Dave Pullman, marketing wunderkind for the Southern House, a regional burger and brew chain, sat in his car, staring up at the façade of the company that had been like a second home to him for the last six years.
He listened to the ticks as the engine of his new sports car cooled down, wondering if it would be the first piece of his life that would be repossessed. Two days ago, he had been flying high, anticipating a bonus, and possible promotion, only to have it all come crashing down around him.
When he'd graduated college at the top of his marketing class, just a few short years ago, he'd had his pick of plum jobs. Unlike when his loser father had graduated a generation ago, a booming job market had given Dave choices that his dad could only dream of.
Dave had chosen Southern House, a growing restaurant chain that had seemed to be on the verge of breaking into the big time. He shook his head at his naivete. He'd known that he would lead the company's charge into nationwide expansion.
And he would have, too, if it hadn't been for one major obstacle. That obstacle was his boss, owner of the company, Jordan Swenson. Swenson was a tight-fisted man who had world-class dreams, but was unwilling to actually risk the money to make them come true.
Every attempt Dave had made to move the company's brand forward had been foiled by Swenson's lack of courage. The man wanted success, but was so afraid of failure that he vetoed every marketing campaign that Dave had come up with. Dave had come to detest the older man. He knew he could make the chain into something important, and it galled him to be held back by what he saw as the owner's cowardice.
Finally, after years of having brilliant campaigns shot down, Dave made a breakthrough. He sucked up to the old miser long enough to earn his trust. Dave sighed. Sooner or later, he was going to have to get out of his car, and go face the music. He thought back on the campaign, and knew he if he had it to do all over again, he would have done the same thing. There was just no accounting for the fluke that had occurred on Saturday.
He shook his head as he thought about it. After years of trying, he had finally convinced Swenson to open up the purse strings and run a campaign based on Olympics that had started last Friday. It was going to be Dave's crowning achievement on the resume he was preparing. When the agencies in New York saw his work, they would jump at the chance to hire him.
For the last month, Southern House had given out game cards with the purchase of their high end burgers. Each well-designed game piece featured an Olympic event. If the USA won a gold in the event listed, the game piece could be redeemed for a full meal for two.
Swenson had balked at the generous prize, but Dave had convinced him that there was little risk. Sports where the American teams were expected to excel had only a few token game pieces. Sports where there were no legitimate American challengers made up the bulk of the game pieces.
Last month's sales had been through the roof as patrons eagerly gathered game pieces in anticipation of the prize. Most were disappointed when they found their game pieces featured such sports as badminton and handball. Dave sneered at the gullible suckers. As if he would run a fair game.
Dave had chosen the sports very carefully, poring over statistics and performances. Of the 2.1 million game pieces distributed, 98 percent were for sports that the American team had little or no chance in.
Swenson had, of course, objected to the other two percent, but Dave had explained that if there were no winners at all, the entire thing could backfire, giving the company publicity that it didn't want.
Dave tipped his head back, closing his eyes. One of the most dynamic decisions he had made involved Men's Swimming. Not only was it a marquee event, but the popular perception was that it was an American sport.
And for the most part it was. You could hardly turn your TV on without seeing a commercial featuring the two big American guns, Jason Widener and Carly Fitello. But Dave had found the team's one weakness, the Men's 400m Butterfly.
Widener's butterfly was notoriously ineffective. The team had a butterfly specialist in Riley Halsted, but Dave had gotten intel at the beginning of summer that Halsted was nursing a bad groin injury. He'd barely made the team, then had to withdraw. The alternate was a fifteen year old Kansas farm boy whose only claim to fame was his father, astronaut Jeff Tracy.
Slam dunk.
Dave had ordered half a million game pieces that said Men's 400m Butterfly. He'd been a bit disconcerted when one of the race favorites, Ukrainian Gregor Kostas, was beaten in the preliminary race. His breath had caught in his throat when the Kansas kid gave the race favorite, Arkady Renkov, a serious run for his money.
When they had lined up for the final, Dave had taken courage just by looking at the contestants. Renkov was 6'6", with a massive upper body. Dustin Chappell, the Australian hopeful had muscles on top of his muscles, and a competitive streak that always made him a dangerous competitor.
The American kid looked like what he was, a boy trying to beat men. Dave hadn't worried until the first turn. The kid had out touched Renkov, and was perhaps a head in front. To Dave's dismay, that head had turned to half a body length by the time they had reached the wall again.
Dave had watched in absolute shock as the fifteen-year-old never slowed his pace. In fact, in the last fifty meters, he was swimming faster than ever. Renkov was surging at the end, but the kid hit the wall first, breaking the great Michael Phelps' record.
A half million game pieces. A million free meals. It was mind-boggling. When another young unknown had won the individual gold in handball the next day, Dave had simply sighed.
Swallowing hard at the memories, he shook himself out of his lethargy, and got out of his car. Squaring his shoulders, he went to face the music.
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