![]() 08/23/2015 at 11:54 • Filed to: acura, ford, pencil skirts | ![]() | ![]() |
The psychologist frowned, said she wanted to do word association. “Family,” she said. “Ford,” came my gruff reply.
The call-and-response carried on like that for a little longer.
“Meadow.” “Rallycross.”
“Top.” “Always down.”
“Fame.” “Top ten PAX.”
“Pinion angle.” “One point two-three degrees.”
Wait . What was that last one?
I looked up, and my cuffs had been loosened. The psychologist was gone, and in her place, a sticky note and a serrated knife made of a Chrysler leaf spring.
The note said: “You need to speak with my employer.”
Before long I was in the helicopter, my shirt bloodstained, breathing raggedly, looking down upon the armed guards firing ineffectually upon us. Someone had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to get me out. But why?
My pseudo-psychologist turned in her seat, made eye contact, spoke softly. Someone had briefed her on me very well indeed - she knew the risks of what she was about to ask for.
“I work for Acura,” she said, “and Tokyo has told us to increase sales at any cost.”