CHAPTER 7

“Which is the soup spoon and what exactly are we eating?”
-Kyle Whitman

The private dining room of Jackson Quark looked like any movie you might have seen about ancient Rome. Burnished marble and limestone columns. Tapestries flowing from the ceiling. Busts of gods on pedestals. Thick, ornately carved tables, sideboards and throne chairs lay sprinkled about (courtesy of our friends, Medesko Bros. imports). Add in the state of the art surround sound system and the near freezing point air conditioning and this gets you Jackson Quark’s private dining room.
     The centerpiece of the dining room was an eighteen foot in circumference table made from Humboldt redwood with its original root system extending beneath the marble flooring. The three and a half feet of trunk was left intact and supported the polished quartz table top, which had been cut into a perfect circle. It looked as if a long range ICBM would bounce off it like Mike Tyson off canvas.
     Jackson often slept on that table, the air-cooled quartz so soothing to a rotting body.
     It was the perfect locale to hold a meeting in which your desire was to inspire and intimidate. Which had the desired effect on the meeting attendees who may have felt they were entering a set from “Caligula.”
     Those summoned to meet with Jackson included Kyle (living), Virgil (undead), Johnette (undead), Tommy Canterbury (undead) and a woman simply called Atria (undetermined). A laptop and projector were set up on a small AV cart (carved from Alder with a prancing devil motif running up the legs) next to the meeting table which could only mean a PowerPoint presentation. A well appointed snack and beverage table stood near the entrance of the dining room. Above the entrance hung a piece of drift wood hanging over the dining room entrance with, “CARO PUTRIDAS ES” carved into it. Kyle made a mental note to Google the translation later. He also deduced that the undead drank gallons of caffeine judging from the nine industrial sized coffee urns lined up on the snack table.
     Everybody loaded up and took a seat around the table.  Kyle fidgeted with the snaps on his down arctic jacket.
     “Well, I am glad to finally have the pleasure of sitting down to break bread with my marketing and creative team,” Jackson said. “Kyle, reports have it that you are successfully back from the dead – metaphorically speaking of course.”
     So that’s how it was gonna be Kyle thought. Gallows humor about lacking a pulse and being nonchalant about eating ass meat and spleens. Let the games begin.
     “Yes, thank you,” Kyle said. “Ready to sample the finest in range free, organically grown human beings.”
     Jackson let out an explosive guffaw.
    “Bravo, Mr. Whitman! I do believe you’re going to surpass the press about you.”
     Kyle looked at Virgil.
     “I bullshitted a little,” Virgil said.
     “A toast then,” Jackson said raising his thirty-two ounce goblet full of eight shot Americano with cream and seven sugars.
     “To a highly unique undertaking with a long list of firsts.”
     Since the table was roughly the circumference of the earth, everyone had to make due with motioning rather than clinking goblets of coffee.
     “I’d like to add one thing,” Tommy Canterbury said. 
     Jackson nodded.
     “To Tad Wingo,” Tommy said. “Cut down in his prime. (beat) Brought low by unforeseen forces. (beat) His soul – “
     “Tommy,” interrupted Jackson. “That was beautiful.” Goblets lowered.
     “Who’s Tad Wingo?” Virgil asked. “Sounds familiar.”
     “Tad was the St. Aggies marketing manager,” Johnette explained. “Until yesterday.”
     “He was unceremoniously shot in the head at long range,” Jackson said.
     “So that part is true,” Kyle said. “It’s gotta be a head shot with you guys.”
     The room fell silent, the soft hiss of air conditioning steady.
     “I do believe a gunshot to the head is lethal for most species,” the woman known simply as Atria said. For reasons unknown, Atria dressed as if she was on a coffee break from Ben Hur the Musical rehearsals.
     Jackson was running his middle finger around the rim of his coffee goblet, his gaze fixed on Tommy. Once again, Kyle felt the uncomfortable silence of blurting out a realization. As for Tommy? He was decomposing under Jackson’s gaze.
     “Somewhere on this island,” Jackson said, gaze still fixed on Tommy, “is a young woman – about your age, Kyle. Very smart, very elusive, and certainly lethal. A crack shot who knows her way around electrical substations and computer networks.”
     “Single?” Kyle asked, trying to recover ground.
     Jackson smiled, turning his gaze to his coffee goblet.
     “Single, beautiful. And possessing a constitution made entirely of steel,” Jackson said. “I suspect you two would get along famously, until she learned that you worked for me. At which point she’d artfully splatter your grey matter all over the gorgeous view with the same accuracy and surprise she demonstrated on Tad and the others. She’s none too fond of me, Kyle.”
