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Description
Writing Exercise 29 - Evil

     The purpose of this exercise was to write about an evil character in a fond manner.  That is, to write about him as if I loved him.  Well, I loves all my villains, so it wasn't too hard.  But we were to write, specifically, about that character's enjoyment of the fruits of a brutal crime.  There is more crime than meets the eye in this character, but his talk has enough that it needs no further explanation.

     Malcolm allowed his broad shoulders to slump a little as he relaxed his back into his chair.  His eyes idly wandered across the richly carved plaster on the ceiling, with its silver and scarlet highlights traced in delicate curves and faceted gemstone cuts.  Such moments of languor offered him a pleasant respite from the rigors of leadership.
     Even as a pup his mind had delighted in order and precision, but he was a dog of action.  There was ample money in the state coffers for a little redecoration, and he was considering what pattern ought to replace the rich, aristocratic arbitrariness of the current workmanship.  It should be something more regular - austere and sober, appropriate to the tight ship of state he was so masterfully captaining.
     A noise in front of him recalled him from his abstraction.  One of the oak double-doors that opened from the stained-glass windowed hall into his office had opened, and framed in the colored light that streamed in from the hallway there stood a diminutive dog, a Scotch Terrier, dressed in a uniform that emphasized his small frame in an unsuccessful bid to expand it.  The visitor spoke in a thin tenor that matched his figure perfectly.
     "President Barrann, am I interrupting anything?"  He spoke with a barely perceptible nervous quaver, which would have told Malcolm volumes about him even if they had not known each other for twenty years.
     Malcolm sighed and straightened his back, lowering his head at the visitor.  The tapestries on the wall deceptively softened his rich bass - a voice which in his revolutionary days had filled with booming echoes many a warehouse hideout or hidden valley.  Now it softly carried to the small dog at the door, heavy with pressure but quiet.
     "Nothing important, Secretary.  Please, come in."
     Secretary Harris entered, nervously glancing back at the hall as he closed the door behind him.  "President, I'll get to the point quickly," he said as he walked across the large room to the old half-round mahogany desk.  "The burglary of Councilman Buford's home was not one of our assignments.  We know that for certain now.  It appears to be an independent job, and Harconi denies any involvement."
     The pressure of Malcolm's voice surrounded the small dog again.  "Secretary, allow me to expound."  The president calmly settled back in his chair and raised a paw, palm upward, in a demonstrative gesture.  There was no need to size up his audience; he knew the Secretary well.  "All societies contain elements of malcontent.  The criminal is a natural consequence, an inescapable by-product of the rule of law.  I have explained this at length before."  He returned the paw to his desk and leaned forward two inches, aiming his eyes at a spot just above the Secretary's head.  "The peculiar genius of my decision to sponsor, clandestinely, of course, an organized guild of criminals is that it brings under my control the inevitable consequences of this impulse, or condition, while simultaneously providing those who succumb to it with both a suitable outlet for their energies and an established place in the society they scorn.  I therefore achieve the double advantage of a remarkable energy placed at my disposal, and the suppression of what would otherwise be a dangerous breeding ground of anti-establishmentarian sentiment."
     The secretary listened with his eyes lowered.  President Malcolm only spoke like this when he was making an effort at patience.  The slightest misstep on his part could lead to unpleasant consequences, and he knew, and also knew that Malcolm knew he knew.
     "However," the great bulldog continued in the same languid tone, "the presence of individuals who refuse such management can also be put to expedient use.  It provides us, as the ostensible defenders of the people from harm, both foreign and domestic, with an excellent opportunity to demonstrate our vigilance and effort on their behalf."
     With a sudden motion the President rose, shoving the heavy, carved chair backward with his knees, paws down flat on the desk, and head thrust forward.  His voice boomed and echoed now, despite the woven tapestries and carved ceiling.
     "What I am saying, Secretary Harris, is this: you have the entire blasted City Guard at your disposal!  Why, in the name of all competence, are you not quickly catching and making an example of these upstarts instead of coming and pestering me with inanities!?"  The ex-General's eyes locked with the Secretary's for a moment, then turned up to the ceiling again as he resumed his chair.
     The Secretary sighed inwardly with relief.  He had hardly expected anything so mild from the President as mere yelling.  It seems his old friend was in a good mood despite the bad news.
     "I have assigned our best detective to the case, President Barrann," he announced confidently.  "Rest assured, if the criminals have not already fled the city, he will have them within the week."
     "Not that cat, Harris?  Are you sure he is reliable?"  Malcolm's voice was a mere rumble of distant thunder once more.
     "Absolutely, sir.  He has never failed the City Guard once."
     "Good.  The next time you consult me, have either good news or important."
     A few minutes later, after the small terrier had left, Malcolm returned to his relaxed musing.  The Secretary's visit had actually been pleasant rather than otherwise - it showed just how smooth the machinery of his government had become after the rough early years of his rule.  A little prodding here and there was all it now required of him.  A satisfied smile which he would never allow his underlings to see played across his face as he pondered the joys of success.

