No Contest

“This is Sherman MacGregor, calling from Battle Creek, Michigan, in the good old U.S. of A. Just watched tape of your spectacular win. Man, you are some kick-ass athlete.”

“Thanks. Who zis again?”

“I’m Sherm MacGregor, president and chief executive officer of MacGregor Biscuit Company. As in Mac-BisCo. Ever hear of Extreme Nuggets? I want to put you on our cereal boxes.”

Fred felt a surge of lucidity. Oh, man, this was the call he’d been waiting for! This was his dream come true! Had he blown the deal before it was even offered? “Extreme Nuggets! I love Extreme Nuggets!”

“I thought maybe you did,” MacGregor said. “An extreme athlete such as yourself needs extreme nutrition, like Extreme Nuggets.”

“Don’t I know it,” Fred agreed. “Extreme Nuggets has the nutrition I need to get me through the most grueling competition.”

MacGregor laughed. “You’re a natural! When you back in the States, son? We’ll sign you up. If you’re interested.”

“Sure am, Mr. MacGregor.” Fred twisted the valve on the IV tube. Last thing he needed now was more painkillers muddling his brain.

“Son, call me Mac. All the extreme athletes call me Mac.”

“Sure thing, Mac. Hold on a sec.” Fred was distracted by a brief knock on the door, then it was pushed open by a man with all the confidence in the world.

“You a doctor?” Fred asked. The guy was in a sport jacket and tailored slacks. Fred had the impression he made more than any lousy doctor.

The man rested a briefcase on the foot of the bed—a briefcase of hand-polished leather with the complexion of a supermodel. He took out a flash card. It read, “Tell Mac that you will call him back.”

Fred read it twice, then mouthed, “What the fuck?” The man showed his next card. “I’m with Fence Flour Company.”

Fred rolled the words in his mouth. “Fence Flour Company. Fence Flour Company?”

The next card was a picture of a cereal box—one of the most recognizable cereal boxes of all time. Oaties.

“Uh, my schedule’s not final yet, Mac,” Fred said to his caller. “Can I call you back when I know for sure?”

He took the number and promised to call within a day, then hung up.

“How’d you know it was Sherm MacGregor on the phone?” Fred asked the guy with the briefcase that looked as if it were made from the perfectly smooth skin of swimsuit models.

The man laughed, full of confidence. “Listen, Champ, Mac’s my second cousin, once removed. I’m Fellows Fence, vice president of marketing. Fence Flour Company.” The man shook Fred’s hand. It was a vigorous shake, but his skin was softer and more supple than his briefcase. “Mac and I grew up together. I know how he operates.”

“So how come he’s kicking your ass in the cereal aisle, Fellows?”

Fence hadn’t expected it, and the wind slackened in his sails. “Well, that’s not quite true, is it? Look at the brand names in any supermarket in America and tell me what you see. Super Sucrose Smacks, Marshmallow Good Luck Charms, Oaties, you name it.”

“Oaties Is for Pussies,” Fred said, and saw Fellows Fence cringe visibly. “Don’t take it personally,” Fred added.

Fellows shook it off, then acted as if it never happened. “We have some things to talk about. Most importantly, there’s the launch of new Extreme Oaties.”

“Never heard of it.”

“As I said, we’re launching it and it’s new, so of course you haven’t heard of it But we’d like you to be on the front of the very first boxes.”

“Wouldn’t that be something!” Fred exclaimed, laughing delightedly. Everybody he knew hated Oaties. Even he hated Oaties. It was part and parcel of the animosity between the traditional athletic culture and the rebellious extreme-sports subculture.

“You’re famous, Fred, as of right now. But what if you had your own Oaties box? Now that’s publicity! Everybody would know you on sight”

Fred Magnum had to agree with that. “But I’ll get that if I go with Extreme Nuggets.”

“True. But the compensation package that we’re prepared to offer—”

“There’s also the image problem. You know, Oaties Is for Pussies.”

“This isn’t Oaties, Fred. This is Extreme Oaties.”

“For extreme pussies?”

Fellows was hemorrhaging self-confidence. “Forget all that nastiness. It’s behind us. This is something new, with a whole new image. We’ve got a huge promotional budget, enough to drown the bad publicity.”

“You mean, that with enough cash you can buy enough advertising to make people think what you want them to think?” Fred scoffed.

“Exactly.”

“Man, you don’t get it. We’re not what you know, see? We’re not pretty-boy football players or lazy-assed baseball dudes standing out in some field for three hours. We’re extreme athletes. We’re rebels. We hate that old-time establishment shit. We’re a different breed, and you can’t buy us.”

“You haven’t heard the price yet.” Fellows Fence gave him a price.

“That’s a hell of a lot,” Fred Magnum admitted, “but it ain’t nearly enough.”

“How much is MacGregor offering? We’ll beat it”

“You already did. But it’s not the money. It’s the image, dude. MacGregor has the faith. All you got’s a bunch of advertising bucks.”