There were two men sitting at the wooden restaurant table. The bulk of one eclipsed the deep cocoa leather of his chair, replacing it with orange and green cotton stripes. The other was a lean beige gesticulation.

The fat one moved slowly, sipping his breakfast smoothie and picking at his muffin. The other shoveled omelet and hashbrowns into his mouth with enthusiasm, pausing every few mouthfuls to shift position.

“Look,” Mr. Beige gestured emphatically with his fork, “marketing are all idiots. If we let them have their way there’ll be no sales till third quarter!”

“I know, but what’s the option?” the slow blob shrugged. “It’s their call, not ours.”

The cheetah pounced, “Not if we go over their heads. We go straight to management and tell them our plan.” He stabbed a tomato and raised it to his lips.

The sloth nodded. “Just tell me when.”

Predatory eyes meet docile ones. He finished chewing. “Tomorrow.”

The grins of expectation, though, they were one and the same.