The Tycoon and his trusted confidant meet up at a baseball game, clasping hands the moment they notice one another. His confidant, though baked out of his gourd, wastes no time in relaying the report.
“Call the streets the hive, and you the beekeeper.”
“They’re buzzing?”
“Oh yeah, they’re buzzing. Our shit’s getting louder than vets at a Duran Duran cover night.”
“How are our ins?”
“We’re in so deep, not even King Arthur can pull us out.”
“We’re getting top?”
“We’re getting dome.”
“Cranium. And the opps?”
“We’re gonna roast them on the fire, golden brown.”
“Once they’re black at the tip, they’re gonna fold. We’ve got the chips all over the city.”
“I will go out in a blaze of glory and die a thousand deaths if it keeps us in the green this year.”
“You’re a damn demon! You ever think of becoming a host?”
“Never mind that. Let’s get this done, we’ve got steak to sear.”
“Amen brother. Amen.”
The attendees around them, upon overhearing glimpses of the conversation, are left perplexed. The Tycoon goes to buy a hot dog. Being a CEO has its perks.1