participating in the pitch when it got to that point in the process; then we went over the notes on Kingsman's Web presence and existing social media outreach. I got a little nervous when three thirty rolled around because I knew traffic would be a bitch, but Mark kept working after I pointed out the time. It was quarter to four before he bounded out of his office with a broad smile, still shrugging into his jacket. "Join me, Eva." I blinked up at him from my desk. "Really?" "Hey, you worked hard on helping me prep. Don't want you want to see how it goes?" "Yes, absolutely." I pushed to my feet. Knowing my appearance would be a reflection on my boss, I smoothed my black pencil skirt and straightened the cuffs of my long-sleeved silk blouse. By a random twist of fate, my crimson shirt perfectly matched Mark's tie. "Thank you."
"Thanks." "Then can I have one answer in return?" he demanded. "One." "Tell me one theory." Whoops. "Not that one." "You didn't qualify, you just promised one answer," he reminded me. "And you've broken promises yourself," I reminded him back. "Just one theory -- I won't laugh." "Yes, you will." I was positive about that. He looked down, and then glanced up at me through his long black lashes, his ocher eyes scorching. "Please?" he breathed, leaning toward me. I blinked, my mind going blank. Holy crow, how did he do that? "Er, what?" I asked, dazed. "Please tell me just one little theory." His eyes still smoldered at me. "Um, well, bitten by a radioactive spider?" Was he a hypnotist, too? Or was I just a hopeless pushover? "That's not very creative," he scoffed. "I'm sorry, that's all I've got," I said, miffed. "You're not even close," he teased. "No spiders?" "Nope." "And no radioactivity?" "None." "Dang," I sighed.
I have a great diet. You're allowed to eat anything you want, but you must eat it with naked fat people. --Ed Bluestone What gets measured gets managed. --Peter Drucker, recipient of Presidential Medal of Freedom 199.2 ... Trevor stared at the LCD as it delivered the news. He blinked a few times. 199.2. Then he blinked a few more times. "Holy crap!" He'd put on about 10 pounds a year after sophomore year in high school, tipping the scales at 240 pounds at college graduation. Now, for the rst time since his teens, Trevor weighed less than 200 pounds. That had been the goal since stepping on a treadmill almost two years earlier, but a distant goal. Breaking the 200 barrier had seemed unattainable. Now he'd done it. The question wasn't so much how he did it. The real question was: why did it work?
unexpectedly, he confessed: "I cannot deny it. It is true." Knowledge of the plot had been blandly disavowed by the Mexicans, the Japanese, and Eckardt, and to this day no one knows why Zimmermann admitted it. His acknowledgment buried the last doubts that the story might have been a hoax. Suddenly, Americans in the middle of the continent who could not get excited about the distant poppings of a European war jerked awake in the realization that the war was at their border. Texans blinked in astonishment: the Germans meant to give away their state! The Midwest, unmoved because untouched by the submarine issue, imagined a German- officered army crossing the Rio Grande and swung over to the side of the Allies. The Far West blew up like a land mine at the mention of Japan. Within a month, public opinion crystallized. Wilson, who three months before had said that it would be a "crime against civilization" to lead the
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