     “So you’re saying there’s a serial killer on the island?” Kyle said. “With IT skills?”
     Jackson grinned, thinking to himself that there were actually two. And also because he liked Kyle, and Kyle’s constant desire to test authoritative boundaries.
     “Did you eat one of her family or something?” Kyle asked.
     Again with the out of bounds question. Even Kyle winced a little. Still, he wanted to know.
     “Something like that,” Jackson said. “And, as much as I’d like to continue this saga, I would much prefer to discuss things such as launching a national brand campaign, profit sharing, the growth of offshore accounts. If that seems amenable to you?”
     “All those opposed to wealth, say I,” Kyle said, giving everyone a chance to laugh and lighten the mood. And to forget what a dickhead Kyle had just been.
     “Before we delve into particulars, I thought we’d take a little time to answer the question, ‘Who are we talking to?’ I thought we’d ponder this during the first course,” Jackson said.
     White jacketed waiters poured into the dining area carrying silver serving trays. Their domes glistened underneath the recently wired 17th century chandelier . This made Kyle extremely nervous. Just what might be under those gleaming silver serving lids? Meat would be a good guess given the company, but meat as a first course? How jejune. Virgil might have been thinking the same thing as Kyle, given his frequent glances in Kyle’s direction.
     Or was Kyle the first course?
     The serving platters were placed into the center of the table and just like a Busby Berkeley movie, the wait staff removed the lids in unison. There, sitting on sterling silver trays were an assortment of fast food. Cheeseburgers, chili dogs, fish and chips, onion rings, quesadillas, burritos, fried chicken, pizza, french fries – really, if you could shake the dietary contents out of a strip mall, it was here.
     “I give you,” Jackson said, “your target demographic.”
     Being one for drama, Jackson was quite please with the stunned silence.
     “So…the cheeseburgers? They’re made from….?” Kyle asked.
     “Mostly cow,” Jackson said. “And whatever else they’re fed in these interesting times. Don’t stand on etiquette, please. Dig in.”
     Kyle watched as the table full of undead did just that. He would learn many things at this dinner, one of them being, the undead eat meat products at the speed of light. Another thing being that they removed the pickles.
     “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep harping on this,” Kyle said, reaching for a pizza slice (the pepperonis and sausage were already lifted). “But, it was my understanding that you guys ate only uh, y’know…”
     “Human flesh?” Johnette said with a sly grin. She had chili on her chin.
     “That’s it,” Kyle said snapping his fingers. “You guys eat humans.”
     “You make do with what you have,” Atria said, shoving a footlong in her mouth – a gesture that caused Kyle and Virgil to eye each other with wicked interpretation.
     “So ‘Make mine meat’ might be a slogan for the undead community,” Kyle said.
     “Meat is marvelous,” Virgil said.
     “Meat. ‘nuff said,” Kyle said.
     “Mmmmmmmeat!”
     “Meat is beeftacular!”
     “Meatopia!”
     “Megameat!”
     “Meat is the best!” Tommy offered.
     Silence fell once again. Jackson gave him another wilting look.
     “So we’re eating junk food at a high end resort,” Kyle said, his ad brain kicking in. “Kid friendly?”
     “Yes,” said Jackson. “Certainly kids are welcome. Along with their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, the entire family tree.”
     “That’s a Caribbean getaway oozing with sex appeal. The chance to see aunt Bernadine’s waist low breasts sunning,” Kyle said.
     “That’s where we depart from the traditional sun drenched tropical resort,” Johnette said.
     “We may have made our footprint in the sand with the Isle of St. Agrippina,” Jackson said, “in all it’s Caribbean grandeur and Jimmy Buffett civilization escape scenarios. Our rasion d’etre is that we will strive to be the WalMart of the tradewinds. At St. Aggies, give us your moderate income, your SUV driving, everyday, Morning in America, slovenly comfortable, two weeks vacation a year family.”
     “Club Fred – Flinstone,” Johnette said, her tongue brushing her upper lip in a way that made Kyle take notice.
     “Isn’t that called Disneyland?” Kyle asked.
     “More Motel 6 than Disney,” Johnette answered. “We’re offering three packages to families. You choose a package which comes through our private travel agency only. Flat rates, no confusing formulas and gimmes. We have a fleet of sea planes from Miami. Once here, it’s a whole lotta nothing. Sure we’ll throw in some kids’ activities and fishing trips, but for the most part we’re selling down time, pure and simple.”
