Am belonging to the asshole in unit 238 who played his Death Star stereo loud all night, and, splat, just like that, his troubles would be over. His life insurance would pay for Matt's college education. At his funeral, people would recall specific feature stories that he had written and describe him as 'troubled' but 'brilliant.'
These thoughts comforted Eliot until he realized that he was way too scared of heights to jump from his balcony. He couldn't even look over the railing when he was out there cooking hot dogs on his Wal-Mart grill. Plus, he did not have any life insurance. So he decided to continue failing at everything.
He got back to his apartment after 3 A.M. and spent the next four hours drinking black coffee and putting together his Hammerhead Beer presentation, which he would be presenting that very morning. He had planned to come up with an idea so original, so imaginative, so creative, and so compelling that even the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell would see its brilliance. But because it was very late and he was very tired, he decided to go with: big tits.
'I'm a whore, OK?' he said to himself several dozen times as he worked. 'You got a problem with that?'
And thus it was that the next morning, when the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell walked into Eliot's office, forty-five minutes late, without knocking or closing the door behind him, he saw, on ah easel, in large type, the words
GET HAMMERED WITH HAMMERHEAD!
Under these words was an illustration that Eliot had created on his computer by manipulating various photographs that he had basically stolen off the Internet. The illustration consisted of an oily, muscular, smirking male model on a motorboat being offered a Hammerhead Beer by a female model wearing a string bikini about the size of a DNA strand, out of which were falling two flagrantly artificial, volley-ball-shaped breasts.
The images in the illustration were not in scale with each other, because Eliot didn't really know how to work the computer program, and he couldn't read the manual because he couldn't find his reading glasses. Thus the male model looked, relative to the woman, comically small, like an oily, muscular, smirking weasel; any given one of the female model's breasts was larger than his head. The beer bottle appeared to be the size of a fire hydrant. It was a stunningly bad piece of graphic art, so of course the Client From Hell, except for wanting more gazomba exposure, thought it was great.
'You see?' he told Eliot. 'You see the difference?'
'Well,' said Eliot, 'I ... '
'You got TITS! Instead of a FISH!' pointed out the Client From Hell. 'You know? You hear what I'm telling you?'
'Well,' said Eliot, 'it ... '
'Ask a guy what he wants, tits or a fish, see what he tells you,' said the Client From Hell, his voice starting to rise.
'I suppose that ... '
'HE TELLS YOU TITS!' said the Client From Hell.
The certified public accountant from next door appeared in Eliot's doorway, glared at Eliot for a full five seconds, then slammed Eliot's door.
'OK, then,' said Eliot, 'if we're agreed on the concept, we need to talk about placement, but first ... '
'Is she from around here?' said the Client From Hell, pointing his fat finger at the gazomba woman.
'No,' said Eliot, quickly. 'She's ... she lives in, ah ... Uruguay.'
'Uruguay?' said the Client From Hell. 'They got tits like that in Uruguay?'
'Oh yeah, they're known for it,' said Eliot. 'People call it 'Uruguay: Bosom Capital of the World.' Listen, I think we need to talk about your, I mean, my fee, because ... '
'How far is Uruguay?' said the Client From Hell. 'Is that in, whaddyacallit, Europe?'
'No,' said Eliot, 'it's in Latin America. The thing is, I sent you several statements, but ... '
'Latin America ?' said the Client From Hell, looking at the gazomba woman with renewed interest. 'You're telling me this is a spic?'
'Listen,' said Eliot. 'We really need to talk about your ... '
'How much?' asked the Client From Hell, still looking at the gazomba woman.
'Well,' said Eliot, 'there was no retainer, I mean, there was a retainer, well, I mean, I sent a statement for a retainer, but you never, I mean, unless it's in the mail, but ... '
'How much?' said the Client From Hell, turning to Eliot.
'Here,' said Eliot, handing him a statement.
The Client From Hell looked at it.
'Twelve hundred dollars?' he said.
'Well,' said Eliot, 'bear in mind ... '
'Twelve hundred fucking dollars?' said the Client From Hell. He spent more than twelve hundred dollars every month getting his back hair waxed. But he truly enjoyed watching people need his money. It was almost sexual, with him.
'Well,' said Eliot, 'it's a very reasonable, I mean, if you look at what most ... '
Eliot stopped talking without even being interrupted, because, to his amazement, the Client From Hell was taking out his checkbook, then his pen. It was a fat pen. The Client From Hell, sensing Eliot's desperate hope, wrote the check exquisitely slowly; then he tore it out slowly and tapped it against his fat hand a few times, watching Eliot, before he handed it over.
