Monday
This is the week for our "talks" with renegade Pat Pounce, but first it's our Wendy's interim preez. All big square men down at Wendy's HQ, very serious types. At the last minute I decide not to have Jason Wozzle actually present (his debut), but do it myself. Better safe than flame-broiled. Doesn't go terribly well, since I'm not on top of the material. Our geo analysis is met with incredulity that Armadillo & Pounce would suggest the client open outlets in parts of the world some of these folks just don't care for (e.g., Upper Volta). Memo to self: Never forget the importance of subjective factors amid all our monster spreadsheets. Second memo: Never forget to test-drive preez story line with top client one-on-one before the big show.
Actually, Wozzle saves my bacon by coming up with plausible reasons why Madagascar could be a surprisingly interesting option, but still, it's a long, bumpy ride. We leave HQ with Phase Two in some jeopardy and, man, does A&P need the money.
Tuesday
Home remodeling has reached a nadir of awfulness. We're camped out in the guest house while workers rip out our cupboards and plumbing, dust everywhere, loud music blaring on the radio, money flowing out the door. Which bathroom taps do you want? Those cruddy Home Depot ones that fit your budget or these fancy-schmantzy sleek visions of cascading rose-scented water that cost five times as much?
Glad to escape to the office, where Project Secret seems to have set up some sort of eavesdropping operation in our former conference room, but they're listening in on unthreatening-sounding things like the Sox' latest debacle at Fenway — not that I'm supposed to know any of this, of course. Monk Bonanza now wears sunglasses indoors and talks into an earpiece thing — he looks like one of those meat guys who dives in front of the president. If you ask me, that would be a wonderful outcome from the whole CIA engagement.
Spend all day salvaging our burger account, apologizing for our idiocy in pitching expansion in Hindu markets — they seem to buy my claim that it was an "unusually large typo." So we're back, but with another serious grilling in barely a month. Rayne saves the day and, of course, no one notices.
Wednesday
Breakfast at the Charles with Pat Pounce. Ken and I arrive early, order black coffee and raisin toast, with a special side of extra cinnamon. Pat takes us by surprise by arriving with the other three members of the Four Pats in tow, all in dark suits, so we're badly outnumbered. They all order steak and eggs, rare. PP leads off, thanking us for agreeing to meet. Ken is sitting bolt upright like a Doberman about to, well, pounce. PP comes to his inevitable point: Times being what they are (tough), he's wondering if perhaps it's time to bring the A and the P back together properly, not just in our name — which, according to his lawyers, is a no-no. You want to fold the Four Pats back into the Mother Firm, I ask, since Ken is visibly unable to unclench his throbbing jaw. Hell, no, says PP, waving a knife. I heard you guys were in the dumpster. I'm offering to take your shop into mine. You can buy into our partnership at 20% over book value. Take it or leave it.
There is a scraping noise. It's Ken's chair as he pushes away from the table and stomps out. Talk some sense into him, Rayne, says Pat Pounce. The three other stooges sit there, chewing their raw meat, not saying a word. I hurry after Ken, smiling as I realize we've left the Patsies to pay.
Thursday
Letter arrives from Pounce's lawyer: Cease and desist with our name. We pin it up on our dartboard.
Friday
Dull day except for half an hour spent calming my wife, who calls in, hysterical that the new wall sconces are out of stock and on six-week back-order from Italy. What is a sconce anyway?, I ask her, just before she hangs up.
Over beers, we chat about the bizarro offer from Pat to take us over and have us pay him for the privilege. I realize that a couple of the assembled party appear to view the idea as having some merit. Then in comes a grinning Marky Wahlberg, clutching a late-arriving Fedex. He peels it open theatrically and pulls out our check from the spooks. The words "one million dollars" are big and black. We stick it on top of Pounce's legal threat, and when Monk Bonanza hits a double-20 winner, for once in my life I don't care. Much.
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