Razor Burnby O. J. Anderson |
Table of Contents Chapter 7, part 1; part 2 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 appear in this issue. |
| Chapter 8 |
Delores enters the office holding her ubiquitous clipboard firmly against her chest. “Excuse me. Mr. Bikharmer.”
“What is it, Delores?”
“They’re ready for you now.”
“Who is?”
“The marketing team. You’re meeting with them twenty-two minutes ago to approve the ad campaign.”
Angered by the news, Erskine wonders why he hasn’t fired Delores yet. “Well why wasn’t I made aware of this twenty-three minutes ago then, Delores?”
“You sent me out for pastry so I taped that big yellow sheet of paper onto your desk lamp. There, the one with all the arrows pointing to the time.”
Erskine looks at the lamp. “I see. Tell them I’m on my way.”
* * *
Erskine sits at the head of the table. Seven people from the marketing team smile and nod. Each of them anxious to wedge their proboscis firmly up Bikharmer’s rear end. But usually not a bright idea among the lot of them. Most hired as table scraps from the Garden City School of Business after all the sharp students with bright futures said, “Uh, no thanks,” and emigrated to Walldalla or Dewitt Park.
Clapping his hands together, Erskine says, “Right. So who’s up first?”
The tall, young man to the left stands smoothing out his tie. He holds up a finger and says, “I believe I am, sir.”
Others roll their eyes and smirk.
“Good. Let’s get on with it, Chip, Chet...”
“Chris, sir. Chris Woolbury.”
“All right, Chris. Dazzle me.”
Dramatic pause. Chris puts his hands on his hips and looks to the ceiling. Then, quietly, he asks, “What... do... people... want? Hmmm. People need food, water, affection, and shelter. But what do people want most? Oh, we want a lot of things. A nice home to call our own. Fancy car. Kids, maybe. Good dog. But I ask you again...” Chris wanders slowly around the table and stands next to Erskine Bikharmer. “What do people want most?”
“I don’t know, Chris. Would you just get to the point already?”
Stifled laughs from the marketing team.
Chris takes off in a full sprint to the far side of the room, leaping and bounding, tie flapping over his shoulder. He sticks a landing by the projector screen and spins around to face Mr. Bikharmer. He takes two deep breaths, pumps his fists out to the sides. He shouts: “People want to be taken care of! They want to feel safe! They want to know that someone is looking out for them.” Putting his arms down, he continues calmly. “Mr. Bikharmer, I would like to present to you...”
Pressing a button on the remote control reveals a cartoonish picture on the screen. It is a big-chested man wearing a mask and a tight red costume. He is holding some sort of weapon in one hand. On his chest are the letters CA.
“Captain Aspirin!”
Erskine casts a dubious, sideways glance at him. “What?”
“Captain Aspirin, sir.” He comes to the rescue and blasts away headaches. With, uh, his gun thing there. That’s the headache blaster.”
“I don’t think so,” Erskine says. “Who’s next?”
Utterly devastated, Chris sits down. No one else volunteers.
“Come on. Surely someone else has something better than Captain Aspirin. You there, what’s your name?”
The blonde girl in the gray suit develops a facial tick. “Me, sir?”
“Yes, you. What’s your name?”
She clears her throat, leans forward like she’s about to stand. “Claudia, sir.”
“Well, Claudia, get to it. I don’t have all day.”
Claudia stands but her slouching posture does not bode her pitch well. “Sir, I was thinking maybe we use some World War Two artillery footage. A woman in her cubicle suddenly has a headache and reaches into her drawer for the Blast-O-Aspirin. Cut to the footage of a battery of 105 howitzers cutting loose on target. Then cut to—”
Erskine puts up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there, Claudia. That is officially the dumbest pitch I have ever heard. Sit down.” Next he points to the young woman sitting to Claudia’s right. “You there. You’ve got five seconds. Go.”
“The Aspirin Kid. He’s suave. He’s sexy. He’s cool and drives a Ferrari. He—”
“Nope,” Erskine says and point to the next in line. “Next.”
“A Paul Bunyan-like woodsman who chops down the cerebral cortex with a big axe.”
“No. You. Go.”
“Medical school ninjas.”
“No.”
“Kind of like the fire department but they put out big, throbbing headaches.”
“No,” he says. Then: “Wait. What was that again?”
“The headache department.”
“No.”
“Duct tape for your head.”
“Absolutely not. Good grief, people. This is embarrassing. Really. I can’t remember the last time I heard such nonsense. This is, hold on, I do remember. It was when we came out with the cold and flu air fresheners last year and one of you wanted to have an actor dressed up as a germ taking the winter off, lounging in Barbados.” Erskine slaps his palms down onto the table and stands. “Chris.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You got it. We’re going with Captain Aspirin. It’s the least dumbest thing I’ve heard today. He blasts away headaches right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it.”
* * *
From the control tower: X-ray Romeo Seven, cleared for take-off.
The agent taps the launch button on the remote panel mounted to the dash of the command vehicle. Engine whirs to a frenzy, like a weed whacker on full throttle. The XR-7 unmanned drone speeds down the short airstrip. Nose lifts. The drone begins its ascent to 3000 feet. It disappears into the sky.
The agent monitors the altitude and direction via the virtual cockpit showing on the laptop’s screen. Time on target: 5 hours, 19 minutes. With the drone well on its way, he clicks over to another window displaying a map of Garden City. Then, dragging his finger across the mouse pad and tapping over predetermined areas of interest, he begins plotting targets for the XR-7's “sniffers.” Fifty of them. Bio-hazard detection darts.
Copyright © 2006 by O. J. Anderson
