The Private Diary of Rayne Maker: "Rodent Problem"

Monday Morning flight out to Big D for our salvage operation at Rodent Oil. As expected, traitor Pat Pounce is luring Rodent as the first client for his new firm. Pounce's sudden breakaway has the corridors at Armadillo & Pounce in a ferment — everyone wondering how to exploit the breach. My job, as new Head of Operations, Consulting, is clear. Prickly Ken Armadillo has given me carte blanche to assemble a SWAT team to make sure all client assignments stay on the rails. Meanwhile, Ken's suing Pounce and his acolytes, and calling a Come-to-Jesus, all-hands meeting on Friday. Clashes with a parent interview for Theo's kindergarten, but what can I do? I'm practically Ken's righthand man now. Bunker Smalls, Rodent's EVP of Marketing, is a large man with a deep squint. We drink beer from frosty glasses, but I decline his offer of chewing tobacco.

Tuesday Rodent's boardroom is lined with vintage photos of pioneer oil men with bushy whiskers taming wild gushers. Today's crowd is relatively tame, but there's still that "don't mess with Texas" edge. My A&P team said that Pat Pounce used to tell sports jokes, but I decide to play hardball. You guys are in a trap, I tell them. You're out of exploration and you're subscale in refining. And you can't expand in retail stations like Pat recommended, because your territories are already way overserved versus other metro areas. Your balance sheet won't let you buy your way out. But there is one solution that could double your operating margins. And what would that be?, Bunker asks, chewing slowly. Ancillary revenue, I reveal. Full-service car washes with coffee bars, magazine stands, dry cleaner and video dropoffs. Even a cheese counter. Imagine the possibilities! The wildcat pioneers stare down at us. Bunker's jaw is slack. Ten minutes later we're in the taxi.

Wednesday Personal day. Rescheduled interview at Theo's kindergarten, but my mind wanders. How come Ken can make stunning leftfield suggestions to Du Rite and get treated like he's Drucker and Peters rolled into one? But when I try it, bupkiss. We're literally escorted from the building. Had to swing for the fences of course. No point saying we'd keep on Pat's path, not with him sitting in the corridor, ready to tell 'em more football tales. We were dead meat anyway. And do you have any pets at home, asks the teacher brightly? Rats, I say, before I can help myself.