Bobby sits at his desk, a complete lack of interest across his broad face as he drums his fingers. Across from him on a sofa, flanked by large brown paper bags dappled with grease, sits Homer Pigdickler, proprietor of Pigdickler Premium Odd Meats and repeated sponsor of XWF programming.

“As you can see, Mr. Bourbon, I’m talking the purest future of meat as we know it. Chicken tenders are last year, chicken feet have all the protein and flavor of the earth itself, it’s not chicken scratch!” Homer looks eager as he describes his pitch to Bobby. Bobby slowly shakes his head negatively.

“Homer, don’t get me wrong, I myself have been a happy customer of yours for years, but chicken feet? That’s some shit my grandma would have eaten.” Bobby drums his fingers as he looks at Homer. Bobby sighs.

“Well she knew good eatin’!” Homer beams.

“Homer, I’m going to have to pass. I love the ambition to open chicken feet kiosks in community colleges across the midwest, I do, but I can’t invest in an old idea.” Bobby stands, as does Homer. They shake hands, and Homer picks up his two paper bags of, presumably, chicken parts and leaves. Bobby sits back down and sighs again.

“There are no new ideas anymore.”

Cyberjaw, the man with the cybernetic jaw walks into the office. Bobby looks up, somewhat hopeful that the accursed boredom of having to sit out Leap of Faith due to being banned from the Vatican would be relieved soon enough. “Bobby, your next appointment is ready. Also, you need to hire an actual secretary for this, I’m trying to play Call of Duty.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Call of duty, same game as forever.” Bobby sighs. Cyberjaw doesn’t register it whatsoever as he leaves, and a short man in slacks, a blue dress shirt, and a bow tie walks in, rolling a card with a curtain over it. Bobby perks up. “Alright, curtains on a cart like a gameshow, this might be good!” The man clears his throat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bourbon, I’m Oliver Peckerknot.” Oliver looks across the desk as Bobby’s eyes widen at the mention of his name.

“Peckerknot? Where are we finding you people?” Bobby smirks.

“Alabama, Mr. Bourbon, you’ve never heard of the Alabama Peckerknots?” Oliver looks back at Bobby as though he has him in check. Bobby simply shakes his head to the negative.

“Sure haven’t, and I’m pretty sure I’d wind up on a watchlist if I searched for it on Google.” Bobby gestures towards the thing draped with a curtain in front of both men. “Get to the point, Peckerknot.”

“Well, Mr. Bourbon, there are many ideas that are rehashes of old ones, the same cycle of trends appearing again and again, ad nauseum through the zeitgeist. Well, I feel it’s time for a new idea!” Bobby immediately perks up.

“You have my attention.”

“Great, Mr. Bourbon! Well, I, Oliver Peckerknot, while attempting to find a cure for when you get popcorn kernels stuck in your teeth at the movies, made a wonderful discovery!” Oliver pulls back the curtain, revealing a handheld device with a parabolic antenna at one end. “This, Mr. Bourbon, is the Tannomatic Sockometer!”

Bobby looks somewhat chipper. “Neat.” Both Oliver and Bobby share a stilted, awkward moment of silence. “What the hell does it do?”

“Well, Mr. Bourbon, if you point the device at someone, it will determine if they own any pairs of tan socks!” Oliver picks the boondoggle up and points it at Bobby. It buzzes and beeps before a red light blinks and a robotic female voice speaks.

“Does not own tan socks.”

Bobby blinks slowly as his smile freezes. “Well, it works, what’s the practical application?” Oliver begins to stammer.

“Well, you know, for Father’s Day, say you don’t know if your dad has tan socks. Now you can suss out whether to get him tan socks.” Oliver nods, trying to convince himself that what he just said was an absolute affirmation that something as ridiculous as a device that determines the Tannomatic Sockometer should exist. Bobby rubs his chin.

“Hmmm. Is it rechargeable?” Bobby cocks an eyebrow. This was, after all, a new idea.

“Of course, Mr. Bourbon, USB type-C.”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks for it.” Oliver looks heartbroken at Bobby’s offer.

“But, I had to spend hundreds of dollars to develop this, and this could revolutionize…” Oliver trails off as he realizes his new idea is pointless. “Oh, alright. Can you comp my parking?” Bobby again swiftly shakes his head.

“No, you pay for your own parking.” Bobby’s ruthlessness in business is on full display, making those who pitch to him actually pay to park.

“Fair, I guess.” Oliver shrugs. Bobby stands and pulls his wallet out. He looks inside and rolls his eyes.

“Do you have change?” Oliver grins, knowing he now has the advantage since Bobby didn’t feel like asking anybody else for change.

“Nope.” Oliver sticks his palm out as Bobby retrieves a fifty dollar bill and hands it to Oliver.

“Well played, Peckerknot, well played. If you come up with any other useless junk let me know.” Oliver places the Tannomatic Sockometer on Bobby’s desk and rolls what must have been his cart and curtain out.

“Sure thing, Mr. Bourbon, pleasure doing business with you!”

Bobby picks up the Tannomatic Sockometer and eyes it, a sneer forming between his lips. Cyberjaw walks into the office again.

“Bro, did you really pay that weirdo fifty bucks? Seriously, why do you need to know if someone…” Bobby puts a palm up, halting Cyberjaw from continuing. Bobby reaches into his drawer and pulls out a charging cable. He plugs the Tannomatic Sockometer into his computer.

“I don’t need to know about someone’s socks, for Christ’s sake.” Bobby sits at his desk and begins to type away at his PC. “See, the idea is kind of blah, but what if we added a glitch and saw what happened?”

“How are you adding a glitch?” Cyberjaw walks around the desk and peers over Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby glances up at him and points across his desk, sending Cyberjaw away from his space.

“I’m going to pipeline data from as many Russian porn sites directly into this thing.” Bobby’s eyes glow at the prospect. “The amount of phishing software alone will warp whatever this thing does somehow.” A few keystrokes later, and the Tannomatic Sockometer begins to vibrate, the red light blinking profusely. It nearly leaps off of Bobby’s desk, then suddenly goes very still. Bobby picks up the device and looks at Cyberjaw, pointing it at him.

“Bro, you don’t know what that thing will do…” Bobby depresses a button, and the device hums for a moment before displaying a blue light. It speaks in the same robotic female voice as before.

“Dislikes buying laundry detergent.”

Bobby looks at the device inquisitively before looking back up at Cyberjaw.

“That’s, uh, correct.”