Sliders: Your Ad Here (6 of 8)

by Nigel G. Mitchell

Quinn was led to a room where he was given a shirt and a pair of jeans to wear for the photo shoot. He changed while a guard held a gun to his head, then allowed himself to be taken to a studio.

A large man with thick, white hair was fiddling with cameras positioned around the room. He looked up, squinting at Quinn as he entered.

"Oh, great," he said. "Excellent. Hm. Wide shoulders, tall, interesting build. That scar on the upper lip is a problem, but nothing we can't handle with makeup. Stephanie!"

A woman hurried up to Quinn and began to powder his face. She paid special attention to scars Quinn had on his upper lip, pounding a thick flesh-colored dust over it.

The photographer folded his arms. "Now, we're going to be doing an ad for Gunslinger Jeans. So we've set up a western theme over here."

Quinn looked past him to a set with a western-styled background. A fake campfire glowed in front of a fake wooden fence in front of a fake sunset. It looked pretty good, considering.

"So what I'd like you to do," the photographer said, "is stand right there with your foot on that stump, leaning forward, giving the camera a look that says 'I'm tough, I'm bad, I'm cruel, I wear Gunslinger Jeans.' The slogan is going to be 'Gunslinger Jeans Make You A Man,' and that's what you'll be saying."

Quinn winced as the makeup woman buffed his cheeks. "Uh-huh. And I suppose if I say no, you're gonna kill me."

"Oh, of course not," the photographer said. "You're far too valuable for that. We'll just shoot one of your kneecaps off, let you recover for a few weeks, then bring you back in here. If you turn us down again, we'll shoot your other kneecap off. We can keep going like that until you settle down."

"That won't be necessary," Quinn said. He strode over to the set and tried to assume the position the photographer had given him.

The white-haired man frowned. "No, your left elbow goes up higher. Higher. Perfect."

He went behind his camera and began to snap pictures. Quinn tried to maintain the cruel look on his face while sighing inwardly. He could see a few years of this kind of thing wearing thin.

"Come on, guys," Quinn whispered under his breath. "Get me outta here."

* * *

The San Francisco headquarters of the Washington and Lambert ad agency was the largest building Wade had ever seen. It stretched across ten blocks and was so tall that its roof was buried in the clouds. The architecture made it look like a castle with gargoyles built into the ledges running around it. But what struck Wade the
most was that it was the only building she seen in this San Francisco that didn't have advertisements painted all over it.

She walked through the front door with Arturo and Rembrandt by her side. There seemed to be a field of tension that passed between the three of them like electricity. They
had no idea what the consequences would be if they got caught at this. But they had no choice if they wanted to rescue Quinn.

The lobby of the building was like the Sistine Chapel. Wade passed walls decorated with panels of gold that were beaten into murals depicted various advertising campaigns. They approached a front desk the size of a car, behind which a woman sat, smiling broadly.

"Good afternoon," the receptionist said. "How may I help you?"

Then she noticed Rembrandt. Her eyes widened.

Rembrandt put on his best smile, straightening the lapels of his red suit. "Uh, yeah, I'm Rembrandt Brown, and, uh...I've decided to join up with you guys, after all."

The activity that followed was like a whirlwind. Guards came out of nowhere to surround Wade, Rembrandt, and Arturo. Wade found herself being ushered into an elevator that whisked them upwards at crushing speed. Then she was out again, being moved down a long hallway.

She passed through doors into a vast boardroom. Along the sides of a huge table, men and women in suits glared at her and the others. At the far end, a large man sat in front of a huge window overlooking the city. His teeth chomped on a huge cigar that puffed smoke around its edges.

Then the man broke into a smile. "Rembrandt Brown. The Crying Man himself. We can't tell you how much of an honor this is for us, Mister Brown."

Rembrandt glanced around the table. "Uh, yeah, me, too."

The man stood and held out a hand. "I'm Lawrence Washington, co-founder and chairman of the Washington and Lambert agency. Nice to finally meet you face-to-face."

Rembrandt strode across the boardroom to shake the hand. Wade and Arturo followed close behind him, trying to look official.

Rembrandt pumped the hand with vigor. "The feelin's mutual, man. Heard a lotta good things about this place."

