Your Ad Here
by Nigel G. Mitchell

(c) Copyright June 1996

This document can be freely distributed with the condition that it is not modified or sold in any way. Some characters and elements of this story are the property of Universal and St. Clare Entertainment, used without authorization. The author receives no compensation from the distribution of this work.

"Advertising is the foot on the accelerator, the hand on the throttle, the spur on the flank that keeps our economy surging forward."
-Robert W. Sarnoff

"Advertising promotes that divine discontent which makes people strive to improve their economic status." - Ralph S. Butler

"The product that will not sell without advertising will not sell profitably with advertising." -Albert Lasker

PART ONE

Quinn watched a chicken run across the straw-laden floor of the Dominion Hotel. It darted expertly among the people in the lobby, finally running behind the front desk.

Quinn looked back at the clerk, Gomez Calhoun, who was muttering to himself as he worked a calculator.

"Okay," he said, "that's a four-bed room for six days and five nights, plus room service...that'll be three chickens, fifteen apples, and a new hammer."

"Got it." Quinn turned to Wade, who was holding the handles of a wheelbarrow loaded with goods and produce.

He fished through it, picking out the apples to stack on the front desk. The chickens fluttered in his arms, trying to free their bound legs as he added them to the pile. When he was done, Quinn dug out a bent screwdriver.

He held it up to Calhoun with an apologetic shrug. "This is the best we can do on the hammer."

Calhoun took the screwdriver and examined it cautiously. Then he nodded. "Well...okay. If you'll throw in that coffee mug."

"Done."

Quinn took the "I Love San Fran" mug out of the wheelbarrow and handed it to Calhoun. When he had finished writing up the receipt, Quinn took it and replaced Wade at the handles of the wheelbarrow. They left the hotel with the wheels squealing as he pushed the wheelbarrow ahead him.

They walked out onto the street. Quinn watched the other people wandering the sidewalk, all pushing wheelbarrows ahead of them, filled with junk. He couldn't help grinning. In a world that had never developed the concept of money, wallets were out of the question.

Wade had her hands shoved in her pants pockets as she looked down at the wheelbarrow. "So what'll we do with that stuff?"

Quinn wheeled it over to rest against the wall of the Dominion Hotel and backed away from it. "Just leave it for some lucky guy, I guess."

Arturo and Rembrandt were sitting on a park bench beside the statue of Abraham Lincoln. They stood up when Quinn and Wade approached, crossing the grassy lawn to reach them.

"Well," Arturo said, "besides the relative inconvenience of the barter system here, I would say this has been quite a relaxing visit."

"Yeah," Quinn said. "Let's hope the next one's this calm. How long do we have?"

Arturo pulled the timer out of his coat pocket to read the display. "Seven seconds. You made it just in time, my friends. If you'll do the honors..."

Quinn swept his arm at a nearby railing that stood between them and San Francisco Bay. "Go for it, professor."

Arturo aimed the timer at the railing and pressed a button on the timer's controls. It gave off a beep, then a lance of transparent energy. The beam seemed to warp the railing, causing it to expand into a large, glowing hole in the air. Its sides flowed inwards, towards the brilliant light at the portal's center.

Quinn watched as Rembrandt and Wade dove into the wormhole, then followed. In an instant, he was sailing through the multicolored world of hyperspace.

* * *

Since they had slid out of Golden Gate Park in their last world, Quinn expected to land on the soft grass of another park in their new world. It was one of the reasons they chose the park to slide from, since it often ensured a soft landing.

But he was wrong this time, because Quinn landed hard on a concrete pavement. He skidded for a moment, carried by the momentum of the wormhole, coming to rest on his chest. Quinn groaned as he sat up.

He was on a sidewalk beside a huge intersection where cars and pedestrians mingled among a large collection of shops and restaurants. The sound of conversation, honking cars, and music was incredible, like a wall hitting his ears. It reminded him of Times Square in New York, especially because of an enormous TV screen that overlooked the square. It was showing a commercial for Mountain Dew, its cheerful rock theme echoing throughout the city.

The screen was surrounded by more advertisements in the form of billboards on other buildings. This reinforced his impression of Times Square, although they were unusual ads. One was for Camel cigarettes, showing a cartoon camel cheerfully offering a pack of cigarettes to a group of schoolchildren. The children wore big smiles as they took one each. The slogan beneath it read "Joe Camel Says: All The Cool Kids Smoke Camel Cigarettes."

But then Quinn realized that some of the advertisements weren't on billboards. They were actually painted onto the buildings themselves. A large skyscraper had an enormous Coca- Coca bottle painted onto all its sides.

And there was a blimp in the clouds above, flashing a dotted advertisement for Nikon Cameras. Actually, there were three blimps. They moved slowly over the city, broadcasting their jingle at high volume.

Quinn followed the buildings with his eyes down to the street. He watched a young man wearing a Calvin Klein T-shirt walk by. He was also wearing a Calvin Klein hat and Calvin Klein jeans.

Then Quinn noticed an older woman wearing a dress with "Lifetime Television" printed on it. And another woman wearing a set of ESPN sweats was pushing a baby carriage. The carriage itself had "Gerber Baby Foods" printed on the sides with the baby-logo on the front. Quinn got up to look into the carriage. The baby gurgling inside was wearing Gerber baby clothes with a diaper that bore the legend "Huggies."

Quinn looked around him and realized that everyone was wearing clothes that had some form of product advertised on them. And then he noticed the cars. A blue Geo Prism was driving by. He could tell it was a Geo Prism because it had the words "GEO PRISM" running all over it in bold metallic lettering. Every car on the road broadcast its maker and model in the most blatant terms.

"Good heavens." Arturo was behind Quinn, fresh from the wormhole. He was standing beside Wade and Rembrandt. All of them were looking around themselves with awe. Quinn guessed he probably looked the same way.

"Everything," Wade whispered. "Everything has ads on it."

"Yes," Arturo said. "And if the rest of this city is like this...indeed, if the rest of the world is like this, then I'd say we've slid into a very unusual reality, indeed."

PART TWO

Quinn walked through what was once Golden Gate Park, but was now Golden Gate Square. Colored lights were flashing and playing across every surface in dizzying patterns, projected by the seemingly endless neon signs that were on every store. He couldn't seem to shake the dazed expression he wore. It was a reflection of how he was feeling inside. He had never seen any world like the one he was in now.

Wade's head was constantly in motion as she took in their new surroundings. She locked onto a Ford Truck that drove by, the phrase "Ford Trucks Are Ram Tough" printed on both bumpers.

"Advertising," Wade said. "It's on *everything.* The cars, the clothes, the buildings, the clouds..."

Quinn glanced up at the clouds. Or what he had thought were clouds. It turned out they were sky-writers that were spelling out "Campbell Soups Are Mm-Mm Good" in white smoke.

"Yes," Arturo murmured. "And it seems as if this is not an isolated incident. This entire city appears overrun with advertisements."

Rembrandt stopped under the marquee of a movie theater to laugh and point at the titles listed on the sides. "Check this out, guys."

Quinn and the others gathered under the garish awning to read the block lettering. Quinn read it aloud. "Now Playing: Trailers For 'Eraser,' 'Batman Forever,' 'Ace Ventura Six,' 'Bridges of Madison County'..."

"What?" Wade asked. "No actual movies?"

Quinn looked down at her and shrugged. "I guess they just play trailers here. Maybe they don't play movies in this world at all."

