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understood that when you got down to it, they were just pushing fermented potato juice on the American public and lucky to have their jobs, Brad ate it up. The week after the win, he promenaded down the hall like he was going to his own movie premiere, accepting the attendant attention as a matter of course.
    â€œBradley, well done!”
    â€œWhat up, Mr. Molotov!”
    â€œHey Brad, maybe you and Matt can help us cast that bra commercial. We could use your eye.”
    Oh, life was good. Brad and Matt went to work bringing the vodka campaign to life and taking their pick of the other choice assignments at the agency. Goodbye frozen pizzas and hot flash treatments. Hello lingerie and video game accounts. In fact, hello new agencies.
    Brad called his headhunters. He and his partner had single-handedly landed a monster liquor account—the advertising world equivalent of having your dick spontaneously grow nine inches. Time to move on to the next level. Time to get paid.
    Brad told his headhunters he made one hundred and seventy-five thousand. They in turn told the agencies that Brad was making two ten, but would make a lateral move if the accounts were right. Because he loved making advertising that much.
    Every day when Gracie called to check in, Brad had fresh and exciting news about the interviews his headhunters were piling up. She was invariably happy for him, and half the thrill of landing the interview was savoring the bragging rights he exercised with his wife. Modern man’s version of a caveman bringing home an elk he slayed with his bare hands to feed his family.
    The interviews were with the best agencies in town. ChangBaby, Seaton/Dara, Dogfight. Everyone wanted a little bit of that Brad magic. Phil was no fool. He preemptively called Brad into his office and handed him new business cards.
    â€œCongratulations. Mr. Senior Art Director.”
    Brad took the cards and couldn’t help but smile. His plan was to play it like he was not that impressed and couldn’t be won over by a token gesture. But he failed. Brad Fingerman, senior art director. That really had a nice ring to it, and he hadn’t even had to take a single meeting.
    â€œWow, thanks Phil. What a surprise. But, I was going to talk to you anyway about a—”
    â€œOf course, that comes with a big raise.”
    â€œAhh. Right. Well, then.
    â€œAnd Schott’s old office.”
    â€œWhat happened to Schott?”
    â€œDidn’t work out. Which reminds me, I want you to talk to Osbourne about some work we need on the Massive account.”
    Sports drink work. Sexy. Well played, Phil.
    â€œGreat. I’ll do that.”
    Brad got up to leave.
    â€œThanks, Phil.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Molotov.”
    Phil’s ploy worked. Brad decided he might just have a bright future at Overthink and turned down the offers to meet with other agencies. Some of the biggest stars in advertising had done it that way. Company men all the way to agency partner. Overthink/Fingerman. Nice. Hmmm, maybe Brad was a company man after all.
    A few weeks later, Brad, Matt, and Phil had gone over to the Molotov headquarters to show them the latest incarnations of the Maybe too good campaign, including the microsite/app that let visitors play online strip poker with live, sexy Russian female potato farmers. Phil was already making room on the awards shelf.
    After once again dazzling both his new client and his boss in this presentation, Brad led them all to the bar next door for a celebratory martini. One martini easily turned into to two and then three, and the third one led to joke after joke in which the punch line was “Maybe too good.” The idea of a fourth martini was floated, but Brad had a different thought.
    â€œLet me handle this.”
    He called a waitress over and ordered with confidence.
    When she returned bearing a full tray, Brad commandeered the floor and informed his audience that it was time to really