Exclusive Evil - The Invention of Advertising
The balance needs more bonus humor articles. I'll do my part here. If you like it, spread your joy. If you don't, give your misery company.
A harem-bound lord cuts through the war room. There, his retainer broods. The lord tries to tip-toe across the map unnoticed, or at least unbothered. He steps on a wooden castle.
Lord: Fucking...hey. What's up, big guy?
Retainer: The end dawns.
Lord: All sunshine today, huh? It's barely noon and you've drowned the mood. What's wrong now? I order you to explain.
R: Our stars fade.
L: Explain again, without angsty poetry. You scare the dancers.
R: Another fort's fallen. Soon, the rebellion will own the ground we stand on.
L: Right, the rebs. Didn't you have that locked down?
R: ...No.
L: It's okay, I forgive ya. How many guys do they have? You've got lot of red figurines here.
R: Rebel samurai outnumber us threefold.
L: Samurai-samurai, or "warrior monk" dorks?
R: Does it matter beneath their swords?
L: I mean, if a real samurai kills me, fair play. It is what it is. But a warrior monk? That's like getting offed by a dog. Wait, I love dogs. That's like getting offed by a cat.
R: Imagine tigers, and find peace with the end.
L: Nah. We just need more dudes, right?
R: That...yes. Numbers shape warfare, and the warrior monks outnumber the leaves on—
L: Gotcha. Buy more dudes.
R: We cannot afford more. Only landed samurai joined after your spirited words about "povvos."
L: Pssshhh. As if povvos can handle swords.
R: They can. They plan to show us. At length.
L: Real. Though don't we have, you know, quality? Two swords, honor, real armor?
R: Of course. Our men are worth their weight in gold. And charge it. They eat skillfully as well.
L: Leeches, got it. Alright, what if we tap the dancing girl fund?
R: You said to never—
L: Dead guys don’t have harems. Take the playroom budget.
R: Then we can buy the sky. But not the warrior monks.
L: Why the hell not?
R: Their hearts were poisoned against us. By us.
L: Buy their hearts. They can't cost more a month’s dancing.
R: You coined "povvo."
L: And dozens of other insults! I'm a cultural innovator. They're rebelling against art itself.
R: Please innovate an escape, my lord. Our cause is doomed.
L: What's my policy on downers in the plotting room?
R: You do not have one.
L: I'm innovating it. No negativity by the big map.
R: Yes, my lord. I look forward to our deaths. They will be a wonderful, mind expanding experience. If only we could die twice.
L: There we go! But we're not dying. I'm gonna un-poison povvo hearts.
R: Perhaps avoid that term.
L: Yeah, they might not have hearts. But they must have minds to complain. We'll speak to those.
R: Negotiation?
L: Nah.
R: Apology?
L: Death first. Get our ten best artisans.
R: They all—
L: Kidnap the ten best rebel artisans. We're hanging a call to arms.
R: I already put posters in every village.
L: One with charm. Your signs suck. You just say 'do this or we'll kill you.' Totally true, but no sizzle. That's why the dirt farmers got pissed.
R: And the water tax.
L: We need sizzle. Signs aren’t about saying what you want. They’re about making povvos do it.
R: I am begging you to forget that word.
L: We need it. Scroll one: a painted coin. Beneath it: "If you hate povvo, why stay one? Join Lord Gon."
R: A naked insult.
L: "With something they want attached. Dishonor hooks them, and then starvation reels 'em in."
R: I…almost understand.
L: On the next scroll, draw a dancing girl. One with sad eyes, you know the type. Headline: "The Rebel Plan for Your Daughter."
R: A hideous insult.
L: Yeah, it'll really hit. And they'll link it with boring rebels instead of fun lords.
R: I could see this bending tired, starved minds. But think of the moral cost.
L: Sure. Done.
R: Couldn't we highlight our own virtues?
L: If you want to be a virtuous corpse.
R: Somewhat.
L: Real. Well, I order you to do this.
R: It...
L: Or let the rebels butcher you, whatever. I have the dance bunker.
R: It shall be so. At the cost of my soul.
L: You’re hating again.
R: Good job. Innovative. Attractive. Positive enough, lord?
L: For now. Our rebrand's just begun.
R: I’m lost again.
L: Think of the idea of us. Our image after all our fun deeds.
R: The soul?
L: Whatever. Our soul sucks, so I'm changing it. From now on, I'm Lord Gon, Savior of the Imminently Wealthy.
R: Too wordy, my lord.
L: True! You're getting it. Bring me twenty alternatives before nightfall.
R: It shall be so.
The lord’s campaign saves his campaign, launching the Warring Brands Era. After mastering copy, his retainer slays him to start his own agency, before falling in turn to an upstart designer. The bloodletting continues to date.
Hopefully you had fun. Also, I wrote a book. Rumor has it it's good.
