How To Succeed in Evil Read Online Free Page A

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 you.
    And right now, he’s playing golf.
    Topper waddles up to center of the tee box and stabs a tee into the ground as if putting the finishing touches on a back-alley murder. He clutches his driver as if he is afraid it’s going to wriggle free from his grasp and abscond with his wallet. He waggles forward. He waggles backwards. He heaves the club at the ball in a bizarre jerking motion that only the most generous observer would call a swing. The club misses the ball completely.
    Standing at a safe distance, Edwin says, “One.” Topper does not hear him. Topper is already swinging again. And missing again. And again. After surviving three of Topper’s attempts, the ball takes on an air of invulnerability. Topper searches for a way to play the whole thing off.
    “Are you giving me strokes on this hole?” Topper asks.
    “If it will help, I won’t count those last three,” says Edwin.
    “What? Those were a practice swings! Practice swings!”
    This illustrates the most fundamental difference between Edwin and his lawyer. To Edwin’s way of thinking, if you are going to cheat at golf, why bother playing at all? The way Topper sees it, if you’re going to play a game, you should go the extra mile and cheat at it. Winning is way more fun than practice. And the best way to win without practicing is to cheat. Ergo… It is the simple, irrefutable logic of Topper’s overcooked little brain.
    Topper lines his left eye up on his ball and closes his right. He thinks he’s doing this to maintain alignment at the point of impact, but it reads as a bad Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Okay ball,” Topper says, “Time to go for the big ride.” Somehow Topper connects with the ball. It squibs along the right side of the fairway and comes to rest within bounds. Barely.
    Topper turns and holds up his club. “You know. I don’t think it’s me. Seriously, I think this club is warped.” Of course, Topper is deluding himself, but that’s more fun than dealing with reality.
    Edwin takes the tee. He always gives Topper the honor of going first on the first hole. For the rest of the round, the order is determined by who had the lowest score on the previous hole. And, for the rest of the round, that will be Edwin. As Edwin surveys the hole, the wrinkle in between his eyebrows disappears. Something inside him unclenches. This, more than anywhere else, is where the tall man is at home. There are no low door frames, no undersized chairs. This is a game on his scale. It is not measured in feet and inches, but in yards. And every shot is accounted for. That is important to Edwin. Everything must be accounted for.
    The tall man stays within himself as he