It's Alive and doing fine.

A new Product requires the proper Ad technique and approach.

          In a nondescript office cubicle on the 17th floor, Jerry Polittle sat hunched over his computer, the glow from the screen casting a sickly pallor on his already blanched face. Jerry, a 45-year-old with a penchant for Hawaiian shirts and a collection of novelty coffee mugs of Trolls, had spent his entire career in PepCorp's marketing department. His closest original thought for a sales pitch was "Try it, you'll never know otherwise."

          But today, something was different. Jerry was included in a department-wide email that would change his life forever. The email contained information regarding plans for a potential new member of the PepCorp family: Dr. Pepper Peeps. The email detailed how these soda-filled marshmallows would revolutionize the snacking industry. The concept was simple yet brilliant--tiny, gelatinous blobs that mirrored the taste of the popular soda, all wrapped up in an extremely sugary shell. The CEO's email demanded a campaign to "make Coke weep."

          Jerry's heart raced as he clicked through the attachments. The product shots were mesmerizing, sleek, and innovative. Yet, rumored public backlash, enough money spent on questionable nutritional choices, and a potential backlash from health advocates. Still, this was the kind of project that could either make or, at the very least, get him to the 20th {font: times h

          The floor where the air conditioner was rumored to work all the time.

          Standing up, Jerry stretched his legs, eyes never leaving his screen. The email contained a link to a secure server with more information and a meeting invite for the following morning. {/font A snack run was necessary before starting work.

          The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows across the chrome surfaces. Jerry's mind raced with ideas, a chaotic jumble of catchphrases and color schemes. He knew the competition would be fierce; others within his department would fight tooth and nail to get a piece of this lucrative campaign. But he had an ace--his secret love for Dr. Pepper. It was a guilty pleasure he had kept hidden from his colleagues, a sugary escape from the corporate grind.

          The cafeteria was a sea of gray-suited phlegmatic drones, shuffling in line for their morning ration of burnt brown caffeine. Jerry's Hawaiian shirt was a bright splotch of color in the monochrome landscape, a declaration of his individuality that often went unappreciated. He grabbed a tray and placed items that scarcely resembled food, his eyes still glued to the email on his phone. The cashier didn't even acknowledge him as he flashed his meal card, lost in the rhythm of her mindless task.

          Jerry placed his Chocolate Lovers Twinkies, Dr. Pepper, and an 8-oz Red Bull on the small round table in a slightly secluded corner in the cafeteria, and he opened the email again from the CEO and re-read the information. The market research was staggering. Dr. Pepper Peeps was set to be the next newest thing. According to the study, teens
loved marshmallows, adults loved nostalgia, and everyone loved Dr. Pepper. It was a perfect storm of commercial appeal. But as Jerry dug deeper, he saw the fine print. The sugar content was off the charts, and the "mystery flavor" was a blend of chemicals he couldn't pronounce.

          Why didn't he see this before?

          The next morning, the virtual conference room buzzed with everyone's overactive energy. Jerry experienced a mixture of excitement and unease. As CEO Richard Stilton's image appeared, his face was a mask of forced enthusiasm and barely disguised impatience. "Alright, folks," Stilton boomed. "Let's make history today and start a new chapter with Dr. Pepper Peeps!"

          Jerry's mind raced as his colleagues began manically throwing out idea after idea. A few were clever, some were bizarre; however, most did nothing to capture what would make Dr. Pepper Peeps perfect. Jerry took a longer sip of Dr. Pepper, but didn't enjoy it.

          He suddenly knew what he had to do. He had to make himself heard, stand out, and show Stilton he was the perfect man for the job.

          Holding his phone beside his mouth, he loudly cleared his throat and began, "What if we lean into the absurdity? Embrace the ridiculousness of the concept. Make it a satire of our industry, a wink to the consumers who know we're all just selling them sugar water with a fancy label."

