Adventures in Advertising

Quirky ad agency misfits tackle absurd challenges, eccentric clients & hilarious chaos.

The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the bright, airy space of the local coffee shop as sunlight streamed through the large windows. Amid the soft hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine, two young men in their twenties found themselves in an ordinary yet oddly charged moment.

Jake stood impatiently near the counter, his foot tapping an irregular rhythm on the tiled floor. His eyes flitted between the tempting array of drinks on the illuminated menu board and his equally restless companion, Max. Max, with a languid ease that only technology could afford him, was scrolling through his phone and erupting into quiet chuckles at some offbeat meme that had caught his attention.

With a conspiratorial lean that only close friends share, Jake broke the light banter. “So, what do you think this meeting’s all about? Another one of those ‘team bonding’ exercises?” he asked, his tone a mixture of anticipation and playful cynicism.

Max rolled his eyes, his smile widening. “I’m betting it’s Linda’s attempt at getting us to really ‘express our feelings’ about that bizarre client—the one with the inflatable flamingos,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcastic amusement.

Jake’s dry humor didn’t miss a beat. “Perfect. Just what I need—an emotional breakdown over plastic birds,” he quipped, and both men burst into a shared, irreverent laugh as they inched closer to the counter.

But in the midst of their lighthearted repartee, a spark of mischief suddenly danced in Jake’s eyes. His expression shifted, taking on a more serious, almost conspiratorial tone. Leaning in as if divulging a well-guarded secret, he asked, “But really, Max... when it comes to wiping, do you prefer folding the tissue or just crumbling it?”

The question, absurd and jarring, sliced through the gentle ambiance of the coffee shop. Behind them, an elderly woman’s eyes widened in shock, her hand flying to her chest as she gasped at the unexpected, off-color remark.

Max, ever unruffled, grinned broadly and answered with a nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Oh, I’m definitely a crumpler. More texture, you know? Sure, you risk getting a bit of a mess on your hand, but it gives me that extra sense of confidence in the wipe.”

Their shared amusement seemed to create a small bubble of irreverence around them, completely oblivious to the startled woman’s mounting dismay. After what felt like an endless moment, the elderly woman, determined to reclaim a semblance of decency, tapped Jake on the shoulder. Her tone was sharp, laced with a mix of shock and revulsion. “Excuse me, young man! Could you refrain from discussing such a disgusting subject right before I order my bagel?”

For an instant, time appeared to still. Jake and Max exchanged glances—a silent mixture of apology and mischievous defiance—before Jake offered a sincere, if sheepish, apology. “Oh, right! Sorry about that,” he said, his tone light yet sincere.

A brief silence fell over the trio, the awkwardness hanging in the air like a stubborn cloud. But as quickly as it had descended, the mood shifted once again when Jake’s mischievous nature reasserted itself. With a playful glint in his eye, he leaned once more toward Max, whispering, “Have you ever considered sodomy as a laxative?”

The words seemed to shatter whatever remnants of calm had lingered; the elderly woman’s face turned ghostly pale with horror, and she hastily stepped back, her dignity in tatters. Meanwhile, Jake and Max, still caught in their private echo of laughter, remained blissfully unaware of the full extent of the chaos their words had unleashed.

****

The conference room of the “Ad-Venture” marketing agency buzzed with a peculiar mix of anticipation and undercurrents of tension. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the polished table where Jake and Max sat feverishly discussing their latest topic of interest: “Gladiator II.”

Jake’s eyes sparkled with passion as he recounted every breathtaking detail of the movie. The cinematography, he insisted, was nothing short of phenomenal—a proper sequel that honored the daring spirit of the original. Yet, Max’s reaction was anything but reverent. With a dismissive roll of his eyes and a tone dripping with sarcasm, he quipped about the film, comparing it to “watching paint dry with a side of existential dread.” His comment on Paul Mescal being no Russell Crowe only deepened the banter between them.

Just as their lively debate reached a fever pitch, Zelda swept into the room. Clutching a well-organized binder—clearly the only one prepared for the meeting—she crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on the bickering duo. “What juvenile and asinine pop culture topic are you two arguing about this time?” she demanded, her voice laced with exasperation. Jake was quick to clarify, “Gladiator II—do you think it lives up to the first one?”

Zelda’s response was brisk and to the point: “I don’t have an opinion. I hate action movies. I’m more of a ‘Wicked’ gal. And yes, before you ask, it was breathtakingly inspiring.” The two
men exchanged dramatic eye-rolls, each caught between humor and genuine irritation.

Jake couldn’t resist one more jab when he remarked: “Please. Ariana Grande sounds like a chipmunk fucked a can of helium.”

Before Zelda could offer a retort, the door burst open with such force that it briefly stole the spotlight from their banter. Franklin entered—a lanky, strangely modeled man whose unnaturally stretched face broke the illusion of normalcy. His eerie grin suggested a plastic surgery mishap of epic proportions. “Jesus Christ, Franklin, what the fuck happened to you?” Jake blurted out, as Max added his own incredulous comment about whether he had been “face fucked by an iron.”

Franklin tried to form words, but only slurred gibberish and trails of drool emerged. Oblivious to the shock in the room, he nonchalantly dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, inadvertently creating a moment of absurdity.

No sooner had the awkward silence set in than the door flung open once again. Linda, a woman in her forties exuding authority in a sharp power suit, stormed into the room. “Okay, idiots. Sit down and shut up. Let’s get this circus started,” she commanded, her tone brooking no opposition. She plunged a projection screen down with an air of finality before addressing the group, only to halt mid-sentence when her eyes met Franklin’s disconcerting figure.

“Holy fuck! What the hell is that?” Linda spluttered as she glanced in disbelief at Franklin, who remained mute, his drool clinging to his lips as he attempted to form an explanation that turned into incomprehensible babble. With a final sniff of disdain, Linda dismissed him as nothing more than a glaring distraction—an absurd sideshow reminiscent of the botched sequel, “Joker 2.”

“Turn your chair and face the wall,” she ordered, and with a resigned sadness, Franklin obeyed, inching his chair around with his feet so slowly that his coworkers exchanged barely concealed smirks.

