"For just three easy payments of $9.99 this great product can be yours today," Bev Trusdale reads. She brings the script down and peers over it at the writer. Her eyes are refracted by the inch-thick rounds of glass in front of each, such that they almost engulf Marty Robbins in dreary blue.
Marty shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and leaks laughter through the gaps in his synthetic smile. "What?" he says, defensively, "What?" He knows what. Everybody has the same problem with him, at least at the start. This lady - he sneaks a look at his clipboard - Bev, sent him a hand-written letter of warning. The prose of which was mostly bloviating about how she took the time to write a letter and a little bit stating that her product is not a gimmick and that she had seen his advertisements and thought them gimmicky and that she expected something more respectful.
"Geez, well, it's a bit done, isn't it? Overwrought. Tacky." She purses her lips and stuffs her hands into her lap, forcing her to watch her own mouth, and letting the papers flutter down to the card table which is her unbefitting throne. As soon as Marty rolls his eyes, her fists are back pounding it, "I took the time to hand-write you a hand-written letter to clear up this very contention - hm - I knew as soon as I saw your - hm - sleazy repertoire that my agent had-"
"Look, lady, it was a very nice letter. And I'm sure you did spend a lot of time on it. And I'm sure you even had your perfect little kids you keep telling me about milk 300 silkworms by hand just to weave the paper on which it's writ. And that you birthed and raised the goose from which you plucked the most perfect quill you used to write it. And that you sealed it with bottled spring water rather than mere saliva, but that doesn't change the fact that your product is nothing more than a spatula with flaps, okay? People don't look for this sorta crap. Two reasons: one, you're a smart cookie, Bev, and I'm giving you a tough time, but you are, so people don't even think of a product like this existing or else they'd be sitting here instead of you. Ergo, they're certainly not going to think of buying this either. Two, at best, you've designed a gadget. People who do things enough for a gadget to be a smart investment for them, are so good at doing that thing, that they don't need it anymore. To put it bluntly, Bev, nobody wants your product, but, but, other people don't know that about other people. Secret Santa, White Elephants, Gag gifts, people blindly picking out cheap crap for other people just based on what catches the eye, this is our market. We gotta milk it - milk it like... a silkworm." His thick mustache turns toward the dusty wood panel ceiling and he flourishes his hands like a vampire. "A straightcashmoneyworm," he elaborates.
"I don't want your 'dolla dolla bills' or whatever you call it, but some respect. And I certainly won't go in front of your camera and twerk around like a Jersey boy for you!"
"Hey, be that way. It's honestly not worth my time to hassle with you. Just know that the only person to buy your dumb invention - nay - alteration is gonna be your," he looks up and down her middle-aged body, "ten-years-dead mother."
Bev blinks. The angry tear brimming in the right corner of her left eye makes the glass circle before it look like a fishbowl. "You said I was a smart cookie?" she blubs.
"Cookies are dead stupid on average, Bev."