"That would fit in with the motif," Arturo said. "My friends, it seems we are in a world where advertising runs rampant. I should like to investigate this further."

"Well, not me," Wade said. "This place is making me sick."

Quinn rubbed his stomach. "Yeah, I know what you mean. All these lights and the music and the signs all over the place are making me nauseous from sensory overload. I dunno how these people stand it."

Wade glared up at a Budweiser billboard that showed a group of naked women beneath the slogan "Drink Budweiser And You'll Be More Attractive."

She held up her hands. "I can't take this anymore. I gotta get off the street. Let's go to the Dominion and stay there until the slide."

Arturo looked up at a bookstore that had a book above its door in sickly-green neon. "In a moment, Miss Welles. I would be very interested to get a look at some encyclopedias, find out how this world came to be."

Wade shook her head. "I dunno why you're always so interested in finding out the history of the worlds we're on."

"Merely a natural curiosity, my dear. It's often quite fascinating to see how small changes can produce some radical effects."

Wade shrugged. "Okay, I'll meet you guys at the hotel."

Quinn felt his stomach gurgle as he said, "I'll come with you, Wade. I...I think I need to lie down."

Arturo headed through the door of the bookstore.

Rembrandt followed him inside, pointing at Wade and Quinn in a friendly gesture. "See you guys later."

Quinn waved back, then followed Wade as she strode off across the sidewalk to the address where the Dominion Hotel usually was. His stomach rumbled again as he caught sight of a swirling sign with a hypnotic pattern on it. Above it read, "You Are Getting Very Sleepy. You Must See 'Friends' On Thursday Nights On NBC."

He groaned and hoped he would make it to the hotel.

* * *

The lobby of the Dominion was just as bad as the rest of the city. Huge signs advertising beer, Dunkin Donuts, cigarettes, and the International House of Pancakes took the place of wallpaper.

Wade helped Quinn through the door, letting him lean on her. She couldn't understand why this world was hitting him so hard. Maybe it had to do with his orderly mind. It just couldn't cope with the onslaught of confusing images.

Gomez Calhoun, the owner and clerk of the Dominion Hotel, was wearing a Dominion Hotel hat, shirt, pants, and watch. He smiled broadly as Quinn and Wade approached.

"Good afternoon," Calhoun said. "Welcome to the Dominion, your home away from home. How can I help you?"

Wade took over for Quinn, who was so nauseous he could barely talk. "Yeah, one room, please. Four beds."

Calhoun nodded and unhooked a key from the wall behind him. "That'll be ten dollars."

Wade fished out the fifty dollars she had taken out of an ATM from her bank account in this world. The money they had brought with them from the last world was useless here. This world's dollar bills were a neon pink with pictures of popular TV spokesmen and spokeswomen on them instead of presidents. She was glad her card worked in this world, and made a mental note to herself to mail an apology to her double for taking the money.

Wade handed Calhoun a ten-dollar bill with the Energizer bunny on it. Calhoun handed her the key in exchange, then began fishing through a box under his desk.

"How many people are staying in your room?" Calhoun asked without looking up.

"Uh, four."

Calhoun nodded and came out from behind the desk with four green T-shirts. They were printed with the logo of the Dominion Hotel. "Here you go. One size fits all."

Wade looked at the shirts, then forced a weak smile at Calhoun. "Uh, no thanks. We don't really need any new shirts. Come on, Quinn."

She helped Quinn across the lobby and up the stairs to their floor, one step at a time.

* * *

Behind her, Calhoun's smile collapsed. He waited until Wade was out of sight, then threw his T-shirts into the box again. He picked up the handset of the phone on his desk and dialed a number quickly.

After a moment, he spoke. "Hello, police?"

* * *

Wade pushed open the door to their room. It was just as bad as the lobby. The wallpaper was one long advertisement for Sleepytime Mattresses, Kool Icewater, and other products the hotel apparently offered.

"Oh, man," Quinn groaned. "I can't take this anymore."

She let him lean against the wall, then ran over to the window. She drew the curtains, snapping them loudly, to shroud the room in darkness. The wallpaper couldn't be seen.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Better, I guess," Quinn murmured from the shadows. "But I can't wait to get outta this world. I gotta go to the bathroom..."

There were a few thuds in the darkness, then the bathroom light clicked on. Quinn lurched into the room and shut the door behind him.

Wade sighed and turned on the bedside lamp. The room actually wasn't too bad if you didn't mind the ads all over the place. There was a TV in the main room that she flicked on.

There was a man sitting on a treestump in a forest, looking at the screen with a grim expression. "My mother used to take Advil. But there was that product tampering thing a few years back, the one where millions died of arsenic poisoning. My mother was one of them."

The man's lower lip began to tremble as he said, "I trusted Advil. But it killed her. So now...I take Tylenol. Nothing works better on my headaches...and at least I know I won't get murdered."

The scene faded to one of a bottle of Tylenol on a plain background next to the slogan which was read aloud. "Take Tylenol for your tough headaches. Or die."

Wade shook her head and changed the channel. She spoke aloud to Quinn in the other room. "You notice how weird the ads are around here? I mean, how do they let them get away with some of this stuff?"

Quinn groaned in response. Wade flicked through a few more channels, whipping through ads for baby powder, mouthwash, TVs, McDonald's hamburgers, and Guess Jeans. After five minutes, she still hadn't run into any actual programs. She finally put down the remote and dug around in drawers until she found a complimentary TV Guide.

Wade skimmed the listings. She couldn't help calling out to Quinn. "Hey, listen to this. 'The World's Best Commercials,' 'World's Funniest Commercials,' 'America's Funniest Commercials,' 'Amazing Discoveries...' Every show on here is about commercials. There are no actual TV shows on at all. And almost all the cable channels are home shopping channels."

Wade stopped when she came to a channel with Rembrandt on it. Her eyes widened as she watched Rembrandt wearing his classic red suit, singing "Cry Like A Man." But the lyrics had been altered so that he was singing "Drink Like A Man" as he held bottles of Coca-Cola. The commercial ended with Rembrandt downing the Coke with the words "Drink Like A Man" superimposed over him.

"Was that Rembrandt?" Quinn called out.

"Yup," Wade said. "I guess he's the spokesman for Coke in this world. Good to see him getting somewhere."

She changed the channel to an animated cartoon, "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe." She was surprised the show was still on. It had been canceled in the early eighties in her world. Still, it was something to watch, and Wade had enjoyed the show when she was a kid. She settled back to watch.

He-Man was facing off against Skeletor on a high cliff. Skeletor thrust out his bony finger at him.

"So He-Man," Skeletor snarled, "you think you can defeat me with your Action Glowing Sword, only $9.95, available at all fine Kaybee toystores. Well, you have not yet faced my new minion, Vortex, with his Power-Spinning Action, only $5.99, available at all fine Toys'R'Us toystores!"

A man came whirling out of the canyon behind him in blue spandex. The words "Available Now" flashed on the screen next to him.

He-Man threw his head back in a mocking laugh. "You fool, Skeletor! You have not reckoned with my new Mighty Punch with Snapping Action, only $6.99, available at all fine ChildPlay toystores!"

He-Man attacked Vortex with his punching arm as the words "Available Now" flashed on the screen.

Wade sighed. She had known the show was nothing but a commercial for the toy series on her own world, but at least they hadn't been so obvious about it.

Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a sigh. "I... I think I'm okay now. Just needed to rest a little, I guess."

