Note: Long time reader, first time writer. Thanks for reading, and feedback is greatly appreciated :)
*
As Carl's plane began its gradual descent toward Japan, Tokyo sparkled like a cut gem. Although the world's largest city yawned out across hundreds of densely-packed square miles, it seemed positively tiny from this height, like a luminescent diorama viewed from across a room. The thought made him smile. Funny what a little perspective could do. If only he could bottle up a little bit of that perspective for tomorrow's meeting. As the most junior employee of Dynacore to come on this trip, he certainly felt the pressure to perform. Not that he would be expected to do the high profile stuff, like flamboyantly pounding his fist on a negotiating table or drowning a term sheet in a flood of red ink. That would be left to the senior executives. Instead, he would mostly be assisting from the sidelines: referencing sales models, providing analytic support, and taking notes. Even still, this was his first overseas negotiation for Dynacore, and he held himself to an appropriately high standard. The purpose for his journey was a meeting with Sappomoto Inc, an entertainment conglomerate whose reputation as a fearsome negotiator extended far beyond the shores of Japan. But as with Tokyo herself, Carl thought, while taking a final glance out the window, nothing was insurmountable with the proper perspective.
---
The Tokyo express train gracefully zipped away from Narita International Airport. As Carl settled into his set, he took another look at Sappomoto's pitch deck. Their motto was proudly emblazoned across a sheet of thick, acid-free stationery:
"Sappomoto: Sating the World's Desires"
He smirked. For all of the company's notoriety, you wouldn't have known it from the pink and white bubble font that clumped together to spell out their logo. An uninformed observer could just as easily have mistaken it for that of a Harajuku makeup line. But the firm's notorious track record, comprised of merciless hostile takeovers, dizzying accounting wizardry, and breathtakingly favorable business deals - was undeniable. As the train slowly glided into Shinjuku station, Carl gathered his belonging and took a deep breath.
This is my chance to prove myself to Dynacore. I won't them down.
After checking in to the hotel, Carl declined his co-workers' invitation for a drink in the hotel bar, preferring instead to get an early night's rest. He would need all his faculties for tomorrow's meeting.
---
Now settled his room, Carl plopped himself down on the bed and checked his watch: 7:30 PM. Better not hit the hay this early, he thought, unless he wanted to take a pre-dawn stroll in the local fish market. Actually, not a bad idea! But probably best to save that for Wednesday. Instead, he picked up the television remote, hoping to catch one of Japan's greatest cultural exports: notoriously bizarre game shows. Japan did not disappoint. The TV screen, immediately after being nudged by Carl past the dull procedural dronings a local news report, exploded into a frenetic competition between two contestants in matching dog costumes. They were racing each other to assemble a winning collection of comically large squeaky toys - no easy task in a Shiba Inu suit! One contestant was trying to pick up what could have only plausibly been an elephant bone, but it kept stubbornly slipping through his oversized paws. The other was attempting to stuff a Pokemon through the tiny doorway of his brightly painted doghouse. For all his effort, he accomplished little beyond causing the toy to squeak wildly. The audience was in stitches.
A slight smile crept across Carl's face as he took in the lurid, technicolor phantasmagoria. The stage was a loopy tangle of bright transparent sheets, possibly the product of pouring a rainbow into a resin cast. And the caffeinated soundtrack brimmed with gaudy key changes, synthetic string stabs, and lascivious slap bass, all tenuously held in a supersaturated suspension which threatened at any moment to crystalize and bury the unwitting contestants beneath a cascade of rock candy. Bursts of acrylic kanji popped in and out across the screen. Although Carl could not read Japanese, he found their staccato rhythm somewhat mesmerizing, and his transfixed gaze chased the characters around the display; back and forth, up and down.
