No Breakfast at Tiffany’s


Gordon attended his Madison Avenue ad agency’s holiday bash.  Everyone was in an overly festive mood as they’d just won a very impressive new piece of business, Tiffany’s.  The champagne was overflowing.  The hors d’oeurves were scantily tasted.  And who knows what went on behind certain office doors.  A makeshift dance floor arose out of nowhere and everyone was dancing and singing along with Jay-Z and Lady Gaga.  As the clock ticked midnight, a bunch of employees (including Gordon) began shooting tequila.  Soon after his third shot, everything went fuzzy and dark.  The next morning Gordon woke up in a hotel room…in Paris.  His clothes were nowhere to be found.  The only clue was an aqua box on the night table and an opera length, double-strand of perfectly matched pearls buried deep at the foot of the bed.  He had no idea of how he or the pearls got there.  His vague recollection of the previous night’s antics was no help.  Feeling squeemish, he darted for the bathroom.  It was there that he realized he was not alone.  Floating lifeless in the soaking tub was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  He’d met her the day before.  She was the model hired to be the new face of Tiffany’s.

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