Wade got off the bed. "Well, go ahead and lie down. And I'd avoid the TV if I were you. It's worse than the street, if that's at all possible."

She left Quinn flopping onto one of the beds as she headed into the bathroom. The showers of their last world had left much to be desired.

Wade closed the door behind her and began to run the water in the bath. Then she looked up. The wallpaper- ads continued here, this time pushing Charmin toiletpaper. But the Dominion had gotten into the act as well. A pile of towels was stacked on the sink, printed with the Dominion Hotel logo. A sign rested on them that read "Please take one home with you."

Wade grinned. A hotel where they wanted you to steal the towels. Rembrandt would love this place.

There was a loud bang in the other room. It sounded like a door being kicked down. Wade was reaching for the doorknob to leave the bathroom when she heard a deep voice yell.

"Police!" it roared. "Nobody move!"

PART THREE

Wade froze, huddled in the bathroom as she heard scuffling in the other room. Then she turned the doorknob as quietly as she could. Wade opened the door just enough to look through the crack.

Two policemen had burst into the hotel room. Their blue uniforms were familiar, except for the ads for the Club printed on their backs. They had grabbed Quinn and shoved him up against the wall.

"What's going on here?" Quinn yelled.

"You're under arrest," one of the policemen said.

"What's the charge?"

The second policeman held up a T-shirt printed with the logo of the Dominion Hotel. "The clerk offered you and your companion four of these. Did you or did you not turn them down?"

"Well...yeah. We did. We didn't need any shirts."

The policeman glared at him. "Uh-huh. And I suppose you were unaware that it's a felony to turn down promotional products from someone whose services you employ."

"Listen, we didn't know that, honest..."

"Sure," the second policeman snarled. "Tell it to the judge, pal. Read him his rights, Murray."

The first officer flipped open a notebook and began to read from it. "This arrest has been brought to you by the Club, the finest car-security device in the world. You have the right to remain silent, unless you wish to promote a product. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law and in future advertising. You have the right to an attorney and free samples of any products the police department may be offering..."

The second policemen was wandering around the hotel room, sweeping the place with his cautious gaze. "The clerk said you came in with a woman. Where is she?"

"I...I don't know what you're talking about."

The policeman looked straight at the bathroom. A grin spread across his face. "Oh, yeah? Well, who's running that bathwater?"

Wade looked at the bath. The water was still running.

She slammed the door. She heard the policeman's footsteps coming towards it. Wade bolted across the bathroom to the small window on the other side. The door flew open behind her.

"Hold it right there!" the man yelled.

"Fat chance!" Wade yelled back.

She threw herself through the window, wriggling through the narrow space. She landed in an alley beside the hotel. Looking back, she saw the policeman trying to get through it. Wade took off through the alley and out onto the street, running as fast as she could.

* * *

Rembrandt wandered through the bookstore's magazine aisles, shaking his head. It was ridiculous. He couldn't find one decent magazine in the whole place. They were all nothing but ads. The only articles in these pseudo-magazines just pushed various products.

His favorite magazine, Music Madness, was a joke. The reviews heaped praise on every album they covered. Rembrandt had checked the publisher. It turned out the magazine was produced by a company that was a branch of the recording studio that made all the albums they reviewed.

Arturo approached him, leafing through a paperback book. "How do things fare on your end, Mr. Brown?"

"Lousy," Rembrandt said. "This place ain't got a thing worth readin'."

"Mm. I must agree. Even the so-called literature in this world is merely an excuse to sell products. Their novels are beyond belief. Listen to this selection."

Arturo flipped to a page and began to read it aloud. "'She walked into the lobby of a Holiday Inn, a place that was warm and friendly, the kind of place that she would stay in if she had the chance. Her eyes met those of a man standing across the room. He was wearing Nike' sneakers, which are comfortable and affordable for anyone who's on the go.

"'"Just do it," he whispered.' Can you believe this nonsense? I won't even mention what they've done to the great works of William Shakespeare."

Rembrandt replaced his magazine on the rack. "Find out anything about this world?"

"Yes." Arturo tossed the novel onto a nearby bench. "I managed to find an unbiased work on the rise of the advertising industry in this world. It seems that in the early eighties, various ad agencies fused into 'mega-agencies.' That happened on our world as well. But in this world, the agencies of America fused again into 'ultra-agencies.'

"These ultra-agencies wielded huge resources and talent which they used to begin massive campaigns the likes of which our world has never seen. They began racing to put advertisements everywhere they could. And the more outrageous the campaign, the more outrageous the next one had to be to top it. They began funding political figures who pushed to remove government regulations on advertising. They succeeded."

Arturo looked up at a poster of Stephen King grinning as he held up a copy of his latest book. "The end result is what we see here, a nation literally ruled by advertising. Clothing is manufactured by companies for the sole purpose of placing ads on them. Television networks began putting more and more commercials on until they stopped airing anything else. Movie companies discovered that sometimes trailers are more popular than the movies themselves. Hence, the theater we saw before. Even government programs like the police and mass-transit systems are funded entirely by advertising. Nothing in this country is not affected in some way by it. Ad agencies here wield power once reserved for world governments."

Arturo wrinkled his nose at another beer poster with nude women on them. "And with the government regulations on false or inappropriate advertising gone, the agencies are free to pursue any reprehensible campaign they choose."

"Man," Rembrandt said. "That's freaky."

"Indeed. I, for one, shall be more than happy to leave this world."

Wade burst out of one of the aisles behind them, looking around, wildly. She finally spotted the others and ran up to them. "Oh, man, I've been looking all over for you guys."

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Rembrandt asked.

"We've got trouble. With a capital T."

* * *

Quinn was amazed at how quickly he was processed through the legal system. Before he knew what hit him, he found himself standing in a courtroom before a round-faced Asian judge.

"Next case," the bailiff said, "Dominion Hotel vs. Quinn Mallory. This case is being brought to you by Washington and Lambert, the largest ad agency in the Southwest."

"Mr. Mallory," the judge said, "you've been charged with refusal to accept promotional goods. How do you plead?"

Quinn glanced back at his lawyer, who shrugged. He had outlined a plan of action to Quinn that hadn't been encouraging. Quinn's only hope seemed to be if Wade and the others could find a way out of this.

"Uh...guilty," Quinn said, repeating what his lawyer had coached him on. "With an explanation. I was unaware of the law in this part of the country."

"Ignorance of the law is no excuse," the judge said. "However, I've spoken with our sponsors, the good people at the Washington and Lambert Agency, and based on your appearance, they've agreed to intervene in your case."

Quinn grinned and looked back at his lawyer, who gave him a thumbs-up. "Oh. Really? Uh...great."

"Yes," the judge said. "For this reason, I hereby sentence you to four years serving Washington and Lambert as a model prisoner. Your first photo shoot is in one hour."

The judge slammed down his gavel on his desk. Quinn looked around him as two guards came forward to take his arms. They began to lead him out of the courtroom.

"What?" he yelled. "Hey, what's going on? What's a model prisoner?"

"Relax," the lawyer yelled as Quinn went by. "It'll be great. The first year'll go by like that!"

Quinn felt a growing sense of horror as he was hauled out of the courtroom. He wasn't sure what had just happened to him, but something told him he was in serious trouble.

PART FOUR

Rembrandt sat on a bench in the bookstore between Wade and Arturo. He pressed a finger into his opposite palm as he spoke. "Okay, so lemme get this straight. Just because you and Quinn didn't take some cheesy T-shirt they offered you at the Dominion, the cops arrested Quinn and tried to nab you?"

