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“I say we name it ‘Death Syrup’,” one said while raising his hand as if hoping to be called upon.
A majority of the gathered think tank shook their heads in disagreement.
“How about ‘Blood Bath’?” another proposed.
“I got it,” one let loose from across the board room table. “We’ll call it ‘Grave Juice!’”
“Grave Juice?” a handful intoned a simultaneous moan and turned to stare at the offender.
“That’s stupid,” one intern leaned and whispered softly to another intern.
“We could call it ‘Vlad’s Venom’,” the director suggested. “You know, like that evil guy from Czechoslovakia who use to prop people on poles.”
“Vlad the Impaler?” his assistant asked.
“Yeah, that guy,” the director answered and pointed to her.
“He was from Romania, sir” she said.
“Whatever. The millennials will buy it.”
“No they won’t.”
“They buy cinnamon schnapps, don’t they?”
“And they buy raspberry flavored vodka, right?”
“Then they’ll buy this crap.”
“What about something like ‘Whiskey Catastrophe’?” the recording secretary said while scribbling the meeting details.
“That’s what it is,” the director said and rolled his eyes. “We don’t want to be so literal.”
“Well,” his assistant interrupted, “if you were going to be literal you’d call it ‘Butterscotch Waffle Slaughter House’ because that’s what it smells and tastes and like—death by waffles covered in butterscotch.”
“Wait,” the director said abruptly. “Say that again!”
“I said,” she started, “it smells and tastes like waffles and butterscotch. It’s like scooping a soggy mash of doughy waffles drenched in melted butterscotch into your mouth. I went to see my doctor after trying it just to make sure I didn’t give myself diabetes.”
“No,” he interrupted. “The title. What did you say we should call it?”
“Butterscotch Waffle Slaughter House… because drinking it is like being led to slaughter… with waffles… and…”
“Yeah, I know. Butterscotch,” he said succinctly. “That’s it!”
“Slaughter House!” he shouted. “We’ll call it ‘Slaughter House’!”
“Should we add something like ‘Slow Death’ to the title?” his assistant prodded. “The ungodly long and syrupy finish isn’t exactly a swift slit of the throat or a quick sledge hammer to the head.”
“Nope,” the director responded. “Slaughter House. That’s perfect. And we’ll put a machete on the label. No, wait. A hatchet. We’ll put a hatchet on there. It’s edgy. The millennials will buy the hell out of this stuff.”
And now you know.
Thanks goodness I’m not Millenial, I don’t have to buy this fine concoction. Reverend Thoma you saved one soul from horrible, horrible future. Thank you.