The Nova continued. I began pacing in my office, with my diamond-studded walking stick. Then Goebbels walked in with his bent vulture-shaped frame, carrying a 200-page profile of the jurists. He proclaimed the report showed the jury had a strong inclination to be swayed by image, and theatrical presentations. Placing the report on my desk, he said. "Half of these jurors own SUV's and, best of all, most of them once had cosmetic surgery." Even more encouraging was his study on the presiding judge, Judge Blackmon. Despite having a rough exterior, he once had his balding head refurbished with implants! Our scheme was basic; we would invite the jury to a local racetrack, to testify to the safe nature of the Nova. The demonstration would be regulated by the Transportation Commission, who would allow the plaintiffs to choose a vehicle, from our factory. What they didn't know was Goebbels had several paid contacts in the department who would allow us to gain access to the car, the day before, to replace the fuel tank. Before Goebbels left my office to implement the plan, I grabbed him by the shoulder and said: "Just remember we're doing all this for the customer. Don't you realize that, if it wasn't for them, we would be nothing?" Rambler's camp jumped at the offer, his engineers would immediately find the explosive Nova. He stood up in his bright green suit, brimming with confidence. At first Judge Blackmon hesitated, but soon changed his mind when he heard that it would cause an array of reporters to descend on the event. I became so confident with our scheme, I withdrew our settlement offer of a new Nova, along with a lifetime supply of #10 sunblock and an eye patch for Rambler's pit-bull. The day before the event, a problem arose. Due to poor inventory management, we couldn't find a safe fuel tank for the Nova. I took out my cell-phone to call the head mechanic. "Listen, I don't care how you fix this problem. Just do it, or you're fired!" Obviously, fear makes people do smart things. He called several hours later and informed me that the car would be safe to drive. I felt the dawn of a new day break, as Goebbels and I drove down to the local racetrack. The twelve jurors, along with Rambler and the plaintiffs, sat in the stands. We provided pennants for the jurors who enthusiastically waved them. Rambler again had on that sickening crisp green suit. On the racetrack Judge Blackmon meandered, preening his implanted hair, waving at the thousands of reporters. Before the car had even arrived, they had been swayed by the grandeur of this public-relations event. The loud music echoed through the stands, the bright flags flew in triumph. Then, with a loud noise, the Nova raced out of the concrete tunnel, like a victorious Roman chariot. When it reached the speed at which most of them usually exploded, Rambler knew something was wrong. Leaping to his feet, he screamed. "Objection your honor! They're making a mockery of these proceedings!" Blackmon was too busy shaking hands with reporters, and listening to our sincere praises of his judicial wisdom. We really worked him over. We invited him to take a test drive and as we roared around the course, skidding like teenagers on vacation, we noticed the car affected his senses. Reclining back in the synthetic-leather seats, he looked 20 years younger. Surely, he imagined how the photographs of his ride, in this great machine, would help his bid for the Supreme Court. Leaning back further he slyly winked and said. "You two have quite a piece of machinery here, it looks like you have this case won!" I sat, amazed at his foresight in being able to predict the trial's outcome. To thank him, I assured him that we would do our utmost, to raise funds for his lobbying efforts to reach the Supreme Court. "We could always use an honest judge, working on our behalf," Goebbels explained. I graciously added: "May I say, Judge Blackmon, you have the nicest hair I've ever seen. If I owned a magazine, I'd ask you to model for the cover." Lifting his head up, like a peacock, he said. "Well Mr. Grayson, I guess some people have it, and some don't!" Upon our exiting the vehicle, the jurors, along with the reporters, were on their feet applauding. The Pavlovian conditioning from our advertising had completely revived. It was clear that we had won. I looked at Rambler. He had an irreverent expression of juvenile contempt, like Al Gore, after election night, refusing to concede defeat. My confidence was at its highest level. I didn't just want to win, I wanted to humiliate him. I proposed a stunt that would prove, once-and-for-all, the safety of the Nova. We would take my car and crash it into the Nova. The car would be driven at 30 mph, a speed where any normal tank would remain inert. The reporters, with renewed excitement, positioned their cameras for the spectacle. Rambler ran to any reporter within reach, shaking them: trying to convince them of the fraud. As my Mercedes headed towards the side of the Nova, I felt I had just won an academy award, so I had to thank someone. Picking up my cell-phone, I called the head mechanic to thank him for reworking the vehicle. He was grateful for the bonus I gave him, and excitedly explained how hard he labored trying to fix the problem. Appreciating his improvisational skills, I asked: "By the way, just how did you replace that fuel tank?" Replying with an air of confidence he said: "Actually I couldn't find one for the car, so I instead made some adjustments near the tank. Everything will go fine. Well, as long as you don't have a side-impact collision." I froze in paralysis, as, in that moment my car struck the Nova. A gigantic orange burst of fire erupted, as I saw the hopes of an ideal consumed in a conflagration. Gone were my dreams of easy market-share, exponential profits, and fame. Due to the collision angle, the shape of the flames coalesced with slight variations. The flames formed the fist with the middle finger, but at a horizontal angle. The higher-octane fuel, interacting with the matrix framework of the Nova, caused the middle finger to shoot out an extra 80 yards, striking Judge Blackmon, who had his back turned, waving to the photographers. The horizontally-fingered inferno struck Blackmon on the back of the head, and upper shoulder. The unique ingredients in his hair implants interacted with the fire, curling up, and embedded into his head like crop circles. For a few seconds there was complete silence from the audience. Then I heard a squealing laugh, bouncing off the stadium walls in a vibrant echo. In the stands, I saw my nemesis, Rambler, on his back laughing with hysteria. Needless to say, Judge Blackmon later threw Goebbels and me in jail, for contempt. Legend has it he was hanging from a pair of stirrups, preparing for a skin graft, when he gave the order. I'm sure his anger became intolerable when a engineer, he consulted, theorized that he would never be able to delete the circular images of the implants on his head. The Nobel Prize-winning engineer insisted they had become ingrained on his head, like a shadow after a nuclear explosion. When the trial finished, the jury had awarded the plaintiffs 2.4 million for compensatory damage, along with 8.2 billion for punitive damages. The 8.2 billion composed our entire advertising budget and, without advertising, we now have no way to increase sales. The only way now, to make a profit, is to cut costs but I feel very confident that I can do this, while avoiding controversy. I just had a meeting with the CEO of Bridgestone/Firestone, and he said he could sell us some tires at a very low price. We should have them in a couple of months. Just in time for my mother-in-law's birthday! The End Story Index Home Page Copyrights reserved by the author. If in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' for details.

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