"Exactly," Wade said, swinging her feet under her bench. "They said it was illegal to not accept promotional products from a place when you use their services."

"Mm," Arturo murmured, "another odious law put into place by the vile advertising agencies of this nation. They have the government in their pockets."

"Well, that's great," Rembrandt said. "Any other laws we should know about, professor?"

Arturo sighed. "Well, we might want to note that it's illegal to wear clothing that is not manufactured by an approved company of the government. And since all 'approved' manufacturing companies put advertisements on their goods, that means it's illegal to wear clothing that does not have an advertisement on them."

Rembrandt pulled his black leather jacket tighter around himself. "Which means we're breakin' the law right now."

"Exactly. Fortunately, Mr. Brown, you and I have been in here so we have avoided the attention of the local police. However, I think it would be wise if we purchased some clothes that fit the current standard. I believe this bookstore sells T-shirts and hats with its name on them. That would probably suffice."

Wade handed him a twenty. "Here. Get some for all of us."

Arturo nodded and headed over to the counter where the clothes were displayed behind a cash register. After a few minutes, he returned with three shirts and three hats.

Wade pulled on the hat as she asked, "So now what?"

"Well," Arturo said as he arranged his shirt. "It's a fortunate thing that I have the timer, not Quinn. By its reading, we have until tomorrow evening before the next slide."

"We gotta get Quinn," Rembrandt said. "Maybe they'll let us post bail or somethin'."

"Agreed, Mr. Brown. Perhaps our next stop should be the local police station."

Wade nodded and followed him as he headed for the front door.

They pushed through it back onto the street. The relative calm was once again shattered by the frenzied music of thousands of jingles being played in Golden Gate Square. The flashing lights of neon and the masses of slogans written on cars, clothing, and even buildings combined into an onslaught of images. Wade felt a headache roll through her skull at the sensory overload.

Rembrant apparently felt it too as he winced and covered his ears. "Man, how do these people stand it?"

Arturo thrust his hands into his pockets. "It probably happened so gradually that they never even noticed. The same way the children of our world are now used to seeing astonishingly rapid images in their entertainment."

Wade looked up at the massive TV screen that overlooked Golden Gate Square. It was no longer showing its usual commercials. Now it was showing a woman behind a desk.

"Good afternoon," the woman said, her voice echoing across the square. "And welcome back to Ad News Brief, bringing you the latest news in advertising. This just in, Washington and Lambert have announced that they've gotten their hands on a brand-new model. Quinn Mallory..."

"What?" Wade yelled, drawing the attention of Arturo and Rembrandt.

A photo appeared on the wall beside the reporter of Quinn. She continued, "...arrested for malicious product refusal, has been signed on as a model prisoner for W and L. He was transferred from the courthouse to W and L headquarters just fifteen minutes ago. A spokeswoman for the agency announced that he will first appear on a new billboard for Gunslinger Jeans that will appear around the country by tomorrow morning. I know I'm looking forward to it."

"A model?" Wade asked. "How'd Quinn go from a prisoner to a male model?"

Arturo rubbed his beard. "Actually, Miss Welles, that goes back to my research. It seems in this world, the legal system is funded by ad agencies. Besides hawking various products in the courtrooms, agencies also get to select prisoners to appear as models in their ads. Hence the term 'model prisoners.'"

"Well, that's just great. Now what'll we do?"

The reporter on the screen was continuing her report. "In a related story, Washington and Lambert failed once again to lure away Rembrandt Brown, also known as the Crying Man, from the agency of Ogilvy and Masters. Brown turned down a twenty million dollar contract to remain with his old agency, which catapulted him to stardom as the spokesperson for Coca-Cola."

The reporter held up a can of Coke. "Yes, Coca- Cola. Drink like a man. Or woman, in my case." She took a deep drink straight from the open can.

Rembrandt grinned. "Hey, guys, I got an idea."

* * *

Quinn was led down a long, stone-lined corridor in chains. He reached the end, where a large steel door waited. The guards holding him paused to unlock the door, then shoved it open.

The dingy chamber on the other side was filled with beautiful men and women. They all wore drab grey uniforms as they hung out in cells or worked out on exercise equipment. A few of them looked up at Quinn as he approached, but most ignored him. The guards unlocked the chains on Quinn's arms and legs, then shoved him into the dungeon.

"Welcome home, boy," one of the guards growled, then slammed and locked the door behind him.

Quinn rubbed his sore wrists, glancing around the dungeon. He was frozen with shock for a moment as he realized that some of the other prisoners look familiar. In fact, they looked like models from his own world.

Then a large, muscular man stood up, brushing back his long, blonde hair. He held out a hand to Quinn.

"Hi," the man said in a thick Italian accent. "I'm Fabio."

Quinn shook the hand. "Uh, hi. Quinn Mallory."

"What'd they get you for?" Fabio asked.

"Uh, I turned down a T-shirt at a hotel."

Fabio winced. "Ouch. That's a felony for sure. I just refused to do a photo shoot for a romance novel. They framed me for robbing a bank, then put me in here."

Quinn noticed someone who looked exactly like Cindy Crawford in one of the cells, playing "Oh, Suzanna" on a harmonica. "What's this all about, anyway?"

Fabio frowned. "You've never heard of the model prisoner program?"

"Uh, I'm new here."

Fabio leaned against a wall. "Well, with all the ads out there, competition for models is cutthroat. And they can't afford to pay that much because they spend all their money on ad campaigns. So they have to use prisoners for their models. They don't have to pay us, and no one else can sign us on."

"Great," Quinn sighed. "So what happens now?"

Fabio shrugged. "Now you wait until your next photo session. But cheer up. It is not so bad in here."

Claudia Schiffer, Christy Turlington, and Naomi Campbell approached Quinn with broad smiles.

"Hi," Naomi said. "What's your name?"

Quinn grinned. He was starting to see Fabio's point.

PART FIVE

Wade, Rembrandt, and Arturo had looked up this world's Rembrandt in the Yellow Pages, then taken a cab to his house. It was a long ride, mainly because the inside of the taxi was papered with advertisements. There was even a TV screen mounted on the back of the front seat. It broadcasted ads for cigarettes during the entire trip. By the time it pulled up in front of Rembrandt2's house, Wade's teeth were clenched in irritation.

As they got out, Pavel the driver began to speak in Russian. Arturo nodded with a forced smile and responded in kind. When he slammed the door and the cab had driven away, Wade sidled up to him.

"What was that all about?" Wade asked.

Arturo adjusted his tie. "I was merely informing him that we did not wish to buy a copy of Karl Marx's communist manifesto."

Rembrandt grinned. "Guess even the communists are in the ad biz in this world."

Wade looked up at Rembrandt2's house. It was painted with advertisements, just like every building in this world. This time, they were ads for Coca-Cola. A mural on the front wall showed Rembrandt holding up a can of Coke with a big smile. The slogan "Drink Like A Man" was painted onto the front door.

Rembrandt whistled as they headed up the front walk. "Boy, this is some place. Wonder what I pull down in this world."

"I'm more concerned with your plan, Mr. Brown," Arturo said. "Do you really think your double will be able to assist us?"

"Makes sense, professor," Rembrandt said. "Quinn's bein' held by that Washington and Lambert agency. And those guys want my double to work for 'em. We can use him to get us in to save Quinn. I think."

