Syrup Read Online Free Page B

She hurries down an oak-paneled corridor without looking to see if I am following. I have a nasty moment when I think she’s going to dodge into the bathroom, then she stops at a giant set of double doors. They are huge. They are amazing. They are the sort of doors you expect someone very large to burst from, bellowing “Fee, fi, fo, fum.” They are exactly what I would want if I could play with millions of dollars of other people’s money.
    Behind these doors, I am reasonably sure that 6 is betraying me.
    I take a deep breath, and

through the looking glass
    I throw the doors open and stride inside as if I know what I am doing. There is so much space in the boardroom that for a moment I think I must have wandered outside by mistake. Stuck in the center of this hall is a big oak table, and around it are a dozen big men. I can tell that obesity is a tradition here, rather than a passing fad, because the wall is lined with portraits of past, overweight board members. They’re a bunch of irritable Santa Clauses with jowls instead of beards and cutter gray for fluffy red and white.
    Standing in front of the table with a sheaf of papers and a flip chart is 6. The chart sports a delicious black rendition of a can of Fukk cola.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I tell the room. “Traffic was terrible.”
    There is a long pause as the twelve men, each undoubtedly worth many millions of dollars, grope for something to say.
    6 beats them to it. She grasps the situation so quickly that I know she’s planned for it. “I’m sorry,” she tells the board, “allow me to introduce Mr. Scat.” She turns to me, and her eyes are like black knives. “He’s a consultant who worked with us on Fukk.”
    I’m also prepared, so I laugh. “Actually,” I say—because a consultant is entitled to an hourly rate and zip of the profits—“I’m the creator of Fukk.”
    This sparks frowns and mutters from the board, and the atmosphere turns icy and disapproving. One of the men speaks up, and his voice is deep and rolling and pretty much what you’d expect to come parceled with the board member of a multinational company. “Ms. 6, we were under the impression that Fukk was developed internally.” 6 shifts her weight slightly, but her expression doesn’t change. “As I’m sure you’re aware, there are numerous complications involved in marketing someone else’s concept.”
    You bet there are. Complications like having to pay a tiny royalty on every can, which on Coca-Cola’s scale works out to tens of millions of dollars per year. Suddenly I’m feeling very, very good.
    “If that’s the case,” the man continues, “we simply can’t proceed with this product.”
    All moisture in my mouth evaporates. I feel like somebody has given me a check for unlimited fame and fortune, then gone “Oh sorry, that’s not for you; have this commemorative coffee mug instead.” I am about to do something really stupid like beg or scream or call the board a fascist regime of assholes, when 6 steps forward. She is totally calm.
    “My apologies again, Mr. Croft. I’m afraid my partner may have misled you.”
    Partner?
    “Mr. Scat and I codeveloped Fukk,” 6 says. She is so convincing that this statement slips easily into my brain and settles there for a second before I realize it’s not true. “And he is prepared to relinquish his trademark rights for three million.”

and they lived happily ever after
    This is how the story goes after that:
    Scat realizes he’s being offered the choice between three million dollars and nothing, and although it’s not a one cent royalty on every can of Fukk sold in the known universe, it’s not exactly a slap in the face. It’s enough to buy a huge house and clothes and a car and even start to get noticed by the right people. So Scat smiles and nods and agrees that, yes, he is prepared to sell his brilliant idea for three million dollars, and by the way, Ms. 6 did a super job and should be promoted, in his