anyone else involved in this story. Including
