enough to know that translates to no chance in hell.
Trouble is, he’s not giving me anything I can work with, refusing to throw me a bone so I can swing this back around.
“Mr. Stedfaust, any questions?” Once, he was friends with my dad. I’ve known him my whole life, ever since they walked in here for their first campaign under my father, back when their only flavors were tuna or beef.
Come on. Give me a clue where things went wrong.
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, a stiff barrel of a man.
“Well, technically speaking, your work is great, as always. Very clean, maybe even sparkling. However...there’s no polite way to say this, but you bring me down here for a meeting and tell me I’m looking for millennials—hell, son. I told your last girl that. And no damn millennial will ever be sold by this lifeless concept.”
“Lifeless concept,” I repeat, glaring at Hugo.
He looks terrified behind his glasses.
He should be.
This was his baby.
I’d rejected the first and second round of concepts, told them to dress it up, but he insisted 'classy' was the best mood for these ads with every revision.
If we lose this account, it could cause cuts, and it’s going to be on his hands if I can’t fix his mistakes.
Hugo holds a hand up in apology, looking from me to Stedfaust. “I admit the designs I sent over were a bit more...experimental than usual. It was a risk, sure, but I thought it might be an interesting twist.”
“Experimental? They’re black and white and dead.” Stedfaust sighs. “The designs look more like a bad art project for a college class than an ad campaign. My grandson could’ve done a better job, and he’s in elementary school. Our brand is fun, trusted, and safe for every animal. This comes across as amateurish at best.”
Fucking ouch.
I try not to wince. Hugo looks destroyed, his normally jolly face transformed into a hangdog look. The dressing down from our client is harsher than anything I’d deliver.
“I...I’d be happy to send you some updated concepts ASAP. Fun, sir, that I can do!” Hugo’s voice has a pleading tone which is only going to make matters worse.
Nobody likes desperation.
Stedfaust begins to answer. I don’t pay attention to his words.
Instead, I glance at the cat food tins Sabrina fetched from my office. They’ve been placed beside the projector as part of the setup. She managed to get three cans, all with a pop top.
Hell. I didn’t think I’d actually have to break out Plan B, but desperate times, desperate measures, you know the rest.
I slide around the table until the cans are in my reach and grab one. After a quick, theatrical toss in the air, I pull the tab and tear it open.
The can pops. Once again, I have the room’s attention.
I look at my EA. “Miss Bristol, there’s a gold spoon in the front pocket of my briefcase. Could you grab it for me, please?”
“What?” she asks, confusion on her face.
I raise my eyebrows.
Don’t ask questions right now. Just do it.
She must hear me scolding her telepathically and leans around the table, fishes into my briefcase, brings me the spoon, and returns to her seat with a worried look.
Yeah, let’s do this.
Glowering, I stab the spoon into the cat food, bring it close to my face, and fight the urge to gag.
The whole room goes silent.
“What the—have you lost your mind, Heron?” Stedfaust barks, shaking his head so hard his cheeks flap.
I ignore him, open the next can, stab my spoon in, and bring it disgustingly close to my face. It smells like a heap of rotting rats.
I turn my head and my nose scrunches up. Then I plunge the spoon back into the can and shake it until the clumpy feline food falls off back into the tin.
“Third time’s the charm, people,” I whisper, repeating the vile process with the remaining can.
This one isn’t dead rat bad, but it doesn’t smell like something any human being would ever want to put in their mouth.
I survey the room. Stedfaust has a deep crease in his forehead, staring at me in abject horror.
His brows are up, and he’s watching me closely.
Both of our teams stare at me slack-jawed. Poor Anita, our video head, looks like she’s about to pass out at the table.
Three shiny cans of Woof Meow Chow sit on the other side of the projector, leftovers from our video shoot.
“Hugo, could you pass me a can of Meow Chow?”