By now, Rembrandt had climbed the front steps. He pressed the doorbell, causing it to buzz throughout the house with the music from "Cry Like A Man." After a moment, the door opened.

A man who looked exactly like Rembrandt looked out at them. He even wore the same red suit that Rembrandt wore on stage. His eyes were wide as he stared at Rembrandt. After a moment had passed, he spoke.

"Who are you fellas?" Rembrandt2 asked. "And what's with the mask o' me on that guy?"

Rembrandt looked back at the others, then forced a smile. "Uh, actually, this is kinda complicated. See, I'm, uh...I'm you." He spread his arms at his last statement.

Rembrandt2's stare was a blank slate.

Rembrandt sighed. "Okay, look, this is real complicated, and we ain't got time to go into it. The straight skinny is, we got a friend in trouble and we need your help."

Rembrandt2 winced and glanced up and down the street. "Well...okay. But make this quick 'cause I got a recordin' session in an hour."

"Great."

Rembrandt stepped into the house and froze in the doorway. Wade came in behind him, and could see why he had reacted that way.

The inside of the house was like a shrine to Coca- Cola. There were photos of Coca-Cola bottles decorating the walls. The wallpaper carried the Coca-Cola logo. The chairs were shaped like bottles. The curtains had little pictures of bottles on them. Even the carpet had "Coca-Cola" written on it, over and over again.

Wade stepped further into the house, feeling as if she was stepping into a giant Coca-Cola factory. "Man, who's your decorator?"

Rembrandt2 shut the front door behind Arturo. "Hey, don't knock it. I get all this stuff free from the company. Even the house."

"I can see why," Wade said. "No one else would want it."

Rembrandt2 scowled. "Look, you guys got a point to make?"

Rembrandt turned to him. "Yeah. Okay. Look, here's the deal. We're from another planet. You don't have to believe that..."

"Good," Rembrandt2 said, "'cause I don't."

"...but," Rembrandt continued, "you do have to believe this. You know that new model at the Washington and Lambert ad agency? Quinn Mallory? Well, he's our friend, and he's bein' held prisoner at W and L. Now, we wanna go in and save him. All you gotta do is go to those guys and tell 'em you'll sign on with W and L. You take us with you, get us in, and we'll handle the rest."

Rembrandt2 nodded, slowly, then said, "No."

"Why not?"

Rembrandt2 went over to a mirror and began buttoning his cuffs. "You're askin' me to betray my agency and benefactor."

"Just for a little while," Arturo said.

"Bad enough." Rembrandt2 looked at him over his shoulder. "I used to be nothin'. Just a washed-up singer from the Spinnin' Topps, long past my glory days. My biggest gig was singin' the National Anthem at a Giants game. But Ogilvy and Masters took me on. They signed me up with Coke. They saved my career. And I ain't givin' that up for nobody."

Rembrandt2 brushed down his coat with his hands. "So beat it."

Wade's heart sank.

A Coca-Cola bottle crashed down on Rembrandt2's head.

Rembrandt2 slumped onto the floor, unconscious, soda running down his face. Rembrandt dropped the broken mouth of the bottle in his hand with a sigh.

"I was afraid this would happen," Rembrandt said. "We'll have to go to plan B."

"What's plan B?" Wade asked.

Rembrandt spread his arms. "We got the Cryin' Man right here, sweetheart. Maybe we can bluff our way in."

"But you don't know anything about this world," Arturo said. "Suppose you don't play the part correctly."

Rembrandt began unbuttoning the coat of his double. "Well, professor, how do you feel about a career in modelin'?"

* * *

Quinn lay back on a couch in one of the cells. He was still in a state of shock. Looking back at him were Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, Christy Turlington, and Kate Moss. In fact, almost every model he knew in his own world was in the prison with him. It was the only good side Quinn could see in being in his situation.

"So let me get this straight," Crawford was saying. "The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle states that it is impossible to predict the exact location of any subatomic particle at any given moment."

"Exactly," Quinn said.

Naomi raised a finger. "But what about Carrey's theorem of quantum calculations? If subatomic particles can be said to be nowhere at any given point, then couldn't it be said that these particles are everywhere at any given point?"

"I think you're right," Turlington said. "Wolf posed the idea that electrons exist in a sort of quantum field surrounding the nucleus of every atom. In this sense, it could be said that they exist in another reality, and our observation of these particles causes the field to collapse into one which we can observe."

Kate Moss nodded, biting her lip. "Mm. That could be extended to the macroscopic level as well. Suppose all matter in the universe exists as a quantum wave which collapses on observation. By that token, it can be said that nothing is certain. All reality exists only when observed."

"Wow," Quinn said. "You ladies sure know your quantum theory."

Crawford smiled. "The agency took us right before we were able to complete our studies. Once we serve our sentences, we plan to open up a lab together. We'd love for you to join us."

"Uh, actually, I don't plan to be around that long..."

The main door of the prison swung open. Three guards entered, glaring at the models scattered around the dungeon.

"Quinn Mallory," one of the guards said. "Front and center."

Quinn got up and approached the men. "I'm Mallory."

"Time for your photo shoot."

Quinn felt a scowl settle on his face as anger swelled within him. He resented being used like this against his will. "Well, what if I don't wanna go to the photo shoot?"

The guards unsnapped the straps on their holsters in one movement.

The main guard grinned. "Then we'll introduce you to another kind of shoot. Now either come with us quietly or you'll be the poster child for the local morgue."

"Okay, okay," Quinn murmured and raised his hands.

He allowed the guards to handcuff him and lead him out of the cell. As he walked down the great stone corridor to the elevator, the steel door closed behind him with a deep thud. He wondered if that sound was going to be one he would be hearing for the next four years.

PART SIX

Quinn was led to a room where he was given a shirt and a pair of jeans to wear for the photo shoot. He changed while a guard held a gun to his head, then allowed himself to be taken to a studio.

A large man with thick, white hair was fiddling with cameras positioned around the room. He looked up, squinting at Quinn as he entered.

"Oh, great," he said. "Excellent. Hm. Wide shoulders, tall, interesting build. That scar on the upper lip is a problem, but nothing we can't handle with makeup. Stephanie!"

A women hurried up to Quinn and began to powder his face. She paid special attention to scars Quinn had on his upper lip, pounding a thick flesh-colored dust over it.

The photographer folded his arms. "Now, we're going to be doing an ad for Gunslinger Jeans. So we've set up a western theme over here."

Quinn looked past him to a set with a western-styled background. A fake campfire glowed in front of a fake wooden fence in front of a fake sunset. It looked pretty good, considering.

"So what I'd like you to do," the photographer said, "is stand right there with your foot on that stump, leaning forward, giving the camera a look that says 'I'm tough, I'm bad, I'm cruel, I wear Gunslinger Jeans.' The slogan is going to be 'Gunslinger Jeans Make You A Man,' and that's what you'll be saying."

Quinn winced as the makeup woman buffed his cheeks. "Uh-huh. And I suppose if I say no, you're gonna kill me."

"Oh, of course not," the photographer said. "You're far too valuable for that. We'll just shoot one of your kneecaps off, let you recover for a few weeks, then bring you back in here. If you turn us down again, we'll shoot your other kneecap off. We can keep going like that until you settle down."

"That won't be necessary," Quinn said. He strode over to the set and tried to assume the position the photographer had given him.

The white-haired man frowned. "No, your left elbow goes up higher. Higher. Perfect."

