Catharsis: A day in the life of a PR executive

The following is written in the early style of Gonzo which means at the very least, a half-assed attempt was made to channelize the ghost of HST. The below documented account is fictitious. Resemblance to any person living, dead or right wing is purely coincidental…well…maybe not…

And if you are wondering what Gonzo is or who HST is, don't bother

I sat there clutching my mouse with all the force that I could muster in my current miserable state. It turns out that original thought can be a tricky proposition especially when the client is hell bent on twisting your arm. It can be quite a strain on the sleeves!

I was frantically typing a press release on how the guy’s daughter lost her bicycle and it was miraculously found in the same place that it was left in the first place, which in his mind was a significant contribution to the nation’s GDP. Besides the irony of the fact that the above mentioned daughter couldn’t ride a bike or didn’t own one, the release had to be done in the next 10 minutes.

My mind started sweating precociously. “Hell…what do I do now?” I yelled across the room. I looked around for some solutions as my mind was in a jimmy state. I saw my colleagues face buried in the ethereal white screen.

He reminded me of the early tribes which sat around the fire hoping the light would never go out, but unfortunately, it always does. Also, his sheep skin cloak and grizzly claws were quite quaint. In spite of myself, I refused to judge. His cologne a repugnant truth that failed to subside, I ventured towards the beast with a stick in hand.

I had to tread cautiously. This animal was not to be messed with. Besides, his mating habits were not well documented as yet. I poked him with the stick to gauge the nature of his alacrity and rate of evasive reflex action. Both were non existent.

This was a safe territory. I identified him as per the standard ‘Do it yourself PR 101’ manual as the blinkered degenerate who would know what to do next as per procedure. My guide to all questions which posed a moral, ethical and professional dilemma was right there…or so I thought.

”Umm…its simple draft the release…” said he of the finger which drips with fresh nose cheese.

“But the daughter doesn’t even own the bike…” I retorted much violently. My cape fluttering in the wind as I stood on Moron Mountain with the vast expanse of derelict facades of grim conformity spread in front of me.

In my infinite wisdom I pronounced “Fuck you man …. Screw the Guy… I don’t think this is worth it…!”

I felt a tug on my super moron resistant cape and I heard Dog Wonder barking away in the distance. My sixth sense was tingling! I turned around precociously, with one hand firmly on my machete. There stood the biggest man I have seen like a shadow of a mountain. My heart started pounding…my pulse racing…I caught a glimpse of the lurking menace.

Phew…it was just Olga, the cleaning lady. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Oh bloody hell…!” I heard a scream. It was my fuckin’ boss with the fuckin’ Guy! And that was my fuckin’ scream!

“Hey what were you yelling boy” asked Q, The Boss.

It so transpired that Olga ‘the hairy cleaning lady with a heart of gold’, had managed to block my view with her broad brooding board body. My super hearing failed me again, may be I was just out of batteries.

As I contemplated the merits of Sony over Eveready, my face was smattered with a spray of spit. It was my boss looking at me gingerly and demanding an answer.

“Nothing Sire” I said, he insisted that we call him ‘Sire’.

”Boy, meet the Guy whose daughter has lost and found the bicycle and it has a huge impact on the nation’s GDP…” Said he of the big head and bouncing arms.

“But Sire…” I whimpered in unyielding defiance.

“Hey… if the guy says so it must be true…” thundered Q.

“Ok Sire.” I caved.

And as I turned around to do his bidding, it happened.

The Guy stepped on Olga’s unforgiving mop and slipped on the drenched floor. The sound of his back bone crunching in utter angst spread a chill through my spine. In that brief moment the Guy had broken his back. He lay there insipid and innocuous to the passing frantic blinkered degenerates.

There was the ray of sunshine which I hoped for, in that cluttered, claustrophobic room chilled with the AC’s unrelenting icy blast which put a smile on my face.

“Guy in Coma, Situation may worsen nation’s GDP”

I typed smiling a satisfied smile as the news blared over my station “Reliable Industries Limited Chief to launch Nation’s first thought trading stock exchange…And this is just in…On the eve of this momentous event his daughter seems to have misplaced her bicycle…”