The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 2

Zurich, Switzerland:

Roy Gimbel was slouched as far down in his chair as he could possibly go without being completely horizontal. He was seated at the head of a large oval conference table made of some dark colored, glistening wood. A short roundish man was extolling the virtues of the latest Gimbel company product with feigned enthusiasm and too many hand gestures.

Roy yawned and continued doodling in his ledger.

"..and that is why Gimbel's new lineup will shock, literally shock our competitors."

The portly man had actually thrashed like he was being tasered to emphasize his point.

Roy sighed heavily and interjected.

"That'll do for now Chris, have a seat."

"There's a few more slides sir...."

"I get the picture. That'll do."

The man scowled slightly and sat down.

Roy struggled to an upright position, stood and began pacing the head of the table. He was an athletic man with a strong resemblance to Don Draper from Mad Men, or whatever the hell young people are into these days. Roy's eyes were a bottomless black, framed by heavy brows and a shock of close cropped brown hair. His body was lean, but not overly muscular in the manner of someone who exercises for fun rather than to stay in shape.

There was something about his demeanor and gait that seemed to exude an air of being able to deftly scramble around a handful of European cities while being constantly shot at, and this was what the women of his life found most alluring.

Roy came to a stop, and gripped the high back of his chair shooting an icy gaze over the collected executives.

"Gimble's is a proud company with a dedicated customer base and a product that people can't do without. We don't need to constantly challenge the status quo, rather we should be reinforcing it."

The gathered board members and sales managers looked slightly perturbed.

"Listen folks, I'm not saying we forget about progress and keep selling the exact same products forever. We just need to be cautious and implement changes gradually over time so as not spook our loyal customers."

"Mr. Gimbel, we just want to make sure that your company isn't left in the dust when Feminara delivers on the omni-brief."

Roy gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation.

"Bob, I don't care what your market research shows, women are not going to want to wear panties with a built in tampon. Gimbel's sells the highest quality bras and feminine hygiene products and we're not about to be usurped by lady's diapers."

Gimbel corp had been in the business for nearly 50 years, back to the days when tampons were called shame-plugs and bras were pointy cones made of starched linen. Roy's father, Robert had summed up their business model with a simple sentence:

"The only thing on Gimbel corp's mind is jugs and plugs boys, jugs and plugs."

Now as Roy sat in the lavish boardroom of their European headquarters in Zurich he was dismayed by what he saw.

Chris wanted to revolutionize the way women related to their undercarriage....by introducing chemically treated panties that changed color at the slightest hint of blood.

Bob was a strong proponent of the omni-rect brassier, an underwire cup with built in erect nipples in a variety of sizes.

The CFO, Elias, didn't give a shit what the company sold so long as they turned a profit.

It was hopeless. This trip had been a waste. Roy could have stayed at home trolling the clubs of New York city for vulnerable young actresses and university students. Instead he was trapped in fucking Switzerland like some douche-bag backpacker with a scruffy beard and a Phish t-shirt.

"This meeting is over. We'll reconvene in 4 weeks time. By then I want to see some solid ideas for products that women will actually want to wear or shove in themselves. Dismissed."

His father was right, the company was in dire trouble. Gimbel corp needed a top to bottom restructuring and an influx of young talent if it had any hope of survival. Of course, women would always need to support their breasts, except the filthy hippies, and they needed something to stanch the monthly curse, except the filthy hippies, but Roy was worried nonetheless. There were breakthroughs happening every day in the fields of period prevention and hooter modification. It was only a matter of time before science murdered auntie flow and created a superior milk bar which was perky enough that it no longer needed support at all.

Roy sighed heavily, closed his ledger and made for the door. He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and strode purposefully to the private elevator at the end of the corridor. This was his father's private lift and it could only be activated by finger-print and iris scan. It stopped on 3 floors within the Gimbel complex. The garage where his father's vintage Dodge Shadow was parked, the executive floor where Roy was now, and Robert's private office on the observation deck.

Roy quickly swiped his finger tip across the flat reader plate and stood motionless as a tiny camera scanned his eye. The machine emitted a soft tone and the doors opened.

The elevator smelled terrible, like someone had cut a huge fart right before getting off. Roy wasn't all that surprised. After all, his father was pushing 80 years old at this point and he couldn't control his bodily functions as well as he once had. The old man had probably tooted his way from the parking garage on up to his office.

Roy pressed a large, brushed steel plate. It was unlabeled, but there were only three options after all.

The elevator whirred slightly and then ascended with impressive speed. Roy barely had time to lament the heinous fart hanging thickly in the air by the time he reached Robert's office.

The doors slid open slowly unveiling a scene of pure carnage. Roy gasped involuntarily as he beheld the crumpled form of his father, soaked in red metallic smelling foam and gripping the pommel of his sword cane in a blanched fist.