After a minute (or was it several?), his tired eyes eventually settled on the orchestrator of the whole operation: a petit, ebullient gameshow hostess. She was every bit the charismatic ringleader that one would expect. Whether cheering on the contestants (the dogs now were wrestling over possession of a fire hydrant), bantering with the crowd, or casting flirtatious glances toward the camera, she certainly looked the part. And Carl was doing his fair share of looking. Squeezed into a white vinyl dress, her generous figure was just as expressive as her demeanor, if not more so. Each broad gesticulation sent her ample chest swaying. Her plump, bee-stung lips blew exaggerated kisses to the crowd. And on several occasions, she would lean over in a way that, although composed and dignified, nonetheless allowed her hemline to inch its way up the already-slight distance to the top of her thighs.
Carl swallowed. He was no prude, but - good God - when was the last time he had been so transfixed by a
television
show? Probably not since middle school, when he would sneak down to his basement and watch MTV in hopes of catching a Mariah Carey music video. The thought prompted Carl to let out what he thought would be a bemused, self-aware chuckle, but what he heard was something stiff and brittle; the sort of laugh that unconvincingly attempts to reassure.
His eyes had not strayed from the screen.
The credits began to run. The music pitched and rolled. A hot flash of anxiety seized Carl. But as quickly as it came up, this flare of unease was dampened by the camera's slow, gentle pan back to the hostess, who was saying a closing word to the audience. Her bright, expressive face was a source of comfort to Carl. Her huge eyes, dark and gleaming, blinked open and shut. Occasionally she would crinkle her small nose with the practiced skill of a professional. And although Carl could not understand the words floating out from between her lips, he nonetheless followed them studiously.
Several minutes passed. And then several more. A typical gameshow would have segwayed to a commercial break long ago, but Carl was past the point of caring about this discrepancy, let alone comprehending. He was floating untethered in a galaxy of twinkling lights.
"Follow my voice," the hostess was saying. "Study my face ... there's nowhere you'd rather be right now.."
Her melodic voice (when had she started speaking in English?) had slowly sauntered its way halfway down an octave, taking on a sultry, commanding tone.
"... perfect. Just keep gazing into my eyes, Carl..."
Carl? How did she know his ..
"... There's no need to fight your desires. This is the only thing you want..."
This doesn't make any sense. None of it.
"... come closer, Carl, deeper. Lose yourself in my eyes ... "
But she was right - her eyes were beautiful.
"... now relax, and drift within them ..."
He drifted.
Her enrapturing voice - now somewhat distant and abstracted - continued to drone on, but Carl could no longer even react to her gentle insistences. His mind, for all of its analytical prowess, now lay inert and prostrate before her, like a stopped clock in a watchmaker's firm grasp. And her skilled, dexterous hands wasted no time: they gently and insistently pulled cogs, adjusted screws, unwound dials.
Something in Carl's brain recognized the strangeness of what he was experiencing and responded with a series of emotions - first incredulity, then suspicion, followed by panic - but each of these responses floated slowly toward the surface of his conscious mind like a bubble cast in a rapidly hardening smear of resin, eventually calcifying before it had a chance to burst forth and spur him to action. And in the absence of action, Carl sat. And stared. Gaped, actually. His lips hung slightly apart, his eyes glistened with the reflected glow of the television, and his mind soaked up the vision before him with the passivity and compliance of a dry, well-worn dish sponge.
The camera panned out. The set was empty now. The music had stopped, the audience departed; the only reminder of the prior presence of contestants was a large mound of squeaky toys.
The hostess leisurely walked over to a pink chaise that sat in the back corner of the set. In the absence of the frenetic music, her measured, heeled footsteps boomed like gunshots. She picked up a tall glass of ice water and draped her voluptuous body elegantly across the chaise. If the television set were muted, Carl would have sworn that she was purring.
"Hello, Carl. My name is Misaki. Did you enjoy watching the show?" Carl nodded imperceptibly.
"You did?" Her face brightened. "It's quite a silly ordeal, really. Grown men debasing themselves for a prize, chasing each other around in costumes," she laughed, casting a brief glance toward the mound of dog toys. "How easily they give up their dignity."
"But then again, I believe that anyone can be convinced of anything, so long as you give them the right motivation." She leaned slightly forward and took a sip of water, shrugging up her shoulder so as to give him a generous view of her cleavage.
"Carl," she called out bemusedly. His gaze snapped back up to her face.
"What motivates you, Carl? Is it your job?"
