Start Here for The Daily Male - Issue #1
“Hey buddy! Hold up! I got something you’ll want to hear.”
Chad dodged to avoid the bloated, yellow flying tick diving towards him as he took the steps three at a time up towards his destination several thousand steps ahead. There were hundreds of these buzzing imps levitating in the air in front of the CorpUS Regional HQ, dive-bombing sales reps on the way to work.
A dozen watched Chad, waiting to see if the imp working him would lose the account. But the little fellow wasn’t giving up on his quarry just yet. It swerved in front of Chad, flying backwards fast enough to hang in the air just in front of him as he continued up the steps.
“Free hookers and blow compliments of Omni Corp, bub. I’ve got coupons!”
Chad had taken a double handful of Alpha Furnace Goat Adrenal Complex Gummies™ that morning, so he wasn’t slowing down for BOGO cocaine.
And hookers? He’d never do that to his girlfiend Gladys. Chad was a loyal guy.
Partly because he really liked Gladys. Partly because if he cheated Gladys would kill him. And eat him. And lay eggs in his intestines. Likely not in that order.
Besides Chad knew better than anyone that nothing was ever free.
“Beat it, you parasitic bloodsucker.”
“HEY now. I’m just a bug trying to close an honest sale, it’s not like I’m in management,” whined the insect-thing through its three-foot blood-sucking proboscis. “No need to get nasty.”
That tweaked something in a place where Chad’s soul would be if he still had one. He down-shifted his assault on the stairs to a staccato, taking one step at a time.
“You know, you’re right. Sorry buddy, I’m just excited to get inside and ring the bell.”
“You have a big day?”
“Yeah. Smashed my daily targets yesterday.”
“Dude, congrats! Winners gonna win. That’s what I always say. And you have the look of a winner.”
Chad slowed to a walk and ran his hand through his hair and straightened his tie. “You know you seem pretty okay for a stinking sack of oozing pus. Righty-then, let’s hear your sales pitch.”
“I bet it feels like you’ve been with CorpUS for an eternity, right?” crooned the bug-devil.
“Some decades, yeah.”
“And how long you been telling yourself they’re going to notice you?”
“You using pain isolation on me?” Chad asked.
“Is it working?”
“Nope. But keep going.”
“Fair enough. Then let me ask you this. What they got you selling?”
“Air conditioning units,” Chad said, knowing exactly what was coming next.
“Ouch. That blows.” The imp returned serve.
“Doesn’t suck as much as vacuum cleaners.” Chad completed the ritual.
The bug laughed. It sounded like a snake swallowing a kazoo. Chad grinned in solidarity.
“How many units did you close yesterday?” the bug continued, getting serious again.
“Fifteen.”
Chad nearly walked into the imp as it actually stopped flying for a second.
“Fifteen? You sold FIFTEEN A/C units in a DAY?”
“Fifteen, with service plans and warranties.”
“And CorpUS will give you what?”
Chad pointed toward the building, still hundreds of steps ahead.
“I get to ring the bell.”
“The TOP guy gets to ring the bell.”
“Exactly. And the top guy gets access to the GOOD leads.”
“And with the good leads...”
“...I can close more sales and get promoted to the PREMIUM inventory.”
“Buddy, that sounds like a lot of maybes and ifs. I know you’re a producer. You know you’re a producer. But I don’t think CorpUS knows you’re a producer.”
“What’s your point?”
“Omni-Corp could use a producer like you. What if I could help you jump the queue straight to the premium inventory? No risk, no rungs.”
“I’d want to know more.”
It handed Chad a brochure. He read it in detail as they moved. Chad always tried to learn from what the competition was doing.
As he finished, they were approaching the doors to the building and the imp was smart enough to know the timing wasn’t right for the end-game. Chad figured it was deciding between the hard follow or the soft one.
“Tell you what. My numbers on the flyer. Buzz me when you have questions and I’ll meet you for a drink. Rooftop Bar at The Golden Parachute, my treat.”
Soft. Good call.
“Make it Spanky’s and you got a deal,” Chad said.
The imp nodded once and then started gaining altitude again to give itself a better view of the next wave of prospects. Chad pushed his way through the revolving door into the lobby.
And the lobby was magnificent.
CorpUS Corporate Headquarters had been designed to fire the imagination of those who could close a sale and set fire to those who couldn’t.
The center of the lobby was dominated by two things. A huge crackling bonfire of the desks of salespeople who’d come in last in sales volume during the weekly sales team meetings. And the monument.
The monument depicted a man striding upwards, his pristine wingtips emblazoned with the word “Quota”, crushing a mass of eternally tortured salespeople beneath his feet. The tread of one raised wingtip spelled PIP, branding the letters into every forehead it stepped on. In one outstretched hand, he held a shining, nimbus-encircled cash register aloft triumphantly to the sky. From the open cash drawer a never-ending wave of coins fountained one hundred feet into the air, before raining down as molten silver into a pool filled with the screaming faces of salespeople who missed their daily minimums.
Chad always paused at the monument to pay his respects to the founder of CorpUS, John H. Patterson, the infamous tyrant of the National Cash Register company. Patterson invented the quota, the protected territory, the scripted pitch, and the idea that adults should ring a bell at work. No one had done more to create hell on earth or to bring commerce to hell.
