Free The Exploding Detective by John Swartzwelder

on
too thick.”
    “Brilliant note.”
    “And soon I will
be ready to take over the world. People say I’m mad. Say it all the time. And
you know what? It’s starting to make me mad.”
    I nodded. “I’m
getting angry now too.”
    “After all, they
said George Washington was mad!”
    “Who said that?”
    “They said The
Four Marx Brothers were mad!”
    “Well...”
    “They couldn’t
have made all those motion pictures if they were truly mad. They would have
fallen behind schedule. See what I’m saying? And now they’re saying I’m mad!”
    “First The Marx
Brothers, now you.”
    “Could a madman
build a beautiful secret fortress like this? Could a madman hold his breath
this long? Or jump this high?”
    “You’re not mad.
Anyone can see that. You jump too high.”
    “Right. And
what’s mad about taking over the world, anyway? Somebody has to run the world,
why not me? And once I take over, think of all the good I could do with
unlimited power.”
    “And are you
going to do any good?”
    He thought about
this. “Well, I probably won’t have time. But the opportunity for good will be
there.”
    While we were
getting to know one another, I began to notice there was something strangely
familiar about some of his servants. The one who was heaping green beans and
chili con carne on my plate was a dead ringer for Abraham Lincoln, right down
to the hole in the back of his head. I gave my host a questioning look.
    “Yes, that’s
Lincoln,” Overkill said. “I’ll explain later. Eat your cuisine before the ants
get it.”
    I went back to my
food, but before the servant left I had him give me his autograph. He signed
it: “Abe Lincoln #906.” Later I tried to sell this autograph through a major
East Coast auction house, but they said it was a fake. Hey, I watched him sign
it. With his own hand. With ink he got out of his own head. Fake, my ass.
    As Overkill and I
talked, we discovered we had a lot in common – distrust of the government,
bitterness about our childhoods, teenage years, and adult lives, and a shared
feeling that the world had been created by God in seven days just to screw us –
and I could sense that my host was beginning to take a liking towards me.
    After we had
finished eating, Overkill stood up. “Let me show you what I’m building here,
Frank.”
    “Lead on, Ovie.”
    He took me on a
tour of his fortress and the surrounding grounds. It was an amazing place.
Evidence of fantastic wealth was around every corner, from the solid gold
fireplaces and mink driveways, to the gazebo made of ten dollar bills. He had
more Old Master paintings than the Louvre in Paris. In fact, some of the ones
he had were supposed to be in the Louvre. The Louvre had been looking
everyplace for them, but with no luck so far.
    All of these
treasures, as well as the island itself, were protected from intruders and
prying eyes by a wide variety of defense mechanisms. Light could be bent by
powerful machinery so no matter how close you were to the island, you couldn’t
see it. You would just be looking around it. So the island would effectively
disappear. Overkill turned the machine on to demonstrate this feature to me but
turned it back off when I kept bumping into him, for some reason. The island
also could be covered, at a moment’s notice, by a practically invisible glass
shield. It would have been completely invisible, except there were streaks and
smears and bird shit on it. Overkill said he would have that cleaned when he
had time. I said good.
    In the unlikely
event of an attack on the island, Overkill had many powerful weapons set up to
defend the place. He showed me how one of them worked.
    “Let’s say I
don’t like those condominiums on the shore there. Let’s say they’ve been saying
nasty things about me, and looking at me with their windows.”
    “I’m with you so
far.”
    “Okay, now watch
this.”
    He pressed a button
on a control panel. There was a rumble of shifting machinery from deep