"Hold the door! Hold the door!!"
Junior copywriter Polly Pilkington stumbled through the turnstiles and spilled half her morning joe as she raced to catch an already packed elevator. She squeezed in as the door closed and she could see all the sardines aboard were headed to the executive floor of the McGoggins, Fettlock & Snert advertising agency.
She checked her watch -- 8:58 a.m. -- and sighed with relief. The text she received an hour ago summoned her and a number of colleagues to an emergency meeting in the executive boardroom with senior partner Amanda McGoggins herself. It was going to be a crazy week with a number of deadlines and presentations already in the calendar. Now this. She'd have to call her hubs and tell him he was on his own, again.
Against the mirrored door she could see a few familiar faces from the Creatives department, including her cubicle mate, Frieda Fishkin, who was cowering in the corner. She caught her eye and smiled.
"Hey Frieda," she smiled. "How was your weekend?"
Frieda was stocky and dishevelled as well as sweating and miserable. "Fuck my life," she grumbled. "I was ordered to the boardroom. They're going to hand me my ass."
"They better use both hands!" a wag cracked from the back of the elevator.
"Relax Frieda, a lot of us got the memo," Polly assured her.
"Why was I invited? I never get asked to meetings," she moaned. "It's 9 a.m. on a Monday morning and that can only mean one thing -- we're getting laid off!"
And with that Frieda let rip a silent but deadly blend of fear, despair and methane gas and in seconds the women surrounding her were gasping for air.
"Frieda!" one wailed as the gassing continued.
"I'm nervous, I can't help it!"
"We're all gonna die!"
"Jesus! Aren't we supposed to get a ride in a cattle car first?!"
The doors mercifully opened at the top floor and 16 desperate women piled out, sobbing for oxygen and hurrying to make the 9 a.m. meeting in the boardroom down the hall. McGoggins' executive assistant Claudia Cartwright was waiting at the door, looking smart in her tweed suit with Cleopatra-coiffed hairdo. Once inside the women found a large tray of freshly baked buttery bagels waiting for them, a delightful smell to replace the scent of death they had only just escaped.
Frieda tried a number of chairs but was shooed away from one after another before a sympathetic Polly waved her over.
"It's okay Frieda, sit next to me," she said with a smile. "I'm married to a guy whose idea of yucks is pulling the sheets over my head in the middle of the night for a Dutch oven."
Her friend grabbed a bagel and sat down, stuffing her face while watching the door and waiting for the Grim Reaper.
Polly looked around the table and realized there wasn't a single male copywriter, salesman or executive in the room. Had she been invited to some secret sorority meeting? she wondered. Would there be a secret handshake or initiation rites?
At 9:01 senior partner Amanda McGoggins strode quickly into the room, flashing smiles and hellos in her wake as she moved to her oversized chair at the head of the table. Polly wondered if she should stand before recalling the woman wasn't the president, a judge or visiting head of state. Just the boss of bosses. She sighed and looked at the tray of disappearing bagels and wondered if she should take one. Unlike Frieda who needed the raw material to feed the fart factory, her appetite at times like this was limited. Instead, she opened her pad and looked at Amanda.
For a moment she didn't recognize the woman in the big chair. Sure, it had been a while since she'd gotten a good look at the 60-something executive, but it appeared she hadn't been spending all of her time in evening soirees, private jets or chowing down with titans of industry in their private dining rooms. Clearly Amanda was putting in reps at the gym and indulging in cosmetic surgery. Like, a lot of it. Her unlined, radiant face was that of a 30-year-old, her arms taut and strong. And those tits! You could yodel in that cleavage.
Amanda looked about the table and ensured she had their full attention. "Claudia, close the door and draw the blinds, please." Polly watched as the assistant quickly sealed the room.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," the boss began, her voice husky and steady. "I know you're all very busy and I will try to be brief. But what I am about to tell you..." She paused for effect. "...changes everything. Whatever you are doing right now, whatever project you're working on, will have to wait. This takes top priority."
She nodded at Claudia who dimmed the lights and pushed a button to lower a viewing screen. "I've asked my assistant Claudia to prepare a presentation to outline the opportunity that awaits us. We'll have a discussion afterwards. Claudia?"
The first slide showed what appeared to be the kind of building you'd find in an industrial park. Claudia's clipped, high-pitched voice provided the coming commentary.
"This is the headquarters of our new client, Byrum Pharmaceuticals, which specializes in developing anti-aging creams and salves for post-menopausal women. Five years ago they began work of a new formulation to address a critical problem for this fast-growing demographic: the misery of vaginal dryness."
Polly almost snorted coffee out of her nose. What is it with women and moisture? She thought about the array of creams she already had in her bathroom cabinet to address the depletion of fluids from her rapidly desiccating body. It's a wonder they didn't conduct this meeting of women in a swimming pool with the sprinkler system primed and fire extinguishers prepared for the inevitable spontaneous combustion.
A second slide came up, showing a couple of models in lab coats and safety glasses looking deeply into an oversized test-tube. Polly doubted the two pretty airheads cast for the stock photo had even finished high school.
Claudia continued: "After a series of failures, Byrum scientists finally stumbled onto an amazing discovery, a serum that did more than effectively rehydrate vaginal tissue -- much more."
The room went dark as Claudia prepared the next slide. After a second the women were presented with an artistically lit image of a large, hairy erect penis. At once the dynamics of the meeting transformed from a serious discussion of a sales proposition to a bachelorette party.