Once Linda regained her composure, she resumed the meeting with renewed vigor. “We have a huge client coming in today. A client that will make or break this quarter,” she announced. “The Pleasure Palace,” she revealed in a tone that mingled both professional gravitas and a spark of irreverence. Max, ever the dramatist, couldn't help but retort, “The Dildo King of Chicago?” to which Jake added a wry observation that it sounded like a theme park for adults—complete with roller coasters of pleasure and haunted houses populated by the ghosts of ill-fated dates.

Even Zelda, usually so cool and collected, chimed in with a sardonic quip about a bumper car section where you could jump in and drive away. Linda’s stern exterior wavered ever so slightly as she struggled to maintain authority. “Okay, let’s focus,” she urged. “They want something new, something revolutionary. The client believes that women want products that are less obvious, more camouflaged.”

Amid the creative chaos, ideas began to cascade like drunken visions of innovation. Jake floated the idea of a vibrator disguised as a remote control—“Honey, can you change the channel?” he mused. Zelda, ever the ironic voice of reason, suggested a plant that hinted at something more intimate, while Max burst into laughter at the thought of a shoe promising to leave its wearer breathless.

Finally, returning to her authoritative tone, Linda snapped, “Guys, come on! We need something serious. What if we designed a product that looks like an everyday item?” A murmur of creative possibility filled the room until Linda’s next words sliced through the levity: “If we don’t close this deal by the end of the day, one of you will cease to exist here. Catch my drift? Are you still planning to fuck around?”

The atmosphere shifted as the humor evaporated from the room. Resigned to their fate, Jake, Max, and Zelda fell into a reflective silence. Franklin, still absorbed in his own confused world and facing the wall, was the only one untouched by the weight of Linda’s ultimatum. With a final attempt at reaching out, his slurred voice echoed, “Guys? You still there?” only to be met by silence. Unbeknownst to him, his oblivious loneliness served as a stark contrast to the vibrant energy his colleagues had just exuded.

And so, as Linda’s heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor and the rest of the team exited the room with heavy hearts and determined minds, Franklin remained—an incongruous figure trapped in his own surreal bubble, blissfully unaware of the world moving on without him.

****

Jake and Zelda weaved through the labyrinth of cubicles with an air of controlled urgency. Zelda clutched her well-organized binder tightly against her chest while Jake carefully balanced a to-go cup of coffee in one hand. In a moment of nonchalance, Jake reached into his front pocket and pulled out a vape pen. With a long, deliberate drag, he exhaled the vapor in a display of smug defiance, as if embodying the swagger of a dragon lounging in its lair.

"Are you seriously vaping right now," Zelda asked, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

Jake smirked, replying coolly, "So?"

Vozes of banter began to echo amidst the mundane hum of the office as Zelda continued, "Vaping is for douchebags. If you’re going to damage your lungs, smoke the real thing."

Undeterred, Jake quipped, "Unless you have a time machine that can transport me back to the ‘60s, where smoking in office buildings was as timeless as fucking your secretary, I guess vaping will have to suffice."

Arriving at Zelda’s cubicle, Zelda eased into her chair with a weary grace while Jake swung his legs onto the desk, perching like a lazy cat surveying his domain.

"Besides, I figured if vaping is good enough for DiCaprio, then it’s good enough for me," Jake declared, a note of casual rebellion in his voice.

Zelda smirked back as she retorted, "Well, if you ever become worth a couple hundred million dollars and can get nineteen-year-olds to fuck you when you’re fifty, then we can talk. Until then, lose the robotic dick. Will ya?"

Jake took another indulgent drag from his vape, tucked it away with a grin, and simply replied, "Happy?"

Grateful for the slight reprieve, Zelda then shifted the conversation toward more pressing matters. "Thank you. Now, do you have any ideas about this pitch we have to do?"

Rolling his eyes while teasingly dismissing her concerns, Jake replied, "Please. You’re actually hung up on Linda’s empty threats? It was just Linda being Linda. The woman is always stressed about something. It’s what makes her so attractive."

Zelda arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his flippant assessment. Realizing his tone might be misconstrued, Jake added quickly, "I mean…it’s what makes her so good at her job. She’s motivated. A real ‘go-getter’, that one."

Shaking her head, Zelda maintained a firm tone. "Whatever. We still need to come up with something by this afternoon. And I need to know I can count on you to help deliver."

Jake teasingly prodded, "What are you saying? That I’m not responsible?"

In a surprising twist of office mischief, Jake reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a small bottle of liquid laxative. With a playful glint in his eye, he removed the lid from his coffee cup and poured a generous amount of the concoction into it before snapping it shut.

At that moment, Amy, a cheerful coworker, passed by. Jake’s face lit up as he called out with a friendly, "Hey, Amy."

Amy halted in her tracks, responding with a casual, "Yeah?"

With a wink, Jake handed her the coffee cup. "Tell Nico I got him his morning macchiato. Extra ‘almond milk’."

Amy smiled warmly and continued on her way, leaving Jake to turn his attention back to Zelda, who was now sporting a judgmental glare.

"What? I can be just as motivated when I want to be," he shot back defensively.

Zelda exhaled loudly, her tone sharpening as she refocused on the pressing project. "So, do you have any ideas? Pertaining to the pitch, I mean?"

Grinning confidently, Jake declared, "You know what? Let me go to my car, smoke a joint, and take my morning power nap. We’ll reconvene in an hour."

"Jake…" Zelda began pleadingly, a note of exasperation apparent in her voice.

Raising a finger as if marking his promise, Jake responded with cheerful certainty, "When I come back up, I will have the ‘game-winning’ idea for us. I promise."

Resigned, Zelda slumped back further into her chair and, with a hint of sarcastic humor, muttered, "Great. Just what I need. A ‘game-winning’ idea from the king of procrastination."

With that, Jake winked one final time before sauntering away, leaving Zelda shaking her head, a small, bemused smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth as she returned to her work.

****

The office buzzed with its usual undercurrent of quiet chaos. In the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, Max sat behind his cluttered desk, a conspiratorial smile dancing on his face. Amid the relentless click-clack of keyboards, a solitary thought danced in his mind. Leaning back in his chair, he murmured under his breath, “This is gonna be epic.”

