Burn, Beautiful Soul by William J. Donahue

Author:William J. Donahue
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2020-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

Crude Self-portrait

Bulcavage pulls a ceramic mug to his lips and takes an audible gulp. He taps his foot impatiently.

“Enough with the suspense,” he says. “Are you going to open your goddamned mouth and say something, or should I do a few laps around the building and then track down a fresh cup of mud?”

“He’s getting to it, sir,” Herbert says. He lowers his voice and turns to Basil. “Get to it, buddy.”

Basil stands at the far end of the conference-room table, motionless, mountainous, beside an easel draped in a black sheet.

“Well?” Bulcavage says.

“Sin,” Basil says finally.

“What about it?” Bulcavage says.

“That’s the campaign.”

“Just get to it,” Herbert says, nervously.

“I will, but only because I know Herbert probably has to throw up again,” Basil says. “I’m afraid at least one of us had a little too much fun yesterday.”

Basil takes a deep breath and yanks the sheet from the easel. The sheet catches the edge of the poster board, and the whole thing topples to the ground. The wooded legs of the easel clack together, and the poster board smacks the conference-room floor, ruining the board’s upper right corner. Basil fumbles to correct the easel and places the poster board back into position, using his body to shield Herbert’s skilled etchings. A moment later, he steps to the side to reveal their creation.

The room is silent as all three stare at the cartoonish image: a cloven-hoofed demon, with a pitchfork and oversized horns, leaning against a barbecue grill with its lid lifted, heat lines rising from the rack of ribs smoldering on the slats. In the quiet space to the left of the grill, two words jump out in a bold script worthy of a logo for a caped superhero: Devil Smoke. A jagged, fiery flourish makes each word pop off the page. Beneath the logo sits a three-word phrase in an unremarkable sans serif that could use some TLC: Too Damned Good.

“Viola,” Basil says.

Herbert shakes his head and mouths a correction to his copywriter.

“Voilà,” Basil says.

“What’s this?” Bulcavage asks.

The boss looks unimpressed. Even a little annoyed.

“A rebranding,” Basil says. “What do the words ‘Hooke Patio Cookers’ say about anything? What does ‘Model Number X-Three-Five’ communicate to anyone who might consider buying it? Nothing. It says nothing. It says shit, in fact. Less than shit, really. Why would anyone remember it? Why would anyone care? Now this?” He points to the caricature of himself, more or less. “This says something.”

“I told you to write up an ad, not tear everything down and start over.”

“I know, sir, but this is better.”

“How is defiance better than giving me what I asked for?”

“Hooke’s old identify was pointless. Stale. Useless. It said nothing about what they were trying to sell—and what we, as their marketing arm, were failing to help them sell. What is delicately smoked meat, after all, but an indulgence in a conquered land where man has earned the power to say, ‘I will run no more!’ Man has tamed the world around him, and he should enjoy the fruits of his conquests.

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