AGENCY

Betty Ash strutted determinedly down the second floor hallway toward the creative director's office.  Her stiletto heels sent vibrations through the carpet and rattled the glass side lights in the offices she passed. The occupants didn't have to look up to know who was on the war path.  She had made this trip too often lately. Last week a script had been late,  today a fax had cast a pale over her Friday morning coffee. Jack Stanley had just discovered a $32,000 overage in his talent budget for the four sales videos he had just finished shooting.  

$32,000 in just talent overages.  How could it be humanly possible?  She couldn't figure it out.  She'd known Jack for years, a thin man with thick glasses, a foul mouth, but an impeccable honest heart.  He suffered from MS, and hobbled from meeting to office with a cane.  When, during the second day of production, the director ordered a wheel chair for Jack, a concerned gesture, Jack practically took off the man's head with the cane. The last line of Jack's hand written fax particularly angered her, "...the other $15,000 I can't explain".

Why Jack?  How could you screw up so badly?  It's bad enough that you cost the company and yourself grief this way, but  $32,000 could wipe out a good hunk of the group's profitability for the entire month.  Maybe it isn't true.  But, damn it, I know it is! 

She had reached her destination.  Her tactical target–Willis Stockton, the training creative director.  He was in the middle of a meeting with another vice president, Patrick Balls.  So what. Abigail was a striking woman.  Her slim shapely figure, blonde hair, fashionable tight fitting clothes (not sexy but very efficient) always attracted stares from a distance.  Up close she wore little or no makeup, her eyes were bloodshot from stress and lack of sleep, and she rarely smiled.  Today her eyes bore holes through the six foot side light into Stockon's office.  Before " the wicked-witch from account"–as she was affectionately known–forced open the door, both men had turned to look because the stiletto heels–a familiar sound to both of them–had suddenly stopped outside the door, and that could only mean one thing.  She was coming in.

The door opened suddenly.  Ash took one step in,  her hand still white- gripped with anger around the gold-chrome door knob, "We've got a VERY serious problem Willis...", she stopped in mid sentence as Stockon lifted his hand to deflect the onslaught, and then gesture to the table in front of him.

"I know Betty, I've been sorting through the SAG contracts already.  I'm trying to uncover the facts and discover what really happened," Stockon said.

"Well, Macloch wants us in his office at 11am sharp, I've got all the backup right here".  She paused for effect,  glanced at Balls, "Sorry to interrupt."  She wasn't.   Then she closed the door, and planted her left heel through the carpet into the steel girders of the building.