Across the room, Ron—a thirty-something balding gentleman, meticulous in every gesture and always clad in gloves—was a picture of precision. He moved deliberately, each swipe of his disinfectant wipe an act of ritualistic care over his pristine desk. Max’s eyes glittered with mischief as he extracted his phone from his pocket. With a few deliberate taps, a text message was sent. Glancing over at Ron, whose every action was dedicated to the eradication of germs, Max could barely contain a soft chuckle. “Time for the pièce de résistance,” he whispered to himself.

Moments later, Ron remained engrossed in the quiet world of his computer screen, oblivious to the unfolding prank. Suddenly, Max emerged from behind the partition, brandishing a gigantic inflatable rubber chicken as if it were an award for office camaraderie. With an exuberance that contrasted sharply with Ron’s calculated composure, Max roared, “Hey, Ron! I got you a new office buddy.”

The unexpected outburst sent Ron into a state of alarm. He leaped from his chair, his careful arrangement of desk supplies crumbling in an instant as hand sanitizer was spilled in a wild arc across the surface. Spinning around, his eyes fixed on the sight of the inflatable intruder, Ron sputtered in disbelief, “What the—! Get that away from me.”

Max, now thoroughly entertained, waved the rubber chicken with glee and replied, “But it’s the perfect desk accessory! Look, it doesn’t have germs.” The absurdity of his statement was lost on Ron as his features twisted into a mask of disgust and panic. With a trembling step backward, sweating under the relentless pressure of the prank’s escalation, Ron barked, “That thing is a breeding ground for bacteria!”

Undeterred, Max winked mischievously. From his pocket he revealed an air horn, and with a devilish smile, he declared, “Let’s see how you handle this.” Before Ron could muster another word, the air horn blared with an ear-splitting force. The sound ricocheted off the walls, sending shivers through the silent cubicle area. Ron’s eyes bulged as he instinctively dropped his precious sanitizing wipes to the floor, scattering them like confetti in a sudden burst of chaos.

In a frantic tone, Ron cried out, “No! My wipes!” As he dived desperately to gather the fallen items, his gloves flailed in a hopeless scramble. Meanwhile, Max, his laughter bubbling over into uncontrollable mirth, managed to choke out through his giggles, “You know, Ron, maybe you should invest in some rubber chicken disinfectant.”

Kneeling on the cold floor, Ron’s face was a storm of rage and desperate indignation. “This is not funny, Max! You think this is a joke? I can’t work like this,” he yelled, voice trembling with a mix of fury and humiliation. Yet Max, still chuckling as he leaned casually against the cubicle wall, simply shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Oh come on! It’s just a little fun! Lighten up.”

Rising slowly, Ron’s composure wavered between resolute anger and sheer embarrassment. Taking a steadying breath, he murmured, “You don’t get it. I can’t have this filth around me…I need to sanitize.” Just then, as if to punctuate the calamity, the inflatable chicken exploded with a resounding POP, its rubber fragments raining down in a final act of absurdity. Ron stood frozen, his eyes wide with horror as the mess overwhelmed him.

“No…no…no…” he repeated in a trembling monotone, his voice barely a whisper as he slowly sank back to the floor. Meanwhile, Max wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, his amusement echoing across the office, a chaotic symphony in an otherwise mundane day.

“Happy Monday, Ron,” Max quipped through his lingering laughter, leaving the office suspended in the aftermath of one unforgettable prank.

****

In the fluorescent hum of the office bathroom, Jake stood at the sink, his hands suspended under the steady stream of water that echoed softly in the small, brightly lit space. The mundane routine of washing away the morning’s residue was interrupted when the door swung open with a quiet yet determined motion. Max strode in, his confident gait slicing through the calm, as he leaned casually against the wall.

"There you are. Zelda is freaking the fuck out over this pitch. She wants to know if we have any ideas yet?" Max remarked with a tone that mixed urgency and exasperation.

Turning off the faucet with practiced ease, Jake replied in a nonchalant manner, "Not yet. But things are percolating. Can’t rush creativity." His words, light and measured, set the tone of resilience amidst the chaos of creative pressure.

As Jake reached for a paper towel and began drying his hands, a sudden, loud groan of discomfort erupted from one of the nearby stalls. The unexpected sound made both men exchange a brief glance of understanding—a silent acknowledgment of shared office hardships—before returning their attention to the pressing matters at hand.

Max couldn’t help but chuckle as he commented, "Sounds like someone’s having a shittier morning than us."

The routine of office life continued as the sound of a flushing toilet signaled another transition. Nico emerged from the stall, hastily tucking in his shirt. His forehead was damp with sweat, and a faint pallor had overtaken his complexion. Concern threaded through the casual banter as Jake stepped forward with genuine care.

"You okay there, Nico? Rough morning?" Jake asked, his voice echoing mild concern over the humming of the fluorescent lights.

Nico, not yet fully recovered from his ordeal, joined them at the sink. He squirted soap into his hands and began washing vigorously, grimacing as he did so. With a resigned sigh, he confessed, "Think I must be lactose intolerant. This is the second day in a row this has happened."

Jake grinned mischievously, a spark of humor lighting up his eyes: "Told you those macchiatos were a real shot in the dark. You can’t trust the almond milk just because it sounds fancy."

Nico rolled his eyes as he continued scrubbing his hands, managing a wry comment despite the day's misfortunes. "Next time, I’ll stick to black coffee. Less drama."

Drying his hands and leaning casually against the sink, Jake offered a dose of encouragement, "Buck up, Nico. I’m sure the worst is over." Meanwhile, Max gave Nico a reassuring pat on the back, striving to lift the spirits of his beleaguered colleague. With the paper towel discarded and the water now silent, Max added cheerfully, "Hey, at least you’re not giving your pitch in front of Linda right after a coffee mishap."

Jake’s chuckle resonated with the unspoken agreement that some scenarios were simply best avoided. "Yeah, that’s a hard pass. Let’s avoid that scenario at all costs," he said firmly.

