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Subconsciously – Chapter 4

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 05/27/2014

Subconsciously

American Lee Cohn lies her way through England in order to acquire a football team endorsement for e-Pocalypse energy supplement e-cigarettes.

Chapter 4 – Subconscious Lee

(Nellie Turano is seated poolside at the palatial Mexican estate of drug lord “Nacho” Notchizedes, discussing his e-Pocalypse e-cigarette energy supplement company…)

NELLIE:  Mr. Notchizedes, my marketing company cannot be associated with international narcotics cartels.

NACHO:  Ms. Turano, e-Pocalypse Industries is completely above board. I’m going legitimate and this business venture is the first step. I hope you will come along with me on my journey.

(Nacho motions to one of his henchmen who cocks a machine gun and Nellie’s face goes white…)

NELLIE:  I have to make a call.


(Lee Cohn is exiting the Manchester City FC offices when she gets another call from her boss…)

LEE:  Nellie, Mexican drug lords? What are you talking about?

NELLIE:  Lee, no time. Sell it. Sell it all. Sell every e-cigarette we have in stock. We have to move this product immediately.

LEE:  But you told me to–

NELLIE:  It doesn’t matter what I told you! That was old Nellie. She’s dead now. This is new Nellie. New Nellie says we are open for business.

(Nellie hangs up and Lee releases a heavy sigh…)


(Lee walks back upstairs to the office she just exited as Manchester City FC’s director of marketing is shaking hands with a doughy, stocky, pale, balding man…)

LEE:  Mr. Director, I was hoping we could finalize that sponsorship deal we were speaking about a moment ago? For e-Pocalypse e-cigarettes?

DIRECTOR:  Terribly sorry, Miss Cohn. But I just agreed to a sponsorship deal with this gentleman and his e-cigarette company instead.

(The doughy man sticks out a hand and grins a jagged smile…)

BREAD:  The name’s Bread, president of Bloke Smoke e-cigarettes.

(Lee picks up an e-cigarette on the director’s desk…)

LEE:  This is just an e-Pocalypse cigarette with a sticker over the label.

BREAD:  Ah, that’s just a prototype.

LEE:  This is my product. Where did you get this?

DIRECTOR:  I’m sorry, Miss Cohn. We’re just more comfortable doing business with our own.

BREAD:  (toothy sneer)  Why don’t ya just quit while you’re behind, luv.

LEE:  (shoves a finger in Bread’s face)  You won’t get away with this.

(Bread takes Lee aside…)

BREAD: Listen, I feel terrible about taking your business; but it’s a jungle out there. How ’bout I make it up to ya with some insider info to show there’s no hard feelings. The Bumfordshire Humpledumps.

LEE:  Pardon.

BREAD:  The Bumfordshire Humpledumps are an up and coming football club, and they’re lookin’ for a major sponsorship deal.

LEE:  Bumfordshire, eh?


(On a private airstrip near Mr. Notchizedes’ estate…)

NACHO:  You may take my private jet back to Chicago. And I’m going to have Marco here accompany you until our little operation is complete.

NELLIE:  Lee is one of my finest employees, Mr. Notchizedes. I assure you we’ll have e-Pocalypse e-cigarettes on every shelf in England. So there’s no need for any….ugliness.

NACHO:  (grins)  That’s all I ask, Ms. Turano. Marco, did you pack a jacket? It’s cold in America.

MARCO:  (sighs)  Si, jefe.


(Lee pulls her rental car up to a brown field in Bumfordshire and steps out to see a group of young men stumbling clumsily through a soccer match, while a single bleacher seating roughly seven people drearily cheers them on…)

BUMFORDSHIRE FAN:  Go Humpledumps!

(A wino on the top row vomits over the back of the bleachers and Lee glances at the old rotting wooden scoreboard…)

WALLINGHAM         10

BUMFODSHIRE         0

LEE:  Oh, you’ve got to be fucking me.


Send all hate mail to ethanrbooker@gmail.com

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