“I really hope the tone comes through on this SCAB”

“We sell or we die” they’ll pry from my parched mouth, as they find me copywriting furiously in my office in the Final Summer of 2054. 

I have found myself at gunpoint; this particular band of freedom fighters have broken in to question me, quite reasonably, as to how on earth I could have it in me to be flogging 5-Step Filtration Bottles to dehydrated UK citizens – especially when there’s full-scale societal deterioration taking place outside the agency doors.

I call my virtual assistant FroopdyLoop to lock the doors and call me a BotCar ASAP.

“Surely you must have found your moral compass by now” they ask – tears stinging their eyes.

“The seas, the temperatures – they have all risen now, Mr. Heath – the bows of society have groaned and given way— after all this, surely it should be time to renounce your ways..?”

I wince – too late for that, I’m afraid; my moral compass had, in fact, been accidentally crushed one evening in 2031 when I was slamming shut my copy of Can’t Sell Won’t Sell – having just finished it in one ravenous sitting. 
I pause to gather my thoughts. The band of freedom fighters are perched, impatient for a response of any kind. They daren’t dream, of course, but perhaps today, they might finally have an admission of guilt.

I lean back into my chair. 

“If I was to stop…” I start. 

The group hold their breath.

“then who on earth is going to keep those factories open?” I posit – and with that, I pop open one of my vintage 2007 Perrier Sparkling Waters.
And I smile at them. Because I’m genuinely asking that question. Without a hint of irony.

Anyway, I’m looking at him and his head literally explodes – I think this is from anger. 

And it is problematic as it’s quite the mess. Luckily I never bothered trying to get a D&AD award and focused on sales instead. If I had awards, they would have been in real jeopardy of being ruined. 

I think my BotCar has managed to make it to the office though – as FroopdyLoop is knocking repeatedly on my office door now.

This surprises me, as I had tried to book a BotCar to get back to my Cave-In-The-GroundTM the day before, but it had been seized by street pirates on its way over and sold for scrap. 

“Gentlemen” I announce, as I rise from my chair. “I’m sure you’re morally scrupulous fellows. But you live in quite the idealised world. I mean we can all make purpose driven work – can’t we? That’s just too easy.”

They lower their guns whilst they try to glean some kind of meaning from my inane babbling; I pass by, and head for the door.

“Now then FroopdyLoop, time to go home.”

I am promptly informed by FroopdyLoop that she has, in fact, came to the office to warn me of an approaching sandstorm – and that I should find a suitable place to hide.