Dr. Slick: A Killer Comedy by Dani Amore Page A

the screen fills with red as his player falls to the ground, his head blown clean off.
    Through the wall, Tom hears Dylan howling with glee.
    The computer game’s announcer speaks.
    “Head shot!” it says.
    Dylan pounds his fist on the wall that separates his office from Tom’s.
    “Want some more?” he calls out.
    Tom ignores him as his cyber character regenerates but then his head is blown off again.
    “Eat it baby,” Tom hears through the wall.
    “Head shot,” the game announcer points out.
    Tom grits his teeth in anger.
    Suddenly, Tom’s boss appears in the doorway.
    Morgan Wolcott is in his late forties, early fifties, clinging to the notion that he’s still very hip. He’s dressed in casual clothes with Camper shoes and thick black glasses.
    His mostly gray hair is combed forward and moussed into a little point at the front.
    Tom hurriedly quits the SNIPER game, not doing a good job hiding the fact that he’s just been busted.
    “Tom?” Wolcott asks.
    “Hey, Morgan.”
    “Everything okay in here?”
    Suddenly, there’s a pounding on the wall and Dylan’s voice can be heard.
    “Head shot!”
    Tom is frozen at his desk and Morgan glances sideways at the wall.
    “Tom, I just wanted to let you know that I’m expecting big ideas on this American Oil project,” Wolcott says.
    “I’m looking forward to it, too,” Tom says.  “Good thing this is just the first round and we’ve got time–“
    “First round?” Wolcott says, surprise in his voice.
    “Yeah, I thought–“
    “No, this is it, Tom. First round and last round. One shot only. This is why we get paid the big bucks.  They moved the deadline up. It’s crunch time, baby.”
    “But–“ Tom starts to say.
    “Just bring your A-game, Tom,” Wolcott says, cutting him off.  “Everybody else is.  And between you and me, Tom? You’ve had plenty of at-bats, it’s time you hit a home run.”
    Morgan leaves without saying a word. Dylan ducks into the doorway, pointing an imaginary sniper rifle at him.
    “Head shot!” he says.

Three
     
    It’s the big American Oil meeting at Tom’s ad agency and the giant round conference table is full of people.
    Morgan is sitting at the head of the table, clearly holding court. Tom is sitting halfway down the table.
    He looks pale and nervous.
    Kelly Moore, a hip, stylish woman in her late twenties is finishing up her presentation.  She’s very poised and confident.
    “And I think if American Oil really wants to...push the envelope...if they really want to...rattle people’s cages...I think this campaign is it,” she finishes.
    She sits down and there’s silence as all heads turn toward Morgan. He taps a pencil against his lips, puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling.
    “Do you see that?” he finally says.
    He points to Kelly. No one answers.
    “That’s how it’s done, my friends. The gold star goes to Kelly,” he says
    The room breathes a collective sigh of relief. We see Tom sitting next to Dylan.
    “Gold star?” Dylan says to Tom under his breath.  “ What are we in, first grade?”
    “Sssshhhh,” Tom says.
    Wolcott again addresses the group.  “I agree with Kelly. American Oil needs something edgy, something that’ll kick the oil industry in the ass. I think Kelly’s campaign is perfectly strategized and perfectly executed. A few tweaks of the copy and we’re good to go. Well done.”
    The assembled masses clap begrudgingly for Kelly.
    “Well, luckily, no one has to follow that huge idea as I believe everyone has presented so-“
    Suddenly, he notices Tom, who is practically slinking into his seat.
    “Oh...Tom.”
    “You know, Kelly really nailed it, so if there isn’t enough time–“
    “Nonsense. I want to hear what you’ve got,” Wolcott says.  “We all do, right team?”
    No one answers.
    “You know, I haven’t really had a chance-“ Tom starts to say.
    “Come on Tom, suck it up and show us what you’ve got!” Wolcott barks.
    Tom looks