"Sorry about all the security, but you know how it is. The other guys can't wait to get a look at what we've got up our sleeves." Washington gestured towards an empty seat to the left of his chair. "Please, sit. I must say I'm surprised to see you. After the response we got from your agent, I never thought we'd see you again.
Where is Mister Feld, by the way?"

Rembrandt sank into an enormous leather chair. "Uh, he and I had a little partin' o' the ways. I decided you guys would be good for my career, he disagreed...so here I am."

Washington looked up at Wade and Arturo. "And these are your new agents?"

"Uh, yeah. This is Wade Welles and Maximillian Arturo."

Arturo propped up a beaming smile. "Charmed."

Washington's eyes narrowed as he glared at Arturo through a cloud of smoke. "Welles and Arturo...those names aren't familiar to me."

"Well, we're with a foreign agency. In the UK. Just starting out, really."

Washington raised a brow. "And you got Brown to sign on with you? Boy, you guys must be good."

"We're the best," Wade said.

"Well, you brought the Crying Man to us. So you must be doin' something right."

He burst into gales of thick laughter. Everyone at the table immediately joined in, slapping hands on their chairs and leaning back, gasping for air amidst guffaws. Wade thought it was the fakest display she'd ever seen, but laughed just to avoid looking out of place. Arturo and Rembrandt did the same, giving each other nervous looks.

Washington swept a hand towards two people sitting on his right. "Jacobs, Rochester, move it. Let these good people take a load off."

"Yes, sir," one of them said. The two immediately vacated their seats so that Wade and Arturo could sit.

The chairs were so soft that Wade felt like she was sinking into a bowl of pudding. The leather creaked as it settled, almost wrapping her inside the cushions. These chairs were obviously incredibly expensive.

As the two executives found new seats, Washington turned to someone at the far end of the table. "Well, Mr. Brown and associates, you've chosen the right time to visit our little firm. We were just about to discuss our new marketing strategies, and this is a perfect opportunity to see Washington and Lambert in action so you can get an idea of what we have to offer. Myers..."

One of the executives stood. "Good morning, Mister Washington. Well, as you know, my team has been working on finding new areas on which to advertise. We took a look around and there weren't many places left untapped. But we found one."

The executive clicked a remote in his hand. A screen descended from the wall and lit up with an image.

"Skin," Myers said. He gestured towards an artist's rendering of a smiling man. "We've managed to get people to wear our ads on their clothes. But we realized that people are walking around with huge portions of their bodies exposed, portions that could be put to good use."

Myers clicked his remote again. The man's image was replaced. Now his face, neck, and arms were covered with slogans and promotional images.

"With tattoos," Myers said. "We propose that we start it as a new fad. Plant some people in the hot clubs, scatter them around the country. Pay off some of our fashion contacts to work tattoos of our ads into their fall designs. If we position it right, we could get everybody in America to start tattooing themselves with ads for our products. We would, in effect, make human beings into living billboards. And the best part is that they wouldn't be able to take them off. The ads would be on display, twenty-four hours a day, for the rest of their lives. Any questions?"

One executive raised her hand. "What's to stop people from tattooing themselves with one of our competitor's ads?"

"That's the tricky part," Myers said. "We'll have to come up with designs so cool that no one will want to wear anything else. And we'll pay off every tattoo artist in the country to get them to refuse to do anything else, just to be on the safe side."

"Brilliant," Washington said. "Simply brilliant. I want our best people on this project. Good job."

Myers beamed as he sat down amidst thunderous applause. Wade tried to clap while holding down the sick feeling she was getting in her stomach at the idea. It was the most monstrous concept she had ever heard.

Washington grinned at Rembrandt. "Now you see why we're on top, Mister
Brown. We're constantly trying to stay one step ahead of the competition. Now, we have a surprise for you. We were hoping you'd come over to our side, so we developed an ad strategy just for you. Bring it in!"

The doors of the boardroom swung open. A platoon of guards marched into the room, surrounding a man who carried a thin silver envelope the length of his arm.

The man beamed as his guards began setting up an easel. "Mister Brown, have we got a campaign for you."

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