PureVolume

Eddie G. was a slick old bastard. In fact, Slick Eddie G is what he called himself, apparently he was creative too, as he sat down and drank from your coffee, hed tell you how cold it was and how it needed cream and sugar. Irish cream in the little cups with a shot of 15 year old whiskey. Welcome to the world of radio and the slime pit of mass marketing that controls the airwaves. His sweat was expelled only in the proper saunas, and his improper fantasy of making it with a boy was allowed to reign free in the proper stalls fed by the proper channels for the proper cash deposit in the proper offshore account. Eddie G. smelled of money from five states away, he pissed change and farted annuities, and Steve and I were sweating having to be raped by him. REE-REE-REE, just like a hog, in the backwoods called boardrooms that Eddie G. called home. We had stayed up all night smoking dope and drinking beer and snorting speed. What else could we have done?

So you boys have a radio show? Eddie G. smiled. I might as well have bent over and kissed my ankles. My ass was about to be drilled.

Uhm, a wrestling show... Steve said.

I sensed deer in headlights, and decided to assume command.

We have a cushion of cash, and I think we can sell enough ads to purchase some time. I broke out a pie chart, the whole fucking nine.

How many weeks can you guarantee? Eddie G. of the greasy palms asked.

How much?

Mmmhmm. He harrumphed, eyeing us up. How old are you boys?

What does it matter?

Good answer. Eddie G. beamed. He circled like a rabid shark, like an oil sheik smelling a vein that he could tap into. One that came cheap and with a virgin to boot.

How much? I repeated. I had balls. I wasnt here for me, so I had balls.

Well, Eddie G. sighed, his gold plated sigh, it goes for $1500.00 an hour, prime time Saturday in 96 markets, that is.

I think he was pretending I wasnt there.

How much? I held my ground.

We like Steve and I like the idea. You can have it for $500.00 an hour if you can guarantee 8 weeks.

There it was.

I think I can guarantee 10. I replied. But Ill have to check and see.

- - - - - -

Whadaya think? Ed asked The Bounty Hunter. Bounty looked at me. I downed my beer. It was a bar for Gods sake. I had just laid out the proposal in reverse. What we could sell, 14 minutes of ads at $200.00 an ad if we could pull it off. The hour cost $500.00 in prime time. We could make our money back and more, except I had no money, it was theirs.

Ok. They agreed. Steve was playing chess with the salt and pepper shakers, using the equal packets as pawns and the straws and napkins for the other pieces. A red drink straw made a striking bishop. Steve was driving so he had to stay sober. He was laced to the gills on PCP.

Im a master salesman. Said Ed. Shit, I almost puked laughing inside. Im taking classes and channeling positive energy to achieve my goals.

Great. We can sell programs too.

Checkmate you bastards. Steve added.

Who is he again? Phil asked.

I work for the American Radio Networks. Steve said on cue, upright and alert. His military ailment had not fully left his system. My name is Steve. I engineer Saturdays overnight.

Okay. Ed smiled. Bounty nodded with his mane flinching like a kings robe. It was settled then.

Saturdays at 8:00 p.m. would belong to pro-wrestling and the AWF, at least on the American Radio Networks it would. We were in business, at least right then.

Steve offered an Equal pack to Phil, who was drinking beer and declined.

I think we had a deal.