As Jake and Max began to exit the space, Nico, still managing the remnants of an uneasy morning, shut off the water and reached for another paper towel. However, fate had one more twist in store for him. Without warning, his stomach released a loud, gurgling sound. Clutching his stomach in distress, Nico exclaimed, "Oh no!" His face drained of color as he dashed back into the nearest stall, panic evident in his eyes.

Max turned to Jake with a mischievous smirk, quipping, "Looks like he wasn’t kidding." Jake simply shrugged, a grin still playing on his lips as he remarked, "Some days you’re the king of procrastination, and other days, you’re just trying to survive the macchiato." Their laughter filled the space, a moment of levity amid the everyday madness, as they left the chaos of the bathroom behind.

Outside, in the bustling office hallway, the duo merged with the flow of activity. The hum of productivity resonated around them as Jake pulled out his phone and, still smiling, remarked, "So, what do you think? Should I send Zelda a message about our ‘creative process’?"

Max, laughing heartily, replied, "Only if you want her to hunt you down. Just get your act together, man." Their banter continued, echoing down the corridor as the intensity of the morning slowly gave way to the shared camaraderie of colleagues facing another day together.

****

The office buzzed with the constant hum of chatter and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards. Zelda found herself hunched over Jake’s desk in the cubicle area, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings like a vigilant hawk. With deliberate stealth, she leaned in closer, her fingers poised over the keyboard as she ensured that the coast was clear.

In one smooth, swift motion, she maneuvered the computer mouse and clicked on “CREATE NEW FOLDER.” The screen flickered in anticipation, ready to obey her command. Zelda’s fingers danced over the keys as she typed, “RUSSIAN PORN,” punctuating the moment with a flourish. A mischievous smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she admired the neatly arranged folder among the clamor of other files on the cluttered desktop.

A spark of triumph lit her eyes, and in a decisive act of rebellion, she captured a screenshot of her handiwork. Setting it as the desktop background, she leaned back in her chair to savor the taste of her secret victory, her mind alight with a blend of satisfaction and adrenaline. In a low, victorious murmur, she uttered: “Take that, dickhead.”

Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps broke her moment of solitary celebration. Max emerged into view, his pace measured and casual as he neared. The unexpected presence made Zelda’s heart skip a beat, and her cheeks flushed with a mix of anxiety and surprise. Swiftly, she concealed her playful grin, picking up a pen as if it provided a shield against any probing questions.

Max’s eyes searched her face as he asked, unconsciously probing into her secretive deed: “What are you up to?”

Feigning nonchalance, Zelda replied, her tone light and innocent: “Nothing! Just needed to borrow a pen.”

Max’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly in skepticism, though he chose to dismiss his doubts. He carried on, informing her of another twist in the day’s agenda: “Well, Jake wants us to take a little field trip. He thinks some time away will help get the creative juices flowing.”

At the mention of a field trip, a flicker of undeniable excitement danced in Zelda’s eyes, though she quickly masked her emotion with practiced ease. In a measured tone, she responded, “Uh, yeah. A field trip sounds good. Just give me a sec. I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”

Max replied with a casual, friendly: “Okie doke.”

Before Max turned to leave, he paused, casting a lingering, suspicious glance back at her. His genuine concern shone through as he noted the fleeting anxiety hidden behind her smile. “You sure you’re all good?”

Forcing a steady smile despite the turmoil churning inside, Zelda reassured him: “All good. Thanks.”

Though Max’s eyes still harbored a trace of doubt, he chose to let the matter be. “Okay. See you downstairs,” he said, and with that, he walked away, leaving Zelda in the wake of his departing footsteps.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Zelda exhaled a deep, relieved sigh. The tension that had gripped her shoulders relaxed, and she allowed herself to revel in the secret intensity of the moment.

****

The engine’s steady hum filled the sedan as it sped along a desolate road, the world outside a blur of dilapidated buildings and fading memories. Inside, Jake gripped the steering wheel with determined force, while Max, ever the observant companion, sat comfortably in the shotgun seat. In the back, Zelda’s anxious eyes darted from the fleeting landscape to the cracked interiors of her worn clothing.

"So, where the hell is this ‘field trip’, exactly? Satan’s asshole?" Zelda’s voice broke through the murmuring engine noise, a mix of disbelief and trepidation coloring her words.

"We’re almost there." Jake replied, his tone steady as he pointed ahead with a subtle gesture. "It’s up here at the end."

Ahead loomed a rundown structure—its weathered facade a stark contrast against the pale sky. Zelda squinted, her gaze fixated on what looked to be a windowless edifice. "In that windowless rape shack?" she asked, her voice barely disguising a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity.

Max leaned forward, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "We heard from a mutual acquaintance that this place has some of the most off-the-wall shit when it comes to sex toys."

Jake’s eyes lit up with a spark of creative fervor as he responded, "And weird ass shit is exactly what we need to be looking at right now, if we’re going to come up with an original, outside-the-box idea."

Reluctance mingled with resolve in Zelda’s expression as she finally consented, "Okay. I’m willing to try anything at this point."

"That a girl. And we’re here." Jake announced, his voice echoing a mix of triumph and anticipation as the sedan pulled into a dirt lot. The crunch of tires against gravel punctuated the arrival, as if marking the start of a new chapter in their dubious adventure.

Stepping out into the dusty lot, they approached the small, warehouse-like building. The structure’s greenish paint was cracked and peeling—a visual metaphor for the layers of mystery that awaited them within. Zelda couldn’t help but voice her disdain one last time, "Just so you know, if I end up dead inside a well, I’m coming back and haunting the shit out of you two."

Max chuckled softly, adding with a hint of dark humor, "And we wouldn’t blame you."

Their laughter, nervous yet genuine, resonated for a fleeting moment before they stepped through the doorway, leaving behind the familiar confines of the sedan and venturing into the unknown depths of the decrepit building.

In the harsh fluorescent light of the looming warehouse, the trio stepped through a rusty chain-link gate, its clanking echoing like a prelude to something bizarre. The warehouse, a cavern of eccentricities, was filled with items that defied convention. The air carried a potent mix of industrial musk and an odd, sugary scent that hinted at far stranger wares hidden beneath layers of dust and neon.

