From Voodoo to Big Shoes
The Legend of Markie Drecktor
The hounds of doubt were closing in.
Markie Drecktor was beset by a pack of horrid, smelly, disinterested beasts with the power to knock down a seemingly-sturdy marketing director merely by underwhelming her senses with the prospect of not being phenomenol. Her good ideas, unlike the stress-pimples that were accumulating, weren’t popping. The dogs, she realized, were not going to run off even if she flung a ball all the way to the Van Allen Belt. Thank God they’re metaphors, she thought.
She wondered, what did her dark-ish overlords expect of her, anyway? Marketing was her job. I’m not a freakin’ ad agency, she thought. I know how to push products and set up events and place them in the right environment. I got A’s in that. But I have limits. Even cities have limits.
But the powers above saw her as their advertising Swiss Army knife. Their role as Experts on Everything led to her best ideas being watered down. They know the business, but not the art, the sell, the perfume that entices the bees.
No one in her cohort of fellow marketers knew how to solve her problems. They, too, had the same challenges. One said she had heard of a man, a vague legend, really, who could smelt their rich ore of marketing wisdom into fiery gems that even the Dark Ones could appreciate. Others chimed in that they, too, had heard of such a being, but figured that he was a myth, like bigfoot and five-day orgasm pads.
Markie took immediate action, joining the Spooky Church of Marketing Voodoo and Day Old Pies. (They had fresh ideas about not-so-fresh church bake sales.) One stormy evening, while casting a summoning spell and dancing around a bonfire of brochures and real estate door-hangers, she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find a strange being, a freakish cross between graphic artist and writer.
“I felt a fluctuation in the advertising continuum. I am your missing link, and I’m not referring back to the bigfoot comment, so this isn’t a hair thing. You have the big ideas, I have the gravy that makes them crunchy even in milk. Some have called me Jim.”
She was abuzz with thoughts. That didn’t make sense, but it doesn’t-make-sense in a good way. Maybe Mr. Crunchy Gravy is worth a shot, and I can stop building fires in my apartment.
Soon, Markie’s messages were massaged into eye-catching headlines. (She knew that if she caught enough eyes, she could trade them in on other body parts she wanted to upgrade.) The visual elements matched the tone of the sell. And one Friday, when she said, “I need this yesterday,” she was delighted to find finished work on her desk—on the previous Thursday. Overall, her pleasure at literally getting the work yesterday was only slightly dimmed by being pushed a day further from the weekend.
Markie Drecktor was now feeling her own rippling power. The bosses were so impressed that their bladders that had relieved themselves on everything were reduced to a dribble, though that may have been due to their enlarged prostates. Her efforts were smoother, while getting better response. She looked good to the company, and was looking better to herself. She was getting those all-important eyeballs.
Soon, she would be able to trade in 130 of those eyeballs and 14 boxtops for the bigger feet she’d always wanted. Because nothing says success like shiny, size-17 saddle shoes.
For the cost of breathing (still free), get an hour of consultation with Jim, where he’ll review and comment on your current materials. AND, if there’s time, he’ll tell you how bigfoot was really living by a Scottish loch until she was abducted by aliens.