He went behind his camera and began to snap pictures. Quinn tried to maintain the cruel look on his face while sighing inwardly. He could see a few years of this kind of thing wearing thin.

"Come on, guys," Quinn whispered under his breath. "Get me outta here."

* * *

The San Francisco headquarters of the Washington and Lambert ad agency was the largest building Wade had ever seen. It stretched across ten blocks and was so tall that its roof was buried in the clouds. The architecture made it look like a castle with gargoyles built into the ledges running around it. But what struck Wade the most was that it was the only building she seen in this San Francisco that didn't have advertisements painted all over it.

She walked through the front door with Arturo and Rembrandt by her side. There seemed to be a field of tension that passed between the three of them like electricity. They had no idea what the consequences would be if they got caught at this. But they had no choice if they wanted to rescue Quinn.

The lobby of the building was like the Sistine Chapel. Wade passed walls decorated with panels of gold that were beaten into murals depicted various advertising campaigns. They approached a front desk the size of a car, behind which a woman sat, smiling broadly.

"Good afternoon," the receptionist said. "How may I help you?"

Then she noticed Rembrandt. Her eyes widened.

Rembrandt put on his best smile, straightening the lapels of his red suit. "Uh, yeah, I'm Rembrandt Brown, and, uh...I've decided to join up with you guys, after all."

The activity that followed was like a whirlwind. Guards came out of nowhere to surround Wade, Rembrandt, and Arturo. Wade found herself being ushered into an elevator that whisked them upwards at crushing speed. Then she was out again, being moved down a long hallway.

She passed through doors into a vast boardroom. Along the sides of a huge table, men and women in suits glared at her and the others. At the far end, a large man sat in front of a huge window overlooking the city. His teeth were chomped on a huge cigar that puffed smoke around its edges.

Then the man broke into a smile. "Rembrandt Brown. The Crying Man himself. We can't tell you how much of an honor this is for us, Mr. Brown."

Rembrandt glanced around the table. "Uh, yeah, me, too."

The man stood and held out a hand. "I'm Lawrence Washington, co-founder and chairman of the Washington and Lambert agency. Nice to finally meet you face-to-face."

Rembrandt strode across the boardroom to shake the hand. Wade and Arturo followed close behind him, trying to look official.

Rembrandt pumped the hand with vigor. "The feelin's mutual, man. Heard a lotta good things about this place."

"Sorry about all the security, but you know how it is. The other guys can't wait to get a look at what we've got up our sleeves." Washington gestured towards an empty seat to the left of his chair. "Please, sit. I must say I'm surprised to see you. After the response we got from your agent, I never thought we'd see you again. Where is Mr. Feld, by the way?"

Rembrandt sank into an enormous leather chair. "Uh, he and I had a little partin' o' the ways. I decided you guys would be good for my career, he disagreed...so here I am."

Washington looked up at Wade and Arturo. "And these are your new agents?"

"Uh, yeah. This is Wade Welles and Maximillian Arturo."

Arturo propped up a beaming smile. "Charmed."

Washington's eyes narrowed as he glared at Arturo through a cloud of smoke. "Welles and Arturo...those names aren't familiar to me."

"Well, we're with a foreign agency. In the UK. Just starting out, really."

Washington raised a brow. "And you got Brown to sign on with you? Boy, you guys must be good."

"We're the best," Wade said.

"Well, you brought the Crying Man to us. So you must be doin' something right."

He burst into gales of thick laughter. Everyone at the table immediately joined in, slapping hands on their chairs and leaning back, gasping for air amidst guffaws. Wade thought it was the fakest display she'd ever seen, but laughed just to avoid looking out of place. Arturo and Rembrandt did the same, giving each other nervous looks.

Washington swept a hand towards two people sitting on his right. "Jacobs, Rochester, move it. Let these good people take a load off."

"Yes, sir," one of them said. The two immediately vacated their seats so that Wade and Arturo could sit.

The chairs were so soft that Wade felt like she was sinking into a bowl of pudding. The leather creaked as it settled, almost wrapping her inside the cushions. These chairs were obviously incredibly expensive.

As the two executives found new seats, Washington turned to someone at the far end of the table. "Well, Mr. Brown and associates, you've chosen the right time to visit our little firm. We were just about to discuss our new marketing strategies, and this is a perfect opportunity to see Washington and Lambert in action so you can get an idea of what we have to offer. Myers..."

One of the executives stood. "Good morning, Mr. Washington. Well, as you know, my team has been working on finding new areas on which to advertise. We took a look around and there weren't many places left untapped. But we found one."

The executive clicked a remote in his hand. A screen descended from the wall and lit up with an image.

"Skin," Myers said. He gestured towards an artist's rendering of a smiling man. "We've managed to get people to wear our ads on their clothes. But we realized that people are walking around with huge portions of their bodies exposed, portions that could be put to good use..."

Myers clicked his remote again. The man's image was replaced. Now his face, neck, and arms were covered with slogans and promotional images.

"With tattoos," Myers said. "We propose that we start it as a new fad. Plant some people in the hot clubs, scatter them around the country. Pay off some of our fashion contacts to work tattoos of our ads into their fall designs. If we position it right, we could get everybody in America to start tattooing themselves with ads for our products. We would, in effect, make human beings into living billboards. And the best part is that they wouldn't be able to take them off. The ads would be on display, 24 hours a day, for the rest of their lives. Any questions?"

One executive raised her hand. "What's to stop people from tattooing themselves with one of our competitor's ads?"

"That's the tricky part," Myers said. "We'll have to come up with designs so cool that no one will want to wear anything else. And we'll pay off every tattoo artist in the country to get them to refuse to do anything else, just to be on the safe side."

"Brilliant," Washington said. "Simply brilliant. I want our best people on this project. Good job."

Myers beamed as he sat down amidst thunderous applause. Wade tried to clap while holding down the sick feeling she was getting in her stomach at the idea. It was the most monstrous concept she had ever heard.

Washington grinned at Rembrandt. "Now you see why we're on top, Mr. Brown. We're constantly trying to stay one step ahead of the competition. Now, we have a surprise for you. We were hoping you'd come over to our side, so we developed an ad strategy just for you. Bring it in!"

The doors of the boardroom swung open. A platoon of guards marched into the room, surrounding a man who carried a thin silver envelope the length of his arm. The man beamed as his guards began setting up an easel. "Mr. Brown, have we got a campaign for you."

PART SEVEN

The man tore open the contents of the envelope under the watchful eyes of the guards. He pulled a set of large cardboard sheets from inside and set them up on the easel next to him. When everything was in place, the man grinned at Rembrandt.

"Mr. Brown," he said, "what you are about to see is top secret. No one knows about it, not even our competitors. But it's going to lead to the single greatest advertising campaign in history."

The man pulled away the first card to show the logo for Coca-Cola. "Our biggest client, the Coca-Cola Company, has made arrangements with the city of San Francisco to launch their boldest plan ever. In a few days, news will be leaked to the press that a terrorist group has poisoned San Francisco's reservoir. All water to the city will be cut off until further notice. At the same time, Coca-Cola will graciously offer to replace the water supply...with New Coke."

The man whipped away the card to reveal another. It was an artist's rendering of a housewife cheerfully filling a glass with Coca-Cola from her kitchen sink's faucet.