They approached a timeworn wooden counter where a man, known as Johnny the Clerk, stood. In his forties and sporting a scruffy mullet, Johnny’s appearance was as unconventional as the establishment itself. Clad in jeans with holes chiseled into the knees and a white tank top two sizes too small, his small, hairy gut was on proud display. With a languid air, he sucked on a bright lollipop.

“Well, what can I do for you three fine people?” Johnny drawled in a thick Southern accent, his voice heavy with a familiarity that only this odd sanctuary could provide.

Jake led the unlikely group with a steady confidence as he replied, “We are looking for your selection of dildos and vibrators.”

Beside him, Max added with a mischievous grin, “The weirder the better.”

Johnny pulled the lollipop from his mouth with an obnoxious SMACK. With a wry glint in his eyes, he replied, “Son, we have some of the most twisted, fucked up, send you straight to the tenth circle of hell...weird shit.”

A knowing glance was exchanged between Jake and Max, their silent nod affirming that they were exactly in the right place. “Great! Just point us in that direction, and we’ll leave you be,” Jake responded.

Extending his arm with deliberate flourish, Johnny used the now tapered lollipop as a pointer. “Just over yonder. Past the vanilla scented pocket pussies and the medieval nipple clamps.”

Jake smirked, softly tapping his fist on the counter before murmuring a simple, “Thanks.”

The moment the instructions were delivered, a collective shudder of horror—and curiosity—rippled through Jake, Max, and Zelda as they turned and walked away, the surreal interior of the warehouse burning itself into their minds.

Moments later, under the relentless flicker of fluorescent lights that cast eerie shadows along the aisles of female sex toys, the trio wandered. Zelda, driven by restless impulse, picked up random objects—vibrators, dildos, novelty devices—each piece more bizarre than the last. Throughout their exploration, Johnny lounged against the counter, arms crossed and eyes following their every move with a hint of predatory amusement.

Their eyes met across the space when Johnny caught Zelda’s gaze. With a sly, suggestive motion, he started circling his belly button with his index finger before slowly twirling his tongue around the edges of his lollipop. The vulgar, almost ritualistic display sent a shudder through Zelda, who quickly averted her eyes in palpable disgust.

In a low, almost conspiratorial tone, Zelda leaned toward Jake. “Is Johnny ‘the-walking-genital-wart’ freaking anyone else out? Or is it just me?”

Jake, clearly amused, retorted, “Who did you expect to work here? Glen Powell?”

“No. Just didn’t think it would be the ‘banjo boy’ from ‘Deliverance’. All grown up. Biding his time until he can make one of us squeal like a pig,” Zelda shot back, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

“Now, you’re just being dramatic,” Jake chided lightly.

“Am I, though?” Zelda pressed, her tone challenging amidst the strange ambiance.

“Yes. Let’s just find something that can spark some inspiration and get the fuck out of here,” Jake replied, determined to steer the bizarre situation towards normality.

Max ambled over, brandishing a large, rubbery item with a mischievous grin. As he revealed it to be two dildos fused together, he laughed and announced, “Can someone say: ‘Two Dicks, One Hole?’”

Later, as the trio regrouped at the counter, they laid out an assorted collection of dildos and vibrators—each as strange and varied as the last. Johnny scanned the eclectic pile with a self-assured smirk. “Will that be all?” he inquired.

“I think so,” Jake answered, exchanging anxious glances with Max and Zelda as the count progressed.

After a pause, Johnny looked up and declared, “Okay then. That will be $85.75.”

Reaching into his pocket, Jake pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill and passed it over. Johnny's eyes widened slightly as he examined the bill. “Don’t see too many of these around these parts.”

Leaning close, Zelda whispered to Jake, her voice thick with sarcasm, “Where the hell does this guy think we are? In the back woods of ‘Marry-your-sister-Kentucky’?”

Jake nudged her with his elbow, a silent reminder to keep the mood light. Zelda took the hint, recomposing herself as Johnny handed back the change.

“Thanks,” Jake said, his tone mingling gratitude with a hint of lingering disbelief.

Then, Johnny’s demeanor shifted into a more tantalizing tone as he leaned in, the lollipop swishing languidly around his mouth. “Say, you two interested in a little ‘carnal surprise’?”

Jake and Max exchanged skeptical glances, their curiosity mingling with caution. “What did you have in mind?” Max asked, a trace of intrigue edging his words.

Pointing toward the back with a conspiratorial air, Johnny continued, “Through them doors is a secret room. I refer to it as the ‘Glory-fied’ room. You get it?”

Zelda couldn’t resist a snarky remark. “So, it’s a room with a glory hole? Did I crack the mystery?”

Johnny’s face twisted into an annoyed glare. “Well, someone walked in here wearing her sassy-pants.”

Jake nudged Zelda once more, and with a roll of her eyes, she offered a patronizing apology, “Sorry. You’re right. It’s, uh...it’s a clever name.”

Johnny accepted her apology with a curt nod, turning his attention back to Jake and Max. “As I was saying, through them back doors is a room you can go and get your little ‘dilly’ pickled. For the convenient price of $10.”

Zelda’s tone dripped with sarcasm as she exclaimed, “Wow, only $10?”

Jake hesitated, his mind wrestling with the absurdity and allure of the offer, before stuttering, “I uh…”

Max, seizing the moment, asked, “Well, who would be on the other side of the wall, exactly? Man or woman?”

Johnny leaned in closer with a devilish smile. “Let me ask you this, buster: when ya’ll pulled in here, did ya’ll see any other cars parked in the lot?”

Realization and shock flashed in the eyes of Jake and Max while Zelda’s smile broadened as she playfully draped an arm around each of their shoulders, drawing them into an intimate huddle.

“Well boys, what do you say? Should we just take our bag of goodies and head back to the office, or do you want to ‘walk through them doors’ and further the plot on this little venture?” Zelda proposed with a mix of mischief and practicality.

After a moment of palpable tension and unspoken deliberation, Jake finally responded, “I uh, I think just the bag of goodies will do.”

With one final, obnoxious smacking noise as he pulled the lollipop from his mouth, Johnny quipped, “Your loss.”

