Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned Page A
Authors: Happy Hour of the Damned
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Frank.
“I’ll get you those receipts before lunch, Prissy. Thank you for bringing them to my attention.”
“Thank you, Amanda.” Her words were terse, pecked one by one from the air. Prissy turned and clopped off the way she’d come.
“Oh…and Prissy?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Cute shoes!”
Her reply—get this—“Humph 44 !” Couldn’t you just die?
I set the stack of papers on my desk, sprawled out on the love seat and watched the lake like a movie. I tore open the envelope and retrieved a brochure that appeared to be handmade. It did, in fact, advertise a seminar, entitled: Getting the Most from Your Afterlife, A Field Guide for Supernaturals . I decided to just go and call it an adventure. It would also allow me to stall on what to do about the business.
I worked through messages and returned calls: Renewal clinic—check, Rigel shoes—check.
Check, check, check, check, check.
I turned my attention to the biography sample for the website.
A MANDA R. F ERAL , Vice President
Graduate of UC Berkeley, where she earned a Ph.D. in Organizational Psychology, in addition to an MA in Sociology and an MBA with emphasis in Advertising and Marketing, both from Stanford.
The winner of three AdYear awards and a Copywriter of the Year for 2005, Ms. Feral’s past campaigns include:
Rigel Athletic, Cloudrunner (2005)
The 2005 Bridge the Gap Games
Peach, iMind (2006)
Arhea Home, A New Bed for Sally and Jane (1999)
Platinum Hotel, Lux (2002)
BellyBurger, Swallow (2004)
Doesn’t all that sound so super impressive? It should, I wrote it myself and some of it was even true. The education was exaggerated, a bit. I have been to Berkeley, where I spent many a hazy stoned summer evening searching for torn panties after frat keggers. I’ve also been to Stanford, where Ben Moretti, of steel-belted-radial fame and a proud Kappa Beta Pi, took me, and my drunken virginity (at least that’s what I told him). Lest you think that my only experience with education has been of the drinking and fucking nature, I did complete a degree at Seattle Community College and some work towards a BA at UW, in advertising of course. It was enough to get me started. My brazen nature (and to a lesser degree my good looks) took me the rest of the way. As for organizational psychology, I am a good judge of character 45 and a highly organized person (please note my fondness for lists). Sociology? I’m a social butterfly and I think that counts (I’m going to the Well of Souls for drinks after work—or the seminar depending on how long that took—and not just anyone can get in, now can they?). The impressive array of ad campaigns were all me. Those idiots Pendleton and Avery couldn’t come up with a decent slogan if their lives depended on it; they were along for the ride.
I sketched a smiley on a Post-It and underneath wrote: Run with it. I slapped it on the form and put it in the out box. Marithé cleaned it out hourly.
My thinking: I’ll just keep working, fake it until I come up with a plan.
Thinking about drinks reminded me that I needed to talk with Ricardo about the black zombie breathing on me. What was Ricardo’s last name? I was sure he mentioned it, or Gil did. Why did I want to say peanut? It was a nut! His last name was a nut. Ricardo Macadami-no. Ricardo Brazi-no. Almond? Ricardo Almandine? Almost, Amandine, that sounded right. I reached for the phone.
411. Got me a ring.
“You’ve reached Ricardo, I’m either sleeping with the dead or too busy to pick up. Leave me a message.” Beep.
“Ricardo, this is Amanda.” I paused, waited, as though my name would be enough to make the tall dead guy pick up. I assure you in most circumstances, it’s plenty. I rethought, added, “Princess, whatever. Listen. I remembered something about my death. Give me a call.”
The Oak Alley Business Park abandoned its namesake plantation roots at its ramshackle sign; a low-budget enamel-on-plywood affair, strapped across a
“I’ll get you those receipts before lunch, Prissy. Thank you for bringing them to my attention.”
“Thank you, Amanda.” Her words were terse, pecked one by one from the air. Prissy turned and clopped off the way she’d come.
“Oh…and Prissy?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Cute shoes!”
Her reply—get this—“Humph 44 !” Couldn’t you just die?
I set the stack of papers on my desk, sprawled out on the love seat and watched the lake like a movie. I tore open the envelope and retrieved a brochure that appeared to be handmade. It did, in fact, advertise a seminar, entitled: Getting the Most from Your Afterlife, A Field Guide for Supernaturals . I decided to just go and call it an adventure. It would also allow me to stall on what to do about the business.
I worked through messages and returned calls: Renewal clinic—check, Rigel shoes—check.
Check, check, check, check, check.
I turned my attention to the biography sample for the website.
A MANDA R. F ERAL , Vice President
Graduate of UC Berkeley, where she earned a Ph.D. in Organizational Psychology, in addition to an MA in Sociology and an MBA with emphasis in Advertising and Marketing, both from Stanford.
The winner of three AdYear awards and a Copywriter of the Year for 2005, Ms. Feral’s past campaigns include:
Rigel Athletic, Cloudrunner (2005)
The 2005 Bridge the Gap Games
Peach, iMind (2006)
Arhea Home, A New Bed for Sally and Jane (1999)
Platinum Hotel, Lux (2002)
BellyBurger, Swallow (2004)
Doesn’t all that sound so super impressive? It should, I wrote it myself and some of it was even true. The education was exaggerated, a bit. I have been to Berkeley, where I spent many a hazy stoned summer evening searching for torn panties after frat keggers. I’ve also been to Stanford, where Ben Moretti, of steel-belted-radial fame and a proud Kappa Beta Pi, took me, and my drunken virginity (at least that’s what I told him). Lest you think that my only experience with education has been of the drinking and fucking nature, I did complete a degree at Seattle Community College and some work towards a BA at UW, in advertising of course. It was enough to get me started. My brazen nature (and to a lesser degree my good looks) took me the rest of the way. As for organizational psychology, I am a good judge of character 45 and a highly organized person (please note my fondness for lists). Sociology? I’m a social butterfly and I think that counts (I’m going to the Well of Souls for drinks after work—or the seminar depending on how long that took—and not just anyone can get in, now can they?). The impressive array of ad campaigns were all me. Those idiots Pendleton and Avery couldn’t come up with a decent slogan if their lives depended on it; they were along for the ride.
I sketched a smiley on a Post-It and underneath wrote: Run with it. I slapped it on the form and put it in the out box. Marithé cleaned it out hourly.
My thinking: I’ll just keep working, fake it until I come up with a plan.
Thinking about drinks reminded me that I needed to talk with Ricardo about the black zombie breathing on me. What was Ricardo’s last name? I was sure he mentioned it, or Gil did. Why did I want to say peanut? It was a nut! His last name was a nut. Ricardo Macadami-no. Ricardo Brazi-no. Almond? Ricardo Almandine? Almost, Amandine, that sounded right. I reached for the phone.
411. Got me a ring.
“You’ve reached Ricardo, I’m either sleeping with the dead or too busy to pick up. Leave me a message.” Beep.
“Ricardo, this is Amanda.” I paused, waited, as though my name would be enough to make the tall dead guy pick up. I assure you in most circumstances, it’s plenty. I rethought, added, “Princess, whatever. Listen. I remembered something about my death. Give me a call.”
The Oak Alley Business Park abandoned its namesake plantation roots at its ramshackle sign; a low-budget enamel-on-plywood affair, strapped across a
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