The Top Man in his Field
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Get me the top man. Pronto.
I've had it with these poseurs, these yes men, these so-called experts with the cheap degrees from cut-rate institutions — not to mention the pretty boys from Stanford B-School who wouldn't know a real-life fucking dilemma if it kissed their mother on the bunghole. I've fucking had it with all those guys.
So get me the top god-damned man. Find him, and then get him.
Survey the field. Poll the people in the know and make a list. Then I want winnowing. I expect critical judgment like that British fuck on TV with the black tee-shirts who knows what's what and can smell shit on your shoe from a thousand yards. Kick the pretenders off the island, hand them a rose, whatever they do on those shows to get rid of the chaff and keep the wheat. You get it down to two of three of the best — the acknowledged geniuses, not just the knuckleheads they get on the Today show, but maybe the guys who do Charlie Rose, the big-brains, the ones who hobnob with the top guys in other fields — and then you get even tougher.
I want those few guys subjected to scrutiny under an electron microscope. I want to you climb inside their nostrils and measure nose-hairs. Seriously — bring a fucking tape-measure or a caliper or something else really precise. I want data-mining and accurate recording and micrometers all the fuck up their noses and into their various sinus canals. I want you crawling into the blackheads on their forehead and excavating, taking lunar samples back to the boys in Houston, getting a full chemical analysis. What do they eat for lunch? Find out and eat the same thing. They use pepper? How many shakes? How often do they shit, and are they squeezing the Charmin, if you know what I mean. You become an expert on these experts, capice?
And then, after much sifting of data and careful consideration — even pointlessly detailed and anal mulling done in a tantric haze like that OCD detective on cable, you know the guy, played by that actor from Wings who looks kind of middle-eastern? — you pick the top guy.
Call him up. Don't talk to his assistant, you understand? The top guys have impossible assistants, clipboard carrying pinheads with Gunga Din complexes as big as an old Buick, which is part of what gets them to the top. You lie if you have to — his wife's in a car accident, I don't god-damned care — just get the top guy on the horn and you give him our best offer. You give him personal guarantees and you offer complete service. You make clear: we're a top-dollar organization that understands the value of hiring the best. You flatter, but you do not cajole. Is that clear? The top guy doesn't want or need cajoling. You simply make known: We know you are the top man, period. He asks for extras, you find them, OK? Fruit in his hotel room when he comes to town, of course. Swedish massage — get him two: one blond, one blonder than the first one, both with names like Ikea furniture. He doesn't like them, then you fly to Stockholm and hold auditions. Whatever the guy wants. Treat him like he's the Rolling fucking Stones and get him his all-blue M&M's or whatever. And get him this shit pronto-fast.
What? You think I'm barking at you? Well, woof-fucking-oof! -- then I am. That's how important this is. It is beyond imperative that you snag us this guy.
The top man in his field.
Will Layman has connections.