The afternoon sun drenched the dashboard with a mellow glow as Jake, Max, and Zelda clambered into the sedan. The atmosphere inside the vehicle was as charged as the conversation that immediately followed their exit from the building.

“Well uh…that was interesting,” Jake murmured, his tone a mix of bemusement and lingering curiosity as he settled into the driver's seat.

Zelda, her eyes flashing with unrestrained candor, cut in without missing a beat, “All I have to say is men are fucking savages.” Her words hung in the air, unapologetically raw and powerful.

Jake couldn’t help but grin at her blunt declaration. Leaning back, he added, “I would love nothing more than to disagree with you, but in this case you would be dead-on-balls accurate.” There was a spark of mischief in his tone as he reached to start the engine, the ignition crackling to life under his touch.

Max, sitting quietly until then, interjected with a surprisingly poignant comment, “Agreed. I mean, had White-Trash-McGee in there answered my question differently, it might be me with my cock on the craps table.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Zelda reiterated firmly, “Like I said: ‘savages’.” Her exasperation was met with the subtle laughter and knowing glances exchanged among the trio.

In that instant, the sedan roared forward, tires gripping the asphalt as it peeled out, sending a large dust cloud billowing in its wake.

****

The break room of the Ad-Venture Marketing Agency was a small haven of lingering microwave aromas. Jake stood by the counter, his eyes fixed on the microwave display as his food slowly made its journey to readiness. The low hum of the machine provided a steady background for his impatient thoughts.

In that quiet moment, Franklin approached, his presence marked by the odd, stuttering mumbles of incoherent gibberish that had become his signature greeting. As he neared, Jake couldn’t help but note his frustration.

"Still can’t speak, huh?" Jake remarked with a wry smile, his tone mixing amusement and exasperation.

Without a word, Franklin reached into his pocket and produced a small notepad. He scribbled something hurriedly, then extended it toward Jake. Curiosity piqued, Jake took the notepad and read aloud, "What can I do to help with the pitch?" The offer, simple yet sincere, hung in the air for a brief moment. He returned the notepad to Franklin with a nod, acknowledging the effort.

The microwave’s buzzer suddenly erupted, pulling Jake from his thoughts. He retrieved his Cup of Noodles, the steam rising as he peeled off the top and gave it a quick stir. With a measured pause, he addressed Franklin again. As he stirred, his tone shifted to one of blunt honesty.

"Look, Franklin, I’m going to level with you. There is no way you can go into today’s pitch meeting with your face looking like that."

Before Franklin could form a coherent response, his drool began escaping in a messy, silent torrent—a visual punctuation to his continued burst of gibberish. Jake wasn’t about to let that distract him more than necessary. With a firm decisiveness, he interjected.

"Listen, man, it's clear this isn't going to happen. Your face looks like a scene ripped straight from a nightmare—a horror show that even Freddy-fucking-Krueger would steer clear of. Seriously, take a good look at yourself; you’re spewing more fluid than a wild scene in a bukkake film. So, why don’t we just call today a loss? Let Max, Zelda, and me take the reins on this pitch. Sound good?"

The words hung in the air as Jake gently nudged Franklin’s shoulder in a patronizing gesture. It was clear his concern for the overall success of the pitch outweighed any personal consideration, and his crude humor was his way of keeping things real.

"But don’t you fret your pretty little head. We’ll simply weave a harmless little white lie for Linda, claiming you were instrumental in crafting the copy. It's a win-win for all of us."

At that, Franklin tried once more to plead his case, his unintelligible murmurs a desperate appeal. Jake, however, had already picked up his noodles, the familiar comfort of the meal anchoring him to final decisions. As he walked past the struggling Franklin, Jake over his shoulder called out lightly, "Thanks, Franklin."

****

Ron trudged along, a steaming plastic food container clutched tightly in hand. As he moved among dimly colored partitions, wisps of vapor curled from the cracked lid of his container, drifting lazily into the stale office air. Even behind the disposable medical mask clinging to his face, his body language betrayed the tension simmering within him.

Just as Ron neared his desk, an unforeseen and loud CRASH shattered the routine quiet of the workspace. Time slowed as his grip faltered—his container slipped, tumbling from his grasp to meet the unforgiving floor. In a surreal burst, the lid flew open, and vibrant red spaghetti sauce exploded outward, spattering wildly against his slacks and leaving a stark splash of color against the dull beige walls that bordered his cubicle.

"What the hell is that?!" Ron cried out, his voice thick with shock.

Before his disbelief could fully settle, his eyes fell on an absurd, outlandish sight. Protruding defiantly from his keyboard was an oversized purple dildo—its glossy, clear lubricant gleaming disturbingly as it oozed between the keys.

“Someone call the rapid response team!" he demanded, his words echoing off the walls as he attempted to rationalize the inexplicable turn of events.

Not far from the chaos of the cubicle area, the scene shifted to a bustling hallway, where the mundane collided with an unexpected sense of urgency. Aidan emerged confidently from the break room, cradling a vibrant gourmet salad. The freshness of its ingredients seemed to capture the sunlight that streamed in through the wide hallway windows. Suddenly, Zelda appeared at his side, her stride urgent and her expression a blend of frustration and impatience as she hurried toward him.

"Hey, Aidan! Have you seen Jake and Max?" she inquired without missing a beat.

Aidan, munching thoughtfully on his salad, replied casually, "Thought you guys left for the day."

Zelda, maintaining her brisk pace, clarified, "No, just a quick errand. We were supposed to reconvene after lunch."

With a casual smirk, Aidan leaned in as if ready to share a juicy secret. "Sorry, haven’t seen them. But hey, congrats on landing the pitch for 'Dan the Rubber Man.' Dude’s a legend." His tone carried the ease of a conversation that often danced on the edge of irreverence.

Raising an eyebrow, Zelda responded with a note of skepticism, "I’ll take your word for it."

Not pausing for another moment, Aidan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "I heard the guy really lives up to his name. Not just with his business, but how he conducts said business." His words hung in the air like a tantalizing rumor, prompting Zelda’s brow to furrow in puzzlement.

"I don’t follow," Zelda admitted, her confusion evident.