Description
Writing Exercise 29 - Evil

     The purpose of this exercise was to write about an evil character in a fond manner.  That is, to write about him as if I loved him.  Well, I loves all my villains, so it wasn't too hard.  But we were to write, specifically, about that character's enjoyment of the fruits of a brutal crime.  There is more crime than meets the eye in this character, but his talk has enough that it needs no further explanation.

     Malcolm allowed his broad shoulders to slump a little as he relaxed his back into his chair.  His eyes idly wandered across the richly carved plaster on the ceiling, with its silver and scarlet highlights traced in delicate curves and faceted gemstone cuts.  Such moments of languor offered him a pleasant respite from the rigors of leadership.
     Even as a pup his mind had delighted in order and precision, but he was a dog of action.  There was ample money in the state coffers for a little redecoration, and he was considering what pattern ought to replace the rich, aristocratic arbitrariness of the current workmanship.  It should be something more regular - austere and sober, appropriate to the tight ship of state he was so masterfully captaining.
     A noise in front of him recalled him from his abstraction.  One of the oak double-doors that opened from the stained-glass windowed hall into his office had opened, and framed in the colored light that streamed in from the hallway there stood a diminutive dog, a Scotch Terrier, dressed in a uniform that emphasized his small frame in an unsuccessful bid to expand it.  The visitor spoke in a thin tenor that matched his figure perfectly.
     "President Barrann, am I interrupting anything?"  He spoke with a barely perceptible nervous quaver, which would have told Malcolm volumes about him even if they had not known each other for twenty years.
     Malcolm sighed and straightened his back, lowering his head at the visitor.  The tapestries on the wall deceptively softened his rich bass - a voice which in his revolutionary days had filled with booming echoes many a warehouse hideout or hidden valley.  Now it softly carried to the small dog at the door, heavy with pressure but quiet.
     "Nothing important, Secretary.  Please, come in."
     Secretary Harris entered, nervously glancing back at the hall as he closed the door behind him.  "President, I'll get to the point quickly," he said as he walked across the large room to the old half-round mahogany desk.  "The burglary of Councilman Buford's home was not one of our assignments.  We know that for certain now.  It appears to be an independent job, and Harconi denies any involvement."
     The pressure of Malcolm's voice surrounded the small dog again.  "Secretary, allow me to expound."  The president calmly settled back in his chair and raised a paw, palm upward, in a demonstrative gesture.  There was no need to size up his audience; he knew the Secretary well.  "All societies contain elements of malcontent.  The criminal is a natural consequence, an inescapable by-product of the rule of law.  I have explained this at length before."  He returned the paw to his desk and leaned forward two inches, aiming his eyes at a spot just above the Secretary's head.  "The peculiar genius of my decision to sponsor, clandestinely, of course, an organized guild of criminals is that it brings under my control the inevitable consequences of this impulse, or condition, while simultaneously providing those who succumb to it with both a suitable outlet for their energies and an established place in the society they scorn.  I therefore achieve the double advantage of a remarkable energy placed at my disposal, and the suppression of what would otherwise be a dangerous breeding ground of anti-establishmentarian sentiment."
     The secretary listened with his eyes lowered.  President Malcolm only spoke like this when he was making an effort at patience.  The slightest misstep on his part could lead to unpleasant consequences, and he knew, and also knew that Malcolm knew he knew.
     "However," the great bulldog continued in the same languid tone, "the presence of individuals who refuse such management can also be put to expedient use.  It provides us, as the ostensible defenders of the people from harm, both foreign and domestic, with an excellent opportunity to demonstrate our vigilance and effort on their behalf."
     With a sudden motion the President rose, shoving the heavy, carved chair backward with his knees, paws down flat on the desk, and head thrust forward.  His voice boomed and echoed now, despite the woven tapestries and carved ceiling.
     "What I am saying, Secretary Harris, is this: you have the entire blasted City Guard at your disposal!  Why, in the name of all competence, are you not quickly catching and making an example of these upstarts instead of coming and pestering me with inanities!?"  The ex-General's eyes locked with the Secretary's for a moment, then turned up to the ceiling again as he resumed his chair.
     The Secretary sighed inwardly with relief.  He had hardly expected anything so mild from the President as mere yelling.  It seems his old friend was in a good mood despite the bad news.
     "I have assigned our best detective to the case, President Barrann," he announced confidently.  "Rest assured, if the criminals have not already fled the city, he will have them within the week."
     "Not that cat, Harris?  Are you sure he is reliable?"  Malcolm's voice was a mere rumble of distant thunder once more.
     "Absolutely, sir.  He has never failed the City Guard once."
     "Good.  The next time you consult me, have either good news or important."
     A few minutes later, after the small terrier had left, Malcolm returned to his relaxed musing.  The Secretary's visit had actually been pleasant rather than otherwise - it showed just how smooth the machinery of his government had become after the rough early years of his rule.  A little prodding here and there was all it now required of him.  A satisfied smile which he would never allow his underlings to see played across his face as he pondered the joys of success.