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By Root 520 0

is. Sonja looks at the floor and shakes her head, an unconvincing and altogether unnecessary denial. Chas ignores them all, lost in thought. He’s dressed in a new suit, too, of dark wool, with a loose weave and a flowing cut that drapes augustly from his boxer’s frame. But his face is wan and creased, and Ursula wonders what state his eyes are in beneath those sunglasses. She’s heard through Couch that though a few more clients have signed on for personalized reports next year, most are still uncomfortable with the prospect of presiding over a new Dark Age, and that Chas has been compounding the problem by arguing with them and offending them, effectively driving them away. Perhaps with this in mind, Couch now snickers loudly at Cabaj’s joke to make up for Chas’s unsociability. Cabaj, meanwhile, squeezes the entire left half of his puffy face into a wink at Ursula.

“I’m sorry your sister isn’t here,” he burbles, “but you know, seeing you absolutely makes up for it. We’ve got to get you in an ad sometime. Two beautiful Litewater-drinking sisters. What do you think?”

He crumples his bushy brow and smiles slyly. He’s probably been drinking since happy hour. Ursula’s own glass is already empty. The sweet heat of the booze smolders in her chest.

“Forget about Litewater, Ed, old boy,” she says, slapping him on the back. “I’ve got a great new product idea for you.”

“Is that right?” Cabaj says. Lucien inclines his head with interest.

“It’s a simple idea, really,” she says. “It’s called Shit.”

Couch widens his eyes, and Chas turns toward her slowly. Cabaj recovers from a moment of uncertainty.

“Shit, eh?” he says, smiling and undoing the top button of his silk shirt. “Tell me about it.”

“I think it has tremendous potential,” she goes on. “I mean, hey, think about it. It’s easily produced. Pure profit, in fact, minus ads and packaging. Would you like me to describe the campaign?”

“By all means.”

She makes a frame in the air with her hands. “Imagine: A row of sexy women in little booths squatting over Baccarat fruit bowls.”

Cabaj guffaws. “Perfect. But what’s the slogan?”

“ ‘Shit,’ ” she announces. “ ‘Everybody’s doing it.’ ”

Cabaj and Lucien laugh, and Couch follows suit, glancing nervously from them to her.

Chas folds his arms, straight-faced. “ ‘One hundred percent natural,’ ” he says with a knowing nod. More laughter.

“ ‘Low in fat,’ ” Ursula responds.

“ ‘Each bolus individually crafted.’ ”

“ ‘Lovingly crafted.’ ”

“ ‘One a day for good health.’ ”

“ ‘Because at General Foods we do give a Shit.’ ”

“ ‘Do the Doo,’ ” Chas says.

“ ‘Eat Shit,’ ” she counters.

The group laughs at their routine and then falls silent.

“I like that one,” Chas says, thoughtful.

“People would do it just for the irony,” Lucien says.

“There’s another product for you,” Ursula suggests. “Irony. ‘Double your consumption potential with Irony. Is that movie you saw last night too dumb and offensive for you? Go see it again with Irony and enjoy yourself. See it again and again. Again for the bad acting. Again for the sociological implications. And if you’re tired of being a snob, well, then, try Postirony and see how badness isn’t really bad, it’s just another kind of good. It’s all good. There’s a real art to badness. Buy a cup of Postirony and a bucket of Shit at the concession stand and munch your heart out as the fun-loving hitmen blow people away to the sounds of your favorite retro pop songs.’ ”

Cabaj looks around, sensing malice.

“Seriously, though,” Chas says, “maybe something could be done along those lines.”

“Seriously, though,” Ursula says, “shut the fuck up, Chas.”

The laughter becomes a little uncomfortable as she and Chas stare each other down. She’s going to get herself fired tonight if she can. And if not, she’s going to ruin everyone’s evening trying.

“Sure, Chas,” James T. Couch says. “Splendid idea. Just drive the last nail into our coffin, why don’t you?”

“What’s this?” Cabaj asks.

“Couch thinks I’m bankrupting the company,” Chas explains, still facing Ursula.

Cabaj nods. “Well, are you?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

The