          Jerry received an email directed solely to him that would change his life forever. "Go on," Stilton simply stated, and Jerry felt a jolt of encouragement. He laid out his vision for a campaign that didn't just sell Dr. Pepper Peeps but satirized the idea of what a snack should be. It would be bold, it would be controversial, and it would be unforgettable, and very sellable. Everyone grew tense as he spoke; the only sound heard was the occasional keyboard clack as someone took notes. Once he finished, Stilton broke the silence by clapping. "Brilliant, Polittle, I like it. Make it happen. Don't disappoint me."

          Days turned into weeks. Jerry threw himself into the project with a fervor he hadn't had since college. He worked late into the night, fueled by adrenaline, Dr. Pepper, and several nightly Red Bull mixtures. The commercials he dreamt up were a wild ride through a Dr. Pepper-colored dystopia, where marshmallows danced and sang about the joy of high fructose corn syrup. The tagline he proposed was simple: "Taste Madness." It was risky, but it could elevate Dr. Pepper Peeps to the stratosphere of viral fame or doom them to be a punchline in the next round of health-conscious memes.

          Weeks turned into months. Jerry knew the key to the campaign's success was authenticity. So, he recruited a team of rebels from within the company--the graphic designer who always wore black, the copywriter who had a secret blog about corporate greed, and the social media guru who had been fired from her last job for posting a tweet that was too edgy. Together, they crafted a narrative that was both absurdist and eerily close to reality. They created a fictional world where Dr. Pepper Peeps was the only source of hydration, and the citizens lived in a perpetual state of caffeinated euphoria, oblivious to the health crisis unfolding around them.

          The commercials were shot in a style that mimicked old-school public service announcements, complete with grainy film and a dramatic voiceover warning of the dangers of too much sugar. Yet the message was clear: Dr. Pepper Peeps was a delightful indulgence, a sugary middle finger to the establishment. The team worked tirelessly, fine-tuning every detail, from the slogan to the packaging that looked like a committee of mad scientists and candy-addicted teenagers had designed it.

          As the campaign was launched, the feedback was immediate and intense. Social media erupted with both praise and outrage. Health advocates condemned the product, calling it a "toxic concoction of sugar and chemicals," while influencers posted videos of themselves popping the marshmallows with a mix of shock and delight. The buzz was undeniable, and Jerry was at the center. His inbox was flooded with messages, his phone rang nonstop, and the once-overlooked Hawaiian shirt aficionado was suddenly the toast of the office.

          The first time Jerry saw the actual product was like meeting a celebrity he had only known through glossy magazine photos. His team was together when they arrived. The marshmallows were a deep, rich brown, with the iconic Dr. Pepper logo stamped into their squishy tops. As he popped one into his mouth, the sugary shell cracked open, releasing a flood of carbonated soda that fizzed against his tongue. The taste was shockingly overwhelming, a cacophony of sweetness that lingered like a sour aftertaste of regret. He smiled and gave a thumbs up as he feigned a swallow. His Trixie, her real name unknown to him, began to ask him a question. He raised his index finger, brought his phone to his ear, feigned to listen, stood, and walked away to answer his phone.

          After turning a corner, he discreetly removed the peep from his mouth before his gag reflex began.

          Jerry couldn't shake the feeling that he had unleashed a monstrosity. Many consumers misunderstood the "Taste Madness" slogan, seeing it as a challenge rather than a warning. Sales skyrocketed, but so did cases of dental cavities and childhood obesity. His colleagues reveled in the success, but Jerry's nights grew restless, haunted by the sugar-coated specters of his creation.

          One evening, while strolling through the internet on endless social media sites, he came across a meme that made his blood run cold. It was a picture of a child, teeth rotted to the gums, holding up a bag of all-too-familiar peeps with a disturbing and heartbreaking grin. The caption read, "When you taste the madness, it tastes like diabetes." It was widely shared, a grim testament to the viral nature of his campaign.


Contest: The Bard's Hall Contest
Word Count: 1,473