Grinning broadly, Aidan continued, "There was this rumor on Reddit—an intern messed up the storyboards for the marketing campaign for the T1-Squirter, and Dan turned around and used the product on him."

Zelda’s eyes widened in alarm as she blurted out, "What the hell is the T1-Squirter?"

With an air of nonchalance, Aidan explained, "It’s a 13-inch rubber fist. Like the T-1000 from 'Terminator 2'—no matter how much damage it takes, it morphs right back into shape."

A hint of exasperation tinged Zelda’s voice as she muttered, "Fantastic."

Dismissively, Aidan shrugged off the concern, "But hey, I wouldn't sweat it. I know Jake and Max. If anything, they're holed up in one of the large conference rooms on the fifth floor, taking care of business."

In the sweltering heat of the employee parking lot, the tension was palpable. The air seemed to vibrate with the sound of charged anticipation.

Jake’s face, his eyes squinting with fierce intensity under the blazing sun. In a thick Scottish accent, he bellowed, “You vile English scum, I challenge you to a duel.” His tone was both playful and defiant—a challenge thrown down in the spirit of outrageous theatrics.

Almost immediately, the focus shifted to Max. His face revealed his unyielding defiance, radiated cool confidence. With an impeccably posh British accent, he retorted, “I accept your challenge, you haggis-eating hillbilly.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes suggesting that he relished the absurdity as much as the contest itself.

Jake and Max, standing at opposite ends of the parking lot, were each mounted on electric scooters. They clutched fluorescent light bulbs under their arms as if these fragile objects were the swords of ancient warriors.

“Attack!” roared Jake, his voice carrying over the hum of onlookers and the drone of their scooters. With a twist of their throttles, both men propelled themselves forward. The scooters surged, racing headlong toward one another, while the light bulbs swung and gleamed like javelins in mid-air. In an instant, the thrill turned to panic on Jake’s face. His eyes widened dramatically as he squeezed the brake, only to find that nothing happened.

“Shit! Houston, we have a malfunction!” he cried out, his voice rising in a mix of disbelief and desperation. He gripped the brake even harder, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Finally, with a look that mingled exasperation and defeat, he shouted, “Fuck this! I’m bailing!”

The absurdity of the moment deepened as Max, witnessing his counterpart’s retreat, called out in confusion, “You’re what?” before the inevitable collision occurred. With a moment of reckless abandon, Jake leapt off his scooter just as it met Max head-on. The impact was explosive—a cacophonous crash that sent Max somersaulting over his handlebars, and he tumbled to the ground, left momentarily winded.

Catching his breath, Max managed a sardonic quip: “Well…that sucked.” His tone tried to inject humor into the chaos, but the absurdity of their duel left little room for levity.

Just then, the back door of the building banged open with a force that echoed down the lot. Zelda stormed out, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fury. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Max scrambled to his feet, still catching his breath, and attempted to salvage the moment with a light-hearted remark: “Don’t worry, it was a tie.”

Zelda’s fury did not subside. “I’ve been searching the entire building for you two dipshits to discuss the pitch, and you’re out here doing…whatever the hell this is.”

Not missing a beat, Jake grinned and quipped, “Scooter javelin.” His attempt to charm the situation, however, did little to mend the damage already done.

Zelda’s hands planted firmly on her hips, she took a deep, steadying breath. Her eyes burned with the knowledge of looming deadlines and the potential ruin of their careers. “Look, the client is coming in less than an hour, and we still haven’t settled on a product idea to pitch him.” Her tone was steely—a mix of threat and concern.

Leaning back with unabashed arrogance, Jake replied, “You’re worrying too much about this. You’re looking at the king of procrastination. In college, I would write a 15 page paper the night before and still manage to land a ‘B’. I got this.”

The tension escalated further as Zelda strode toward him, her face twisted into a grimace that could curdle milk. She declared, “Listen up, sporto. You’d better be as slick as you think you are. I didn’t claw my way through four grueling years at UCLA business school only to find myself shackled to a second-rate advertising agency like ‘Ad-Venture Awaits.’ My destiny shouldn’t hinge on the whims of two vape-sucking, javelin-tossing knuckleheads. Let’s be real—you two probably slid into your positions because your daddies played golf and waltzed through those creepy ‘Eyes Wide Shut’ soirées with the CEO. So here’s the deal: you’d better have this under control. Because the next time I see you, I won’t hesitate to shove that lightbulb so far up your backside that you’ll be tasting glass shards for a month.”

With that explosive outburst, Zelda spun on her heel and stormed back into the building, leaving Jake rooted to the spot as he absorbed every scathing word of her tirade. For a long moment, all was silent except for the echo of her footsteps in the distance.

Then, as if punctuating the surreal sequence of events, Max approached Jake from behind and, in a tone laced with incredulous humor, asked, “Is it just me, or do you also have a wicked hard on?”

****

In the sterile silence of the conference room, Zelda sat alone at the long table. The only sound was the faint, unceasing hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Spread before her was an unlikely parade of objects—a line of dildos, each one more absurd than the last. Some were comically oversized, while others boasted artful, intricate designs. Zelda’s eyes roamed slowly over the bizarre assortment, her brow deeply furrowed in concentration. Every curve and detail seemed to carry the weight of an unspoken challenge, and the pressure of the moment pressed down on her as she searched for meaning amidst the surreal display.

Somewhere in another part of the building, at Ron’s cluttered desk, the day’s peculiarities took on a different flavor. Ron had transformed his workspace into a miniature laboratory of sanitation. Dressed in a disposable face mask and rubber gloves, he was meticulously scrubbing his keyboard with a tiny brush, his focus absolute. His ritual of cleaning was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Max.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Max sauntered behind Ron. Concealing a small spray bottle with casual ease, he leaned in—his head tilted back as if preparing for a sneeze. In one swift, unexpected motion, he shot a fine mist of water onto the back of Ron’s neck. Startled, Ron’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively clutching the damp spot as he struggled to understand the prank. Max, barely containing his laughter, strolled away, leaving Ron to contemplate the absurdity of his interrupted routine.

