Chapter 65
“Who ya gotta blow to get a donut around here?”
No one said a word, not even Dee, who needed a moment to process the many disgusting components of that question. The rest of the leadership team sat in silence, appalled.
The speaker who so eloquently asked on whom he should perform fellatio in order to obtain a fried ring of slimy dough was Glen Fowler, the 70-year-old, rancid Republican, fat-fuck billionaire who was thinking about acquiring FitFams and taking the company public.
Cora broke the stunned quiet. “There are no donuts here. We have … smoothies? Granola bars? We might have a microwavable harvest bowl somewhere in the back of the freezer.”
Fowler cursed under his breath and turned to the two white men he’d brought with him to the meeting, who looked a little bit like the stone-faced and well-dressed Agents from “the Matrix.”
“One of you, run out and get me some Krispy Kremes,” Fowler said, dabbing his brow with a monogrammed hankie. “And a Mountain Dew.”
Every word felt like a poke in the eye. Dee tried not to grimace. Or throw up.
“I’m sorry we don’t have those kinds of snacks for you, Glen,” she said, saccharine-sweet. “We try to stay true to our mission, which is healthy living, even here in the office. Though we’ve certainly been known to slay a tray of nachos during a big night out.”
Fowler didn’t laugh.
“OK, we might as well get down to brass tacks while I sweat through this blood-sugar crash,” he said, snapping his fingers at the remaining henchman, who produced multiple copies of a proposal. “So what we’re looking at is creating a SPAC. That’s a special purpose acquisition company.”
Oh, good. It was time for some mansplaining. Let’s settle in.
“SPACs are formed by sponsors who have expertise in an industry and want to pursue deals there. They usually have an acquisition target in mind but don’t name it publicly so they can avoid the kind of disclosures required by traditional initial public offerings,” the henchman said. “SPACs are often called ‘blank check companies’ because investors don’t really know who or what they’re investing in.”
Fowler shifted in his seat, a reinforced rolling chair they’d brought in for his visit, given that there was no way the usual bowl-shaped chairs could hold his heft. “There’s precedent for this in your industry,” he said. “That sneaky bastard Shardith Flipnaya is in talks to take Equilibrium Plus public via a SPAC in a deal targeting a valuation of 22 times estimated EBITDA of $320 million.”
Shelly nodded sagely and Dee fought the urge to laugh, knowing that her friend and CFO had been installed in the position as a way to save her from bankruptcy brought on by a multi-level marketing company that promised financial freedom but instead left her sobbing in her studio apartment with floor-to-ceiling boxes of unsold protein powder. Dee would bet good money that Shelly had never heard of a SPAC, and she sure as hell didn’t know how to define or properly pronounce EBITDA. But Dee stifled her giggle, deciding it was best not to piss off another one of her best friends.
Tara had been kind of distant lately — she was missing this meeting for a training trip — but maybe it was because she knew Dee was right about the relationship with Fiona. Tara would come around. She always did.
“With the Equilibrium deal, they’re looking at a market value north of $7 billion,” Fowler said. “Y’all are smaller, for sure, but you’d still stand to clear millions of dollars. Maybe something in the ballpark of $500 million.”
He leaned back to let the number hang in the air, and hang it did. Dee felt like she could see it floating there, like the mylar balloons they’d use to celebrate studio anniversaries, but with many more zeros. She wanted to reach out and touch them, hug them so hard that they popped against her chest.
“This sounds intriguing,” Dee said.
“Damn right,” Fowler said.
The glass door to the conference room opened and in came one of the henchmen with a big white box of hot, glazed donuts. How had he retrieved them so quickly? Their sweet scent was like an assault, replacing all of the air in the room. Dee’s mouth watered. Fowler popped open the box and grabbed a donut, then devoured it in three bites and licked the leftover glaze from his fat fingertips.
“Y’all want any?” he asked.
Again the leadership team gaped at him. It was as if someone had committed murder inside a church — you just didn’t do that kind of thing here. No donut, nor any of its cousins from the bakery aisle, had ever been spotted or even secretly gobbled in a bathroom stall at FitFams headquarters. Dee would’ve known. She would’ve sensed the presence of a delicious interloper.
“We’re good, thank you,” Dee said on behalf of herself and the team.
“Suit yourself,” he said while chewing on another donut. “So are we gonna do this deal or what?”
“We have to run it by our attorneys and have some internal discussions, to see how we feel about how this would affect FitFams on a cultural and cellular level. We take great pride in being independent, empowering, and positive, so we have to make sure that our mission aligns with yours,” Dee said. “But it definitely sounds like it could be a really good fit for us.”
Fowler chortled, spitting some crumbs in the process. “Obviously we don’t ‘fit,’” he said. “I mean, you’re a … what word do you like these days? … queer? And I don’t believe in that kind of thing. Neither does Jesus. But this is about business. Just business. And it’s good business.”
Dee was once again struck into silence.
“Money,” Fowler said as he went for his third donut, “makes everything fit.”