Idea 49 - A Conference In Hades

Wild and wooly times abound at regional sales conferences. Like tiny short-lived Vagases, these bacchanalian corporate meetups always produce some of the zaniest, fun-lovin'-est stories this side of Gomorrah. So why haven't we ever seen a Hunter-Thompson-esque tale of rum-and-coke-inspired madness? Oh, maybe it's because no one has given me a book deal yet:

With the only glassy eye that would agree to open, Carl squinted at the alien security pass laying on the floor next to the fireworks.

"Haggar Pants Northwest Division -- Regional Director." Good Christ. Unless Carl had been promoted while defiling himself during last night's despicable black hole, he had spent it rutting filthily with some type of senior executive. Curse the Gods, he muttered, and reached for the half empty Fresca on the mockingly silent hotel nightstand.

"You will tell no one of this." Regional Director Ann Clarkson barked at Carl from her damp perch on the edge of their recently abused connubial bed. She was groaning like an aging pack animal, hunched over in a dejected battle with her nude-colored hose, which rightly refused to crawl up her bulbous and blue-veined calves.

"Whatever unspeakable awfulness happened last night and throughout the early morning will not reach a soul in the Haggar corporation or anyone else in the slacks industry,"

Carl agreed in theory, but was unable to respond while violently evicting those murderous things that had invaded his guts the night before, which apparently included an absurd amount of buffet calamari. Curse the fucking Gods!

I think this genre could be huge -- who can't relate to a little drunken adultery at some kind of work thing? Stiffs, that's who can't. And I don't want those boring pricks getting their damn hands on my work anyway. Sorry for all the cursing.