Saturday, May 26, 2012


Ronald Jackson of Were Industries stepped through the double doors and into the Gitchegoomie conference room where an impatient collection of creative directors, writers and artists were awaiting their new client.

"Sorry I'm late," he said cheerily as he walked to the head of the table and gripped a leather chair back, leaning toward the gathered and slowly taking in each face one at a time.

Horrified and quite speechless, the elite of Mason-Williams Advertising stared at the new arrival; a tall, muscular man with an unusually elongated face framed by swept back, coal black hair. His ears seemed a little too pointed as did his teeth, which showed themselves as he smiled in greeting, his upper lip near folding onto itself, baring a set of unusually long, gleaming canines. But it was the still dripping mess covering the client's Italian suit that had the staff excessively worried. By the color of the stain on his white shirt the liquid had to be blood, but worse were the obvious bits and shards of flesh and bone stuck to clothing and hanging from his well trimmed beard.

"I've met with your director and sorry to say we had a disagreement as to his creative proposal, he was very adamant yet, I just couldn't get my claws around the idea. Does someone else have a better concept? A show of hands?"

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