idea than the Client From Hell's previous project, a theme park for senior citizens called Denture Adventure.
But the Client From Hell actually paid his bills some of the time, so Eliot had developed an advertising concept for the beer. The Client From Hell was looking at it, and offering his usual thoughtful brand of criticism.
'This sucks,' he said.
'Well, Bruce,' said Eliot, 'I tried to ... '
'Listen,' said the Client From Hell, who did not believe in letting other people finish their sentences as long as he had any kind of thought whatsoever floating around in his brain. 'You know what my business philosophy is?'
I surely do, thought Eliot. Your business philosophy is to take money from your extremely wealthy father and piss it away on moronic ideas.
'No, Bruce,' he said, 'what is your ... '
'My business philosophy,' said the Client From Hell, 'is that there's a lot of people in the world.'
To illustrate this point, the Client From Hell gestured toward the world. Several moments passed, during which Eliot waited hopefully for amplification.
'Well,' Eliot said, finally, 'that's certainly ... '
'And,' continued the Client From Hell, who had been waiting for Eliot to speak so he could interrupt him, 'all those people WANT something. You know what they want?'
'No,' said Eliot. His plan was to go with short sentences.
'They want to feel good,' said the Client From Hell.
More moments passed.
'Ah,' said Eliot.
'Do you know what I mean?' said the Client From Hell. He stared at Eliot.
'Well,' said Eliot, 'I ... '
'NO YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I MEAN!' shouted the Client From Hell, feeling better now that he was bullying a person who needed his money, which was his absolute favorite thing about being rich. 'Because I gave you the perfect concept for Hammerhead Beer. The perfect concept! Which is not this piece of shit here.' He made a brushing-away gesture, the kind you make at flying insects, in the direction of Eliot's concept, which Eliot had stayed up late working on. It was a board on which Eliot had mounted a close-up photograph of a hammerhead shark, its mouth gaping between its two impossibly far-apart, alien eyeballs. Underneath the photograph, in large, black type, were these words:
Ugly fish. Good beer.
'What the hell is this?' the Client From Hell demanded. 'Why are you saying ugly here?'
'Well,' said Eliot, 'I'm contrasting, in a kind of humorous ... '
'Listen,' said the Client From Hell, whose idea of humor was—he had this on video, and watched it often—Joe Theisman getting the bottom half of his leg almost snapped off. 'I don't want to see ugly. That is not the feeling I want. I gave you the concept already! I gave you the perfect concept!'
'Bruce, I talked to a lawyer about your concept, and he says we could get into real trouble with ... '
''GET HAMMERED WITH HAMMERHEAD!' ' shouted the Client From Hell, pounding a pudgy Rolexed fist on Eliot's desk. 'That's the concept!'
He stood up and spread his fat arms apart, to help Eliot visualize it. 'You have a guy in a boat with a girl, she's in a bikini, she has big tits, they're on a boat, and they're getting hammered! With Hammerhead! The feeling of this ad is, somebody's gonna get laid! In the background swimming around is a shark! The girl has REALLY big tits! It's PERFECT! I give you this perfect concept, and you give me ugly! Listen, if you think I'm paying for this shit, forget it, because I'm not paying for ugly. I can get ugly for free.'
You already are ugly, Eliot thought. What he said was: 'OK, let me try to ... '
'Don't tell me try. Don't try. I hate the word try. Try is for losers,' said the Client From Hell, who got his entire philosophy of life from Nike commercials. 'Lemme tell you something.' He was tapping his finger on Eliot's desk (his fingernails were fat). 'You are not the only ad agency in this town.'
I am the only ad agency in this town who is so far behind on his alimony that he will tolerate a moron of your magnitude, thought Eliot.
'OK, Bruce,' he said.
'I wanna see it TOMORROW,' said the Client From Hell.
I could get a gun by tomorrow, thought Eliot. With those hollowpoint bullets.
'OK, Bruce,' he said.
The phone rang. Eliot picked it up.
'Eliot Arnold,' he said.
'I need to borrow your car tonight,' said Matt, who was Eliot's son and seventeen years old, which meant that he was usually too busy to say hello.
'Hello, Nigel!' said Eliot. 'How're things in London? Can you hold for a moment?'
'Nigel?' said Matt.
'Brace,' Eliot said to the Client From Hell, 'I need to take this call from a client in London about ... '
