Chuck Grizzly Solves The Oil Crisis

In a meeting room where the walls are made of glass, on the last floor of the tallest skyscraper in the city, ten human beings who mostly looked the same despite their different gender and origins, sat around a conference table made out of the finest mahogany. Most of them were wearing dark business suits and had grey, sometimes white hair. One could have guessed from the wrinkles on their faces that they did not smile much, but were often worried, probably about something very important. Most of these people were unremarkable, except for the figures sitting at the far end: Rodger, the president, a balding, elderly man with a bow tie around his neck, and Margaret, the vice-president, a prudish-looking woman in her fifties, a bun of black hair on her head contrasting with her red lipstick.

Alone, standing in front of a projection screen, was a man who looked as if he was from a different universe. He was dressed in a light grey suit, with a pink shirt and a shiny black silk tie. His hair was short, blond, well-groomed, and he had a wide smile which showcased his pearly white teeth. Anxiety mingled with confidence while he waited for the signal to start his presentation. The president obliged and spoke first.