     Not bad for a bunch of dead people, Kyle thought to himself.
     “People like to do shit on their vacations,” Kyle said. “Swim with dolphins, waterslides, breakfast with large animated characters, audience participation dinner shows.”
     “Our research shows that if we skew lower than the demographic whose vacation you just described, you’ll find a niche of people who frankly are too tired to get dry humped by a large mouse or run around a theme hotel from one scheduled event to another. These people are deciding on the vacation that suits them. Davey and Susie can play on the beach all the live long day.” Johnette crossed her arms. “And when it comes to dining – it’ll be just like home – but with larger portions.”
     It was at this point that Kyle was able to bypass the fact that Johnette had no pulse and focus on the fact that she was growing sexier with every word she spoke. Just as this thought passed, Johnette turned her eyes to Kyle’s. She gave a slight wry smile. Could she read minds? Did zombies read minds? Kyle tried the theory out by thinking he’d like to do her right here on the table. Johnette leaned forward placing her hands on the table.
     “Holy shit,” Kyle whispered.
     “Indeed,” Jackson said. “We feel certain this is uncharted territory.”
     Kyle struggled to take his eyes off Johnette and when he finally did, he met Virgil’s.
     “You feelin’ it?” Virgil asked him.
     What the fuck? So Virgil’s reading his mind too and now he’s pissed because of the dirty thoughts about his girlfriend? Hey Virg ole buddy. How about a three way? Hmm? Kyle smiled at his best friend as his thoughts roamed over such words as “assplay” and “watersports.”
     “All we need now is a creative brief to destroy the good feelings,” Kyle finally said, getting back in the game.
     “Viola!” Johnette said. “I put one together last night. It contains all you need to know about this project, which we’ll call ‘Feedbag’. It’s got pertinent info on our target market segment and the single net impression we’ll want consumers to take away. Background on St. Aggies. Media placement and of course, budget.”
     “Can we try something new?” Kyle asked.
     “Sure pumpkin,” Johnette said, perhaps a little bit too jauntily.
     “Can you just tell us right here, in one simple sentence, what you want?”
     “It’s all right here, Kyle,” Johnette said holding up the brief.
     “One sentence. Right here, then we can have dessert. I’m hoping for some Nutty Ho-Hos or fried Twinkies,” Kyle said.
     “Duder, it’s just a brief,” Virgil said. “Like the millions of briefs we’ve read before – no offense, Johnette.”
     “Well, that’s just it,” Kyle said. “I dunno, this whole thing is a bit on the unusual side. I mean, we’re here on a gorgeous Caribbean island…populated by the undead who want to open a resort that caters to trailer park trash. Must we do things by the book?”
     Jackson slapped his hands on the cool quartz.
     “He’s right,” Jackson said. “He absolutely right. We’re starting a revolution. All the old rules do not apply here.”
     “I have one question,” Kyle said. “What’s the point of all of this?”
     “Maximum occupancy,” Johnette said.
     Jackson let a hint of a smile show itself on his face. He knew what Kyle meant. He knew the next three questions Kyle would ask. He’d been waiting since visiting Kyle in his room. And in due time, the real answers would reveal themselves.
     “Greed, Mr. Whitman,” Jackson said. “Riches. I like money. I think I’m among friends when I make that statement. I have this island and an idea. And I want to become fabulously wealthy from it. As do all of you. Perhaps now is the time to also ask a question.”
     Jackson leaned forward, supporting his chin with one hand, while the other held a white object that he tapped on the table top.
     “What are you doing here?” Jackson asked, looking directly at Kyle.
     A whole conversation was taking place between Jackson and Kyle. A whole exchange of subtext and reading expressions and tones of voice. For Kyle, it really was the first time he’d stopped to consider why he hadn’t run screaming from the shores of St. Aggies when he learned the truth. But the ugly truth was, Kyle had nothing better to do with his life. He too would have to withhold.
     “I come for the waters,” Kyle said. “But maybe I’ve had my fill. Maybe this is the moment to either head to Miami or throw in with the likes of you?”
     Jackson held Kyle’s gaze. He’s gonna be a pain in the ass, Jackson thought. A very entertaining pain in the ass.
     “Leave?” Jackson said. “I hope if that is your decision you would do me the honor of allowing me to try and persuade you to stay. We need you Kyle. I know a good thing when I see it. You are as close to a sure bet as can be. Besides. You just arrived.”
     The thing about creative types who worked in advertising: They craved praise worse than a zombie craved meat. Sprinkled liberally, it will pay off like a ten grand slot machine everytime.
     That was a sure bet.