"Every home in San Francisco," the man said, "will have hot and cold running Coke. And they'll pay for it just like they pay for water. The entire city will be drinking it, and Coca-Cola will dominate the market like never before. After a year, the mayor will announce that, due to popular demand, Coca-Cola will permanently replace San Fran's water supply. If it works here, we can spread it nationwide. It'll be the biggest thing ever."

"That's preposterous!" Arturo yelled.

Everyone turned to stare at him as he glared up at the man, his eyes gleaming with fury. Wade tried to hold his hand, squeezing it to silence him, but it did no good.

"You can't be serious!" Arturo yelled. "You expect people to drink, wash their dishes, brush their teeth, even *bathe* in a soft drink? The public will never stand for it!"

The man smiled as he pointed at Arturo. "Thanks for that little segue, my friend. That's where the Crying Man comes in."

The man pulled away the second card to expose a third. This one was another drawing of someone at the sink. This time, it was Rembrandt Brown. He was happily washing dishes in fizzy brown soda.

"Mr. Brown," the man said, "will be the center of the largest ad campaign in history. Its goal will be to convince the public that the end of the San Francisco water supply is the best thing that's ever happened to them. Mr. Brown will play a regular joe rejoicing in the freedom to get all the New Coke he wants, whenever he wants, without leaving his home. The slogan will be 'Coca-Cola. It's not just for drinking anymore.'"

"Fantastic, eh?" Washington asked Rembrandt. "And we're willing to pay you three billion dollars to do it. That's what you get for signing on with us."

Rembrandt exchanged a pained look with Wade. She shared his horror at the idea, but he was forcing it not to show on his face. They couldn't afford to blow it now, not while they were so close.

He gave Washington a weak smile. "Uh...sounds... great."

Washington clapped his hands. "Excellent. We'll get started right now. We've prepared a studio where we can start shooting the print ads within the hour. Then it'll be off to the film studio for the first round of commercials. You're gonna be big, my friend. You'll be right up there with the Dunkin Donuts Guy, the Energizer Bunny, even Mr. Clean. Let's go. I'll give you the grand tour on the way."

Everyone rose from the table. Washington put his arm around Rembrandt and walked with him to the door. Wade and Arturo followed him closely, trying to look official.

As Arturo passed the easel, he plucked the graphic cards off it. "Uh, I'd like to take a look at these, if you don't mind."

The presenter turned pale. "Uh, I'm afraid those are top secret, Mr. Arturo. They cannot be allowed to leave this boardroom."

Arturo smiled. "Oh, come now. What do you expect me to do? Steal them?"

He burst into cheerful, bellowing laughs. Washington grinned and chuckled with him. That set the whole room into howls of laughter. When Arturo had calmed down, he gave the presenter a gracious bow, then strode out of the room. He began looking over the cards as he walked.

Wade sidled up to him to whisper, "What are you doing?"

"Relax, Miss Welles," Arturo murmured. "I have a plan. Just follow me lead."

He reached into his jacket pocket and allowed her to see his lighter. Wade grinned. She thought she knew what he had in mind.

* * *

The tour of the Washington and Lambert facility was as fascinating as it was horrifying. The ad agency was more like a secret agency or the capitol of a fascist government than a company.

Washington walked Rembrandt and the others through the building with the pride of a father showing off his children. Wade was watching Arturo, still reading the cards, as Washington pointed into a room they passed.

Wade saw the room's walls were covered with TV monitors. People in white lab coats were seated in rows in front of graphs, charts, and computers that they typed on furiously. Wade noticed that the views in all the monitors were of people's living rooms and bedrooms. A family sat on a couch, staring at the camera while laughter echoed in the background.

"Here's where we monitor people watching TV around the country using hidden cameras," Washington said. "These people are unaware of it, but their viewing habits are checked twenty-four hours a day. And their every movement is plotted so that we can figure out how to improve our commercials."

They moved on to a room where the monitors showed children playing in rooms while adults looked on. To Wade's horror, the children weren't just playing with toys. They also drank beer and some were smoking cigarettes.

"Here," Washington explained, "we've got our cameras in day-care centers around the nation. The centers are actually fronts for the agency. We use the centers as focus groups for testing ads pushing toys, cigarettes, and alcoholic beverages to minors."

They walked to another room where the monitors showed C-SPAN and the interior of government offices. People in grey suits watched them as they typed on computers.

"Here's where we coordinate our control over the government," Washington continued. "It's where we calculate bribes for various politicians. Also, upcoming Senate bills are checked to see if they interfere with our industry. If so, the bill is stopped before it reaches the senate floor. We also monitor speeches. Anyone who speaks against the ad industry is targeted for a smear campaign that gets him booted out of office. And the president of the United States is, of course, paid well to appear in public and on-camera using various products we endorse."

Washington walked Rembrandt and the others to another room. "And here is our subliminal message department. It's where our crack team of scientists works to perfect our use of mind-control. Last I checked, they were reporting a fifty-three percent increase in sales from ads with these messages over those without."

"Nice," Rembrandt murmured.

Washington brought them to a glass wall printed with the words "Photographic Studios. Authorized personnel only." Washington pressed a hand over a metal plate by the glass door. It beeped, then slid open the door with a click.

"And here's where you'll be staying for a few days," Washington said.

Washington led Rembrandt through the open door into a long corridor. Wade and Arturo followed, accompanied by a large squad of armed guards. The scent of chemicals thickened in the air. As they walked, they could hear voices coming from rooms adjoining the hallway. It was the sound of photographers giving instructions to various models.

Wade peeked into a few open doors they passed. As she suspected, they were photographic studios where glamorous men and women posed. They looked like ones she had seen on TV, except the models were chained to the floor.

Then they passed one where a familiar voice emerged.

"I'm doin' the best I can," a man said.

"Well, that's not good enough," another man yelled. "I said to raise your chin and hold it there! Now, that's not too difficult, is it?"

"And I told you, I can't hold it that way much longer. My neck is killing me."

"I'll show you killing if you don't cooperate..."

Wade looked into the studio where the voices were coming from. There was Quinn. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, positioned awkwardly on a western ranch set. A thin, white-haired man was gesturing furiously at him from behind a camera. Armed guards stood along the walls.

"Now just freeze," the man yelled. "Just like that! Thank you. Honestly, I'd never have taken this job if I didn't need the money..."

He took a place behind a camera and began snapping pictures.

Wade cleared her throat loudly. Arturo looked at her, then into the studio. He grinned.

"Excellent eyes, Miss Welles," he said.

Arturo pulled his lighter out of his pocket. He lit it with a flick of his thumb. He held the illustrated cards a few inches over the flame.

"All right," he bellowed, "nobody move!"

Washington stopped to look at him. His eyes widened with fear.

"Good lord, man," he said. "What are you doing? That campaign is worth billions."

"Exactly," Arturo snarled. "So if you know what's good for you, you will release Mr. Brown and back away slowly."

PART EIGHT

Washington looked at Rembrandt. A trickle of sweat began to run down his cheek. "Brown? What's the meaning of this?"

Rembrandt shrugged as he backed away from him. "What can I say, Larry? I got business to attend to."

Wade ran into the studio. The armed men immediately took aim at her. Arturo backed into the room with her, his lighter's flame singeing the edges of the cards.

"Call them off," Arturo said. "If any one of us is harmed or obstructed in any way, this campaign becomes a torch."

"Don't shoot, men," Washington yelled. "Let them go!"

Wade ran up to Quinn and threw her arms around him. "You okay?"

