The Birth of the Syndicate

Before Mark’s passing just a couple weeks ago, he handpicked Al, the current CEO. The board took umbrage with this decision, but, through a series of Shakespearean power plays and a healthy dose of good luck, Al maintained the CEO spot. Quite simply, Al beat the board’s first pick to death with his own mother’s arm, and ripped the face off the second replacement. Eventually the board had to bow to the unremitting will of their new Genghis Khan.

This group of desiccated mummies leaned towards the shiny mahogany table, waiting on Al’s reaction to the vice president’s most recent suggestion. This was the first time Bradley actually sat in a meeting with Al since the changeover occurred.

What Bradley found at the end of the table shocked him so completely, he almost dropped the report in his hand. He looked from one sweaty suit to the next. They were all subconsciously holding their breath, eyebrows raised expectantly. None of them seemed concerned with anything aside from Al’s acceptance of their ideas — expressed with guttural hoots, arm flailing, or cooing.

They weren’t distressed by the fact that Al, their CEO, was a chimpanzee.

Al crawled onto the table, shot a wrinkled pink hand up into the air, and let out a grunt before it dropped down, knuckles rapping loudly. There came an audible sigh from the crowd. Apparently, they interpreted this as approval for the advertising budget. A $500,000 campaign, green lit with the wave of a hairy arm.

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