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The party was about to begin. The advertising and public relations firms had been meeting for several days at the hotel and convention center where Mr. Hauser had completed his little deadly Obama surprises the night before. All of the top firms were in attendance at these annual meetings. Most of these companies exclusively hired executives who had worked at a number of advertising and public relations firms and who regularly brunched with many key decision-makers inside them. The convention was one of those times when they could cavort together professionally, meet old friends, keep up on the gossip, and discover just how far they had come after switching to another advertising company.
Willard Knowles of Rasmussen and Williams, LLC, Madison Avenue, New York was in attendance with his beautiful trophy wife, Samantha, his two sons, Larry and Mark and his daughter, Nina. In addition, his best heads were there. Everyone at the Rassmussen banquet tables were pleasantly busy kissing up under Mr. Knowles, its president and CEO, which was their first responsibility as a member of his firm if they wanted the least chance of keeping their jobs intact. Which they did.
“Mr. Knowles,” Brad Green said, “you are looking very good today, sir.”
“Why, how gracious of you to say that, Brad,” Mr. Knowles replied with a sly smile. “I can see that you have a great future with our company.”
Brad laughed. “No, I really mean it. It’s not just brown nosing, sir. I have always admired and tried to emulate your appearance as well as your corporate objectives, Willard.”
Willard smiled. He looked at his wife, Windy. “Remind me to find some way to add to Mr. Green’s salary bundle, dear,” he said smiling. “Such delicious and decisive hand shaking cannot go unrewarded, my dear.”
Windy looked at Brad Green. “My husband likes your style, Mr. Green. We shall have to find some way to reward a person of such intellectually creative talents. You will certainly be hearing from me.” She smiled and offered her hand which Mr. Green took, then kissed. “You are so lovely, my dear. It’s always such a pleasure to be at these meetings, because, as well suited as your husband is, not one other male can ever hold a candle to a woman of such beauty as you radiate, my dear.” Windy laughed and looked up at Willard. “Well, you have to admit, honey, that Willard is almost as good at ass kissing as you are while doing it so well before our most lucrative of clients.” Willard laughed. “Indeed,” he said. “Mr. Green is a choice piece of real estate, and I am indeed grateful beyond words every time I converse with him.” Willard’s minions at the table laughed and made small talk about Brad’s cleverness at ingratiating not only Mr. Knowles but his highest paying clients as well. Mr. Green, they all agreed, was a quite talented douche bag to whom they would all be wise to take heed as he was definitely a corporate up and comer.
The food service began. The well sprinkled chickens smiled up at the vast crowd of public relations executives. Their last meal was about to begin, and those with the heartiest appetites were due the biggest and most rapid of surprises. They attacked their meal with gusto.
Marco Pasqual, the guest chef at the convention center had been flown in for the occasion from New York City to cook for the conference. He was employed as a head chef for major conventions in Cincinnati as well as for conventions held in larger venues such as Moscow, Paris, and Bejin. He had been a saucier before moving to head chef, so his creations were filled to the brim with subtle flavors that kept the rich and pampered coming back for more accolades concerning his tasty gastronomic creations.
A few hours after their meal had been consumed, they were gathered together in the large convention hall to hear a motivational lecture when most of them began to experience extreme discomfort including sweats, difficulty in breathing and paralysis of their large muscles. In the middle of the “strive as high as the world admits” slogan that had been repeated at least three times for emphasis the room was suddenly filled with dying public relations executives whose moans and screams filled the room with despair. Physicians were summoned in an attempt to ameliorate if not totally cure the dying throng, but to no avail. Later that day, devastated hotel staff discovered that the programmable information board was flashing, “Obama Care STRIKES AGAIN!” over and over to the darkened crime scene, and no one could figure out how to stop it.
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