Chad loved this place.
Beyond the lobby, a single hallway led further into the building.
The walls narrowed into a chute polished smooth by several centuries of nervous salespeople. A sorting mechanism was operated by a minor torment demon, of the same kind as Chad’s most recent friend/customer, XTHR’GTHRLL’MVTHRXX’QRR’THNN.
The chute forced salespeople to crowd past the demon single file. The demon was scanning faces and comparing them against an HR bulletin, and every so often he’d recognize a face and trigger the chute mechanism to force that person toward a door labelled “Sales Training.” A man ahead of Chad was culled from the herd, eliciting sobs and wailing of “NO, GOD NO, PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING, BUT NOT THAT!” before a spring-loaded mechanism attached to the chute’s gate propelled him bodily through the door.
Through the doorway was a semicircle of folding chairs. On a dry-erase board was written ROLE-PLAY EXERCISE.
Chad strode confidently through the chute without breaking stride.
Beyond he entered a long hallway with soft white lights and a series of framed pictures periodically spaced on the wall. It felt like a shrine.
Here hung The After-Lifetime Achievers
The top producer of every hundred-year sales cycle since these absolute legends arrived in Hell.
Some wore suits.
Some wore robes.
One was naked except for a necklace made of teeth.
Chad walked slowly down the hall, drinking in the words of the GOATs.
Salesperson of the Century: 1099 - 1000 B.C.
Sinon the Greek - Pioneer of the Freemium Model
Quote: “It’s not just a giant wooden horse, it’s a limited-edition collectible. Free now, you’ll pay later.”
Salesperson of the Century: 1 - 100 A.D.
Marcus Licinius Crassus - Master of the High-Pressure Leverage Close
Quote: “Hey buddy, I’ll buy that burning building of yours for 20 denarii and a slightly used gladiator. What? Why would my fire-fighting squad put out your building? How’s about 15 denarii and an incontinent goat? Whoops! Look at it burn! 10 denarii and a toga with a small hemlock stain, final offer.”
Salesperson of the Century: 1601 - 1700 A.D.
Friar Johann Tetzel - The father of SaaS (Salvation-as-a-Service)
Quote: “Why sell earthly goods that must be made, carried, and delivered, when a man will gladly pay today for relief from torments he cannot inspect until after his death? Best part is we can charge tithes for customer support!”
Finally Chad paused at his favorite.
Salesperson of the Century: 1901–2000 A.D.
Phineas T. Barnum - Inventor of Customer-as-Product
Quote: There’s a sucker born every minute*.
Chad leaned closer. He’d read the footnote a thousand times.
*Including the people who believe I said that.
Beautiful.
At the end of the hall hung a final frame.
The brass plate beneath it read: 2001–2100 A.D.
No picture. No name. No quote.
Not yet.
Chad checked his reflection in the glass, adjusted his tie and kept walking.
The carpeting ended abruptly at a pair of dented steel doors which silently swung open at his approach.
The Boiler Room.
The temperature immediately rose fifteen degrees.
Then the smell and the noise hit him.
Sweat. Desperation. Decaffeinated instant coffee. And ten thousand voices talking all at once.
The CorpUS Regional Sales Floor stretched so far into the distance that the far wall disappeared into heat shimmer. Cheap desks sat in endless rows between massive iron boilers which powered the room by burning stacks of unqualified leads. Even in Hell, nobody knew where Marketing got them. Ceiling fans turned slowly, ensuring that the stifling heat was evenly distributed.
Everywhere Chad looked were balding men in rolled-up shirtsleeves shouting into headsets.
“...I’m not asking you to buy anything today...”
“...before you hang up, can I ask one question...”
“...so what I’m hearing is price isn’t actually the issue...”
A brass bell hung immediately inside the entrance.
Nearby, several salespeople looked up. Then a few more.
Whispers began to spread from desk to desk.
“Hardwick!”
Chad slowly smiled, grabbed the rope and rang the bell.
In the lobby, the cash register monument produced a massive jet of new coins, melting as they showered down to cause a fresh wave of screams from the damned floating in the molten silver pool at its base.
And a single thunderous sound reverberated throughout the building.
“KA-CHING!”
I know stacked ranking all too well—though the truth is, someone's always gotta be at the bottom, right? Nowadays, I've pretty much gone into full 'lay-flat' mode. I'm a freelance designer now, so if a gig doesn't work out, I'm fine with walking away. I don't care much about company perks or insurance, as long as I pay my taxes on time. As long as you refuse to join the rat race, nobody can really control you. But then again... I guess it’s just a helpless compromise. haha
My former company decided design wasn't profitable enough to warrant full-time salaries, so they laid off the entire team. Ironically, they still need design work done, but on the cheap—so now they come back looking for freelancers. Typical move. No matter what they’re thinking, though, I've learned never to invest too much emotion into a company. At the end of the day, owners and employees are never in the same boat.
You'd think they'd build something a little more fantastical, what with it being Hell and all; but this seems like a one-for-one recreation of a fairly typical sales office for a major corporation. I suppose when it comes to your common damnation stations, if it ain't broke...