Object 23 - "Clumpshot"

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rating: +29+–x

President Wilson Pottinger sat in his office, awaiting the next item on his agenda. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Send him in."
His secretary opened the office door, and a tall man carrying a briefcase brushed past her. He wore a sapphire blue suit and reflective sunglasses. His short, neatly styled hair was as black as obsidian.
"Hiya, sport! Max McCain's the name! How are ya?"
Max shook Wilson's hand vigorously.
"Just fine. Why don't we take a seat? I'm sure we have a lot to discuss."
"Alright then. I assure you though, this won't take much of your time. I imagine a pretty secretary like that takes up most of it!"

"You, my friend, are in for the opportunity of a lifetime! You're expanding, and we're expanding. You have workers, and we have the work! We're looking to open up a factory right here on Level 650, as well as a franchise location! This should boost your economic growth a hundredfold! And it gets better! Bartering for things is fun and all, but you, my friend, have what we need most: a solid, stable currency. We want in! We'll use our reach to popularize it! In twenty years everyone will use the Bovetan dollar to purchase whatever they need! So what do ya say sport!"
Max looked at Wilson expectantly.

"I see… this factory is somewhat large."
Wilson muttered, examining the blueprints.
"And there's plenty of room in the forest; you can even recycle it to build the factory."
Max hurriedly pointed out.
"Space isn't the issue per se. But I am somewhat concerned about your honesty. I was looking through your catalogue, website, and social media and found some drama concerning your use of Blanche in your advertisement campaigns for Clumpshot. Is there something you'd like to offer in your defense?"
Wilson questioned.
"Willy, you wound me! There's no rule or law saying she didn't write such a glowing testimonial."
Max laughed off the question.
"Speaking of rules and laws, naturally I expect my company to be exempt from the Labor Safety Act."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and pointed out:
"The B.N.T.G. isn't exempt. Neither is the government."
"So what?"
Max retorted.
"We have an image to maintain. But if you look at the language of the bill here, you'll notice that the maximum work hours are limited to 40 hours per job."
Wilson stated.
"Ah… I get it, totally get it!"
Max smirked.
"Naturally attempts to circumvent this rule fall under scrutiny—"
"—so you need a shiny object to look at instead."
Max interrupted.
"Say no more! Have you heard of our VIP package? You'll get a spot in the bleachers while we test our new and original designs!"

"I'll agree to it, but you have to follow our regulations on advertising, at least for business ventures and operations within our borders."
Wilson countered.
"It's a deal!"
Max announced.
"We're building civilization my friend! This is one hell of an investment! The return of nation-building in the Backrooms is a sight my father would have enjoyed."
Max attempted to pile on flattery.
Wilson simply answered with:
"While exploration guilds have proved useful, they have failed in their primary goal of finding an exit. With the expansion of the Republic of Boveta, no such exit will be necessary."

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