“Vampire hunting werewolf who, uh, moon lights, as a detective with the Chicago PD.”

“A lion who is cursed to only tell the truth!”

“An offshore author bothers store bores with sore lore.”

The voices filled the room, running over one another.  The pitch meeting was not going well.

“We need an ad campaign that will make people want to eat organic lettuce.  I don’t see how mascots like a werewolf, the wrong type of lion or bizarre tongue twisters are going to get folks to eat what our client is selling,” Perry said, trying to take command and focus his marketing team of three newbies.

“This is lettuce, people.  It should sell itself,” Perry continued.

The team fell quiet, each member pensively jotting down ideas on notebook paper.  The silence was cracked but the sudden and hideous sound of fingernails running down a chalk board.

Perry shouted at the room’s doorway, where a silhouetted figure now stood, “who are you and where did that chalk board come from?”

The shadowy figure entered the room slowly, light creeping onto their face at a molasses crawl pace.  “I brought the chalk board from home,” the figure said.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I come to you with one thing and one thing only to save your message.”

Perry, standing above his desk and quite done with the theatrics, said through gritted teeth, “what do you have,” he paused for a moment summoning the courage to say the name of the person who had just entered his office, a person he never thought he would have to speak to again, “Johnson?”

“I thought you had forgotten about me, Perry.  Good to know I leave an impression,” Johnson said through a wry smile.

“An impression like a steering wheel,” Perry said.  He lost the analogy before he even opened his mouth.

“As I was saying,” Johnson continued in a most sinister way, “the way to save your organic lettuce account is simple.  Be honest.”

The team hurumphed and laughed at the suggestion.

“Think about it, ‘at Huron Farms we value two things; first, hearty lettuce for your table.  Second, the look of horror on the face of each diner when bugs of all sort, pincers, claws, too many legs and all start crawling out of our pesticide free, all natural, heads of romaine lettuce.”  Johnson cackled with glee and returned to the oddly darkened hallways of the advertising firm based out of a strip mall off highway 90.

The team returned to silence.

Perry slammed his fist into the desk, “that suave POS has done it again.  Martinez! Get that to copy now.”


Thanks for reading.
This story inspired by the ear wigs falling out of the head of lettuce taken from my garden this afternoon.  Some things you can’t unsee.


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