Outside in the employee parking lot, Jake sat perched on the hood of his sedan, comfortably ensconced in a moment of quiet contemplation. The warm glow of the sun painted his face as he took a deep drag from his vape pen, the swirling vapor creating ephemeral clouds around him. His gaze wandered into the distance until it was captured by a small, everyday act of beauty—a female coworker emerging from the building. With a hint of care, she rummaged through her purse, eventually pulling out a slender tube of lipstick.

As she delicately applied it, a subtle smile tugged at the corners of her lips. In that instant, Jake’s attention sharpened; the mundane transformed into art before his eyes. A spark of inspiration lit within him. Energy surged through his veins as he jumped off the hood, determination replacing his earlier reverie. He leapt into his car, revving the engine with a newfound resolve as he sped away.

****

The corridor outside the conference room thrummed with tension as Zelda and Max stood together, their eyes darting toward the closed door. Zelda’s voice broke the silence, laced with anxiety:

"Where the hell is Jake? The meeting starts in five minutes."

Max glanced down at his phone and replied, "I have no idea. I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail."

Zelda began to pace, her polished heels echoing on the floor, each step a measure of her rising agitation. Just then, a brisk movement caught their attention as Jake appeared at the far end of the hallway. He jogged toward them, his sharply pressed suit a testament to his effort despite the rush.

"Where the hell have you been?" Zelda demanded, her voice a blend of frustration and relief.

Catching his breath, Jake shot back, "Had to take care of a few last-minute things."

As he stood before them, Zelda’s initial irritation softened into amusement. Admiring the crisp cut of his suit, she teased, "And what are you wearing?"

With a playful grin, Jake responded, "What? Can’t a guy look nice?"

Max couldn't hold back a chuckle as he added, "There’s 'nice,' and then there’s 'trumped-up corporate stooge.'"

Shrugging nonchalantly, Jake quipped, "I’ll accept either one."

The tension shifted as Zelda pressed for business, "So, what did you come up with?"

With a flourish that spoke of conviction, Jake produced a flash drive from his pocket, holding it aloft like a treasured trophy. "Not to worry. I have our million-dollar idea right here," he declared with unabashed confidence.

At that moment, the door to the conference room swung open, revealing Linda. Her expression was all business as she said urgently, "We’re ready for you."

With a reassuring smile, Jake adjusted his jacket and, exuding an air of daring resolve, announced, "Shall we?" Max and Zelda fell in step behind him as they strode into the room, while Zelda’s anxious look lingered even as she closed the door behind them.

Half an hour later, the same corridor bore witness to a striking change of scene. The conference room door opened once again, and out stepped Jake alongside Dan—a stocky, bald man in a wrinkled suit jacket paired incongruously with jeans and flip-flops. Their conversation was animated and warm, laughter spilling out into the hallway. Trailing behind them were Zelda, Max, and Linda, whose faces bore expressions of mingled confusion and relief.

Clapping Jake enthusiastically on the back, Dan said, "Jake, my boy, I’m quite impressed. And trust me, that’s no easy feat."

Muttering under her breath, Zelda added, "I’ll say."

In that moment, the camaraderie between Jake and Dan was palpable as they exchanged a firm handshake. Dan continued with genuine warmth, "I look forward to working with you guys."

Jake’s enthusiasm was undiminished as he replied, "Us too, sir."

Turning to Linda with a smooth shift in focus, Dan concluded, "We’ll be in touch." With that, he strode confidently down the hall.

Linda then turned to the trio, her earlier skepticism now completely dissipated. "Well, I had my doubts about you three, but somehow, you managed to pull off a miracle. Congrats," she said with a genuine smile.

Zelda’s hopeful tone broke through the lingering tension as she asked, "So, we can keep our jobs?"

Linda’s smirk reassured them as she replied, "Yes. For this week, at least. Clock out and go home. I’ll see you all tomorrow."

With a final nod from the group, Linda walked away, leaving behind a collective sigh of relief and the quiet promise of another day.

****

The day broke bright and clear over the city as Jake, Zelda, and Max spilled out of the office building. The sunlight bathed their faces in warmth, carrying with it the promise of a fresh start. Max, whose enthusiasm was hard to miss, clapped Jake heartily on the shoulder.

"Great job today, buddy! Text me later, and we’ll grab a beer to celebrate," Max called out, his grin contagious.

Jake merely smirked in response, his tone light as he replied, "Will do. You know I always need a reason to drink."

With that, Max trotted off toward the parking lot, his steps buoyant and carefree. Zelda, meanwhile, lingered by Jake, her smile soft and sincere. She stepped closer and, with a playful glimmer, reached up to gently straighten his tie.

"So, I have to ask: how on earth did you come up with the idea of a vibrator camouflaged as lipstick?" Zelda inquired, her tone both curious and teasing.

Jake’s eyes lit up with mischief as his smile widened. "Like I told you before: when I’m motivated, I can be pretty…creative," he replied with a playful lilt.

Zelda let out a light laugh, her teasing growing bolder. "I stand corrected. Clearly, you’re a genius in disguise," she said, stepping back slightly. As her cheeks flushed with a hint of bashfulness, the air between them brimmed with unspoken warmth.

"See you tomorrow, douchebag," Zelda added playfully, the affectionate sarcasm mingling with her hidden affection.

Jake chuckled softly. "Bye," he responded, watching as Zelda strolled toward her car.

Left alone, Jake leaned casually against the building. He took a slow, clouded drag from his vape pen, savoring the moment of contentment as he prepared to leave. Just as he began to walk away, the building’s door swung open abruptly. Out stumbled Nico—a man whose disheveled appearance told tales of a long, arduous day.

His hair was a chaotic mess, and his dress shirt, hanging half-untucked, betrayed the image of someone emerging from an unseen battlefield.

Nico shuffled toward his car parked nearby, each heavy step a testament to his exhaustion. As he settled into the driver's seat and started the engine, an ominous silence fell upon him. Then, in a sudden and jarring moment, his stomach emitted a loud, gurgling churn. It was immediately followed by an unmistakable wet fart that echoed through the cramped space of the car. Nico’s face froze in horror, his eyes wide and vacant, staring straight ahead as a deep sense of defeat overcame him.

Muttering to himself, Nico lamented, “Fuck my life.”