Quinn winced. "Yeah. Just a little sore. I feel like I've been holding this position for hours. What's goin' on? How'd you guys get in here?"

"Long story. We'll fill you in later. We gotta get out of here."

She ran for the door. The photographer moved to block her.

"I don't know what's going on here," the white-haired man said. "But I still have three more rolls to shoot."

"Not today," Arturo said. "Now back off or this campaign gets it."

Washington grabbed the photographer and pulled him out of the way. "For goodness sakes, man, let them pass! That's the Coca-Cola campaign he's holding!"

Wade, Rembrandt, and Quinn ran out of the studio. Arturo backed out of the room after them.

The four of them headed down the corridor to the stairs. They made their way down to the ground floor. During their entire trip, armed guards followed them down the steps. Washington was among them, sweat soaking his collar as he watched them go.

They ran out of the stairway into the lobby of the building. More guards had filled the cavernous chamber, watching Wade and the others with vicious glares. Arturo led the way to the front door, still holding the cards to the fire. He wore a big smile as he sidled up to the exit.

Washington thrust out a hand. "No! Don't you dare take those cards out of this building! If it gets out, our competitors will get a hold of it! We'll lose billions!"

Arturo waited beside the door as Wade, Quinn, and Rembrandt bolted outside. Then he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's been a delightful experience visiting your little branch of the Gestapo. But I'm afraid it's time for us to leave. Goodbye. And good riddance."

He ran through the door. Wade ran to the taxi idling at the curb. She threw herself into the backseat. Quinn jumped in after her, followed by Rembrandt.

Arturo ran across the sidewalk to the cab. As he did, he hurled the illustrated cards into the air after him. Washington lunged out of the W and L building to see the cards sail to the pavement.

"No!" he screamed.

Arturo jumped into the passenger seat of the cab. Then he turned to Pavel, who was behind the wheel, and said, "Step on it, my good man."

"Da," Pavel said, then hit the gas.

As the cab drove away, Wade looked through the rear window at the scene they had left behind. It was as if hundreds of photographers had appeared out of nowhere. They were all clustered around where the cards had fallen, snapping pictures. Washington and his guards were frantically trying to stop them. Just before they turned the corner, Wade could see parts of the mob breaking into violence. Cars honked wildly as the fight spilled into the road.

"Wow," Wade said. "I guess he was right. The competition here is pretty intense."

* * *

It almost a full day before their next slide was scheduled to appear, and they spent it hiding out at a Motel 12. A few minutes after night fell, Quinn was in the bathroom rubbing his face with a damp towel.

Wade appeared at the door behind him, leaning against the wall with a smirk. "Are you still trying to wipe off that makeup?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "They really packed it on. The stuff is like glue."

Wade turned away, giving him a sly glance. "Now you know how we feel."

"Ha, ha," Quinn murmured.

He gave his upper lip a few more scrubs, then gave up. It would probably be a few more days before he got it all off. He washed his face once more, dried it, and walked out.

Fast-food boxes were still piled on their table. Rembrandt was there, eating, while Arturo poured himself a glass of whiskey. As Arturo brought the glass to his lips, Rembrandt dropped his hamburger.

"That's it," he said. "I can't eat this junk. And I thought they knew how to screw up a burger on Fever World."

Arturo winced and peered into his glass. "Mm. I must say the same for this whiskey as well. I can only assume that, with the rampant advertising campaigns of this country, the quality of food is secondary to how well it is promoted."

He set his glass down, then smiled at Quinn. "Ah, Mr. Mallory. If you're done with your preening, might you enlighten us on how long we have to remain in this odious dimension?"

The timer was resting on one of the beds. Quinn flipped it open, read the display, and tucked the device into his coat. "Two minutes."

"And not a moment too soon."

Wade was lying on one of the beds, watching the TV that murmured on the desk across her. She sat up, pointing at the screen.

"Hey, it's Rembrandt," she said.

Rembrandt sat down next to her. "Turn it up."

She turned up the sound as Quinn and Arturo watched a reporter seated next to a photo of Rembrandt. Her voice grew louder as Wade clicked the remote.

"...Brown," she was saying, "also known as the Crying Man, was arrested today on charges of industrial espionage and kidnapping. He was later released after he passed a lie detector test confirming that he was not involved in the incident that took place yesterday afternoon. This strengthened police theories that an imposter made off with Washington and Lambert's latest model prisoner, Quinn Mallory. The agency has put forward a six million dollar reward for his safe return."

"Six million," Rembrandt said. "Didn't think you were that good-lookin', Q-Ball." Then he laughed in his high-pitched voice, ducking Quinn's hand.

"Very funny, Remmy," Quinn said.

The newsreport continued with the reporter's smile falling into a frown. "In other news, the San Francisco police released a statement from a group of unidentified Middle Eastern terrorists. The group claimed that the city's reservoir system has been poisoned, making it lethal to drink or even come in contact with. Though police say no evidence has been found of tampering, the city's water supply has been suspended until further notice."

The reporter broke into a beaming smile. "However, the Pepsico Coporation came forward with a generous offer to replace the city's water system with Classic Pepsi. Arrangements have been made to drain the reservoir and refill it with their sparkling soda until the crisis is resolved."

"Well," Arturo sighed, "it seems the competition got a hold of those plans, after all."

Wade looked up at Quinn. "We should call the police. The newspapers. Tell people that it's all a hoax."

"Wade," Quinn said, "they own the newspapers and the police. You think they'll let us get through?"

"Well, we've gotta do something."

Arturo pulled on his long tan coat. "Miss Welles, we have less than a minute left on this world. Hardly enough time to warn the entire city."

Wade got up, resting on her knees to stand upright. "So that's it? We're just gonna leave without doing anything? We're gonna let 'em get away with it?"

Rembrandt zipped up his leather jacket. "Sweetheart, these people ain't robots. You think they're gonna stand for this?"

"Maybe," Wade said. "They've stood for everything else these jerks have done to them. I mean, who knows how far they'll let it go."

Quinn rested a hand on her shoulder. "Wade, the ad agencies and big businesses may not realize it, but they're dealing with human beings. Human beings who will only stand for a certain amount of manipulation and control before they fight back. Now, come on. Let's go."

Arturo and Rembrandt headed for the door. Quinn glanced back at the room, then switched off the lights. He stepped out into the night with the others. As he closed and locked the door, Wade leaned close to his side.

"You really think it'll happen, Quinn?" she whispered. "I mean, do you really think these people can stand up to the ads and the subliminal messages and the commercials and all that?"

Quinn looked up at the stars above them. "I dunno, Wade. But it's not our fight. The people of this world allowed the ad agencies to take over their lives. They didn't speak up when they had the chance. It's up to them to decide when enough is enough and get themselves out."

"I guess so," Wade said, then looked out at the empty parking lot. "I just...feel so sorry for them."

Quinn aimed his timer at an open space and pressed the button. The parking lot convulsed, collapsing into a glowing blue vortex out of which blew a cool breeze.

"Me, too, Wade," Quinn said. "Me, too."

Arturo, Rembrandt, and Wade jumped into the portal. Quinn was about to, then looked up at the moon. He squinted at the glowing orb in the sky, then felt a chill come over him.

"I really do," Quinn whispered, then jumped into the wormhole.

But as he slid to the next world, he couldn't stop thinking about the moon he had seen. At some point, someone had carved huge chunks out of its surface so that it spelled out a message that could be seen from Earth.

The moon was now a billboard that read "Eat At Joe's."

The End