Conversation · Idiot Doom Spiral

Not so sure about the last part, with all that drinking...

"But I've got something the others don't. I'm on your level. And as I already understand your needs I can marry my high-concept ideas with your brand easily. I'll help you make your mark."

Great can-do attitude! A billion reál mindset. Clinically insane energy! Hire him on the spot!!

"That's it, you're hired!"

"No, Tequila, no..." He sighs heavily. "I'm a professional, you see. I insist that you give me a formal interview. It wouldn't be fair on the other candidates if you didn't."

"What do you need to know?" He leans forward and takes another sip from his bottle, brows knitted together in mock seriousness.

What you truly want to know is -- can you really trust your entire fortune to a drunk who lost his house keys while out for a jog?

Grill him a bit, see how he performs under pressure.

"Alright, give me your best pitch."

"Okay, okay, let me get a sip first..." He manages to down half a bottle, then sits up straight, a hazy but oddly determined stare in his eyes. His finger shoots up.

"You see, net worth means nothing to the people of Martinaise. Nada. Null. For them to see your wealth, to really respect that, you need to convert it into something real, something tangible. The bigger the better." He peers into his bottle for inspiration.

"There's nothing more real than the End of Everything."

"The horseback monument!" He snaps his fingers. "That's the centre of the district -- they'd have to pay attention to that. We could get your name up there in lights. Damn thing's due for a re-conceptualization anyway."

"You're aware that monument is supposed to look like it's exploding? It doesn't need renovating."

"I didn't say renovating, I said re-conceptualization. It's medium-concept shit is what it is," he says, spitting out each word.

Hmm... the level of conceptualization could always be higher, yes.

But what would it cost?

"Yeah, okay. Real like paying your bills or eating malt fibre in the morning."

"What are you talking about? I'm the hottest shit in town. I'm as real as it gets."

"To never even grasp the idea of economic nonentities... I feel sorry for them."

"Yes, show them real art, then they'll be able to appreciate the majesty of my finances."

"I have reservations about your... personal responsibility."

"Tequila, Tequila... Whatever's going on in my reality situation doesn't have any bearings on yours. This is all about you and your future. Ask me about that."

"Relevant experience?"

"I used to be a moderately-high-net-worth individual myself, if I can say so. I've managed big money before, played the game, hustled the movers of the marketing world..."

A subtle smile lights up his puffy face, like a ray of sun breaking through the stratosphere. He likes reminiscing.

"At the Boom Boom Room I directed a team of talent architects. People so high concept their names were nothing but a single letter. We had manic ideas, fuelled by copious amounts of coffee-flavoured whey powder. We did stuff no one had ever seen before -- or since!"

We're going to need examples here -- just going by one of your initials doesn't cut it.

You're after measurable performance, not tales of happy memories. Numbers, please! How many years did he work, what profits did he earn?

"Like what -- any examples?"

"Remember when Maria Kapaleva caused an uproar by walking the red carpet in those slippers -- the ones with the stick-on jiggly tits?"

Yes, yes we do remember that...

"That was me. I did that." He looks up at the sky, victorious and content like an old cat. "We sold a lot of slippers that year..."

Alright, here we go -- Ms. Kapaleva (née Olga Grebennikova) was once known as East Revachol's premier vedette and sex symbol. Her role in director Do Do Chakan's sexploitation motion picture 'Psychotronic Stripper' launched her into stardom. She's been voted Most Captivating Woman by La Fayette three years running.

Three years, you hear that? Three years... how hot did she have to be?!

No, we don't?

But why don't we remember that??!

It's because it's not cool or stylish. It's lame and out -- even Ms. Kapaleva couldn't pull it off.

"I need numbers -- years of service, P&L statements..."

"Numbers? How about fifteen fucking years of jamming art into people's heads? That's hundreds of high-concept ideas developed and executed for those fancy corp boys in their suits. The result?" He leans back, ready for his mic-drop...

"Millions of reál generated for clients. I've made my name in this world."

And then he lost it all by going for a jog... not exactly inspiring.

"How much is this going to cost me?"

"Nothing up front. That's 'cause I always put the client first. My cut'll come out of the back-end, after we've made you a sensation...."

"We really haven't got time for this," the lieutenant says, getting impatient. "In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to be investigating a murder."

"And forget about contractors and the like. This job I'm handling personally, concept and execution," he continues. "Any unexpected expenses we'll take care of later. Can't let price compromise the work. Easy."

"Let's come back to this later."

"Sure, my man, let's circle back whenever you want." He hiccups. "Take your time. I'll be here."

"Okay, let's do it, you're hired!" (Accept his offer.)

"That's it, I'm BACK!" He takes a celebratory swig -- a big one. Too big. The brown liquid cascades down his face and floods his nostrils. Once he's finished choking he spits on the ground.

"Sorry about that, my friend. This isn't about me, this is about you, of course. A chance for you to give back to the community. To get your brand out there. To teach them your name." He spreads his hands across the sky...

"I can already see it -- Tequila Sunset -- spelled out in cathode rays. Luminous against the evening sky. There won't be a single kid in this town who doesn't know who you are."

This is a good moment to bring up his drinking... He'll get nothing done if he continues like that.

"Good, when can you start work?"

"Give me half an hour, my friend. In fact," he raises his grubby finger again, "I demand you to sit down here and not move until I'm back. Open a beer, chat with your old pals..."

The lieutenant massages his temples and looks down at the ground.

There is little time for this...

"Relax. I see you both running around like maniacs, just back and forth, back and forth. Gotta live a little, enjoy the day."

He turns his swollen face against the wind, freezing rain battering his cheeks.

"I don't think I have time to just sit and wait..."