By the age of 22, Brand-N was one of the top 20 finalists to be the ultimate body man for the corporation.

He graduated from one of those remedial luxury colleges where the Haught Boujees hid their progenies with drug addictions and personality disorders. After four to six years of college, they hoped they could send their spawn off on a gap year “finding themselves” in an opium den masquerading as a yoga retreat. As long as they could keep them quietly sedated, they had a better chance of keeping their bloodline solvent. The fact that 90% of family fortunes were lost by the third generation boiled in the back of the older Boujees' minds.

The site of those sloppy messes stumbling around campus in their diamond-encrusted kicks sobered Brand-N right up. He needed a purpose in life. But what?

Upon graduation, his step-papaw surprised him with $37,867,221 of student debt at a 17% interest rate. This was for his entire education: pre-kindergarten through college, including his sailing, horseback riding and golfing lessons. As Brand-N gasped, his step-papaw presented him with a knapsack full of signed contracts. Brand-N recognized his signature starting in kindergarten, scrawled in crayon. As he flipped through the others, he saw his signature again and again, only growing smaller, less colorful and more legible through the years.

“Debt builds character!” The senior Vanderfeller chortled while slapping him on the back.

Aiden and Abetten snickered as Brand-N was both ejected from the family and saddled with crippling debt usually reserved for Petties and Grips. They bellowed knowing their bank vaults boomed with funds to live out their wildest trustafarian dreams. Maybe they'd do ayahuasca ceremonies with some indigent indigenous people, or do Teach2America and lecture poor Grips about how they should work hard and stop being so materialistic, before jaunting on their jets for 3-day weekends.

But what was Brand-N to do?

He had a meaningless Psychology degree with a concentration in Brand Loyalty. Many of his professors gave him a grade boost because they had taught case studies about his mother and his birth. But even with this extra hot air blown into his already inflated grades, he only graduated with a 3.824 GPA. Wallowing in the lower 35% of his class, he was bound for some mid-level marketing job, probably just an ad-exec for one of hundreds of firms that the largest corporations rotated through to suck the marrow of their creativity. At this rate, he'd only be able to pay off his debts in 18.6 years!

But then all his fortunes changed when a message on his holophone stung like a dart to his neck.

Zoom!

Its from Def Corporation!

He scanned the words and realized. He's being--

Poached!

* * *

Brand-N enters the Def Corporation consulate in downtown Fort Lauderdale for the interview. Cameras follow him, analyzing his every move.

Posture: Erect with broad shoulders.

Gait: Wide confident steps that boom at 20 decibels.

Hands: 8 inches, smooth and soft, never worked, yet entirely masculine.

Face: Flawless square jaw that sends shock waves with each clench.

Conclusion: His online life had been only slightly photoshopped.

The elevator cameras scan his hairline from front to back, looking for the telltale signs of a creeping widow’s peak or sprawling monk’s tonsure. The system finds no evidence of either and clears the elevator to stop at the fourth floor.

Ding!

The doors whoosh open. Brand-N is greeted by cool blue lights and upbeat music. A sweet musk wafts through the air: sandalwood, ocean breeze and saw dust, reminding him of hyper-masculine moments in locker rooms and fraternity socials. Before he can settle on any image, a tall bottle-blonde white woman beams towards him, hand outstretched.

“Oh you must be Brand-N!”

With deft maneuvering, his hand is shook, his back patted, and he’s twirled and plopped on a leather sofa. As he sinks in, he is surprised by its softness.

“Ya like? Gen-u-ine Komodo dragon leather, made from twenty of the last skins of the species. And here! Enjoy a bottle of Iceberg Silk water while you wait. Your interviewer will be with you in a moment.”

When an ice sheath the size of Texas broke off from Antarctica and sailed toward Argentina, the Nestle Corporation was quick to claim this bounty. Twelve-ton chunks of iceberg were chiseled and placed on frigates, which then sailed to a water filtration plant on West Falkland Island. Inside, 40,000 Uzbek silkworms spun a smooth protein fiber that workers warped and weft into silk cloth. The melting iceberg was poured through this to strain and purify it. Of course, this was just a marketing ploy, the water would still be flashed with Ultraviolet rays, those short wavelengths on the electromagnetic spectrum, to make the water safe for human consumption. Each bottle cost a mere $10,000.

Brand-N forced his taste buds to savor the last drops before the secretary swoops in to grab the empty, 1-ounce bottle.

“Oh, ah’ll take that.”

Odd, he didn't remember the secretary wearing black gloves. He looks up to inspect further, but she's gone.

Down the hall.

A sharp left and then the second right.

She scurries.

She drops the bottle with his double-helixed DNA twirling on its lip into a plastic bag and hands it to a technician.

Brand-N grabs a magazine and idly flips it open. A holocube ad for Trump Travel shoots up from the page and plays footage of ten bikini-clad, ample-chested ski bunnies descending the white, powdery Swiss Alps as gold words shimmer, promising the “MOST LUXURIOUS, SENSATIONAL, EXCLUSIVE TIME.”

“Be one of the last 100 people to ski the Swiss Alps before its glaciers melts forever.”

Hm, only $9.8 million. An experience of a lifetime. Brand-N thought this trip could be the perfect way to spend his signing bonus. If he gets the job.

A buzz tells the secretary his genes show no trace of 182-disease causing alleles. He can proceed.

“Alright, sugar! He’s ‘specting you. Right this way.”

The interviewer's first test hurdles 30-miles per hour at Brand-N's face when he walks into the room.

“Think fast!”

Without flinching, Brand-N catches the football and Heismans his way through the furniture before spiking it at the interviewer's desk.

“Boom!” Brand-N end zone dances, emphasizing his shoulder shimmies and his hip thrusts while guarding against any booty popping.

“Nice Catch, Bruääähhhhhh!” The four-piece suit bends as this muscled man grabs Brand-N's hand and pulls him in for a big bear hug. The interviewer notes the musculature of Brand-N's back and lack of any flat-tire fat. A certified stud muffin without the muffin top. Cleared to the next round.

“Thanks, is that a human arm or a Brady 9,000 Rocket Launcher?” Brand-N oils his interviewer up.

“Ha-Haw! Still human, though it’s gone through a few enhancements.”

A wink, a smirk and then a sigh changes the air.

“The name's Kirk. We're glad you could stop by. Have a seat and let’s get started.”

The watcher analyzing the footage didn’t need to hear the audio. He got enough of a voice sample to realize that Brand-N's sonorous Paul Robeson-esque bass can send shivers up spines. No, he didn’t care about Brand-N's answers of how to maximize growth potential or his plans to OAMP (Optimize Automation, Minimize Personalization.)

He just wanted to see that body move.

He coos at how the veins in Brand-N's thick neck pop. How his Adam’s apple rolls up and down his throat like a tennis ball at a Wimbledon match. How his strong mandibles throb every time he clamps his mouth shut. And the ease with which he commands his 6’4” frame. He swings his arms like a lumberjack. And that shocking color contrast of Brand-N's jet black hair and piercing Siberian husky blue eyes.

High atop his tower, inside his hyperbaric chamber, the watcher whispers.

“That Body! I want it!”

         
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