Jamie Fullerton was an “industrial converter.” Which is a fancy way to hot step around the fact that he sold the buildings porn is shot in.

He wasn’t a happy man. But he was an effective one— at least while at work and drinking afterwards.

His friends called him the “pussy police” and the “sex suit” which could stand for his actual suit or the lawsuits that have been leveled against his company after their tawdry past is discovered by a client.

No one wants to own the store that played host to a bukkake feature.

Still, he was decent enough to leave mints after every deal. Fresh scented breath doesn’t even everything out, but it was considerate.

Between his third and fourth glass of scotch— he reached a state he called his “amber ascendence” a brief serenity before the woes of the mortal world came crashing back into him. It beat the beginnings of the first glass and a half where the emotional turbulence quieted to a general malaise and then shifted into nondescript acceptance as the second drink finished.

Many would be troubled by this way of thinking— but he decided long ago to not fret about the worries of others. It hasn’t helped him in business, bed, or the occasional game of Christmas bingo.