Adventures in Fan Fiction: When Twilight Met Mad Men

PEGGY: Well. Use your imagination. Diners sit with scratch-off cards with two choices: Team Edward or Team Jacob. (Turns page) And the squads of girls approach them to lobby for their respective sides.

DON: And say what?

PEGGY: Well... (Looks at illustration, improvises) Maybe... "Jacob's abs are so hard you can scratch that game piece with them."

Joan giggles. Don blows a column of smoke.

PEGGY: And Team Edward says...

Another BEAT ensues as Peggy thinks. Roger crosses his legs, gazing at the storyboard.

HARRY: "Edward is to die for."

DON: Too dark. They're already chewing on a dead animal. More affirming, uplifting.

ROGER: "Edward won't leave paw prints in your bed."

JOAN: "Edward isn't dead, just..."

All eyes turn to Joan.

DON: "... Alive forever."

Now they all exchange looks, as if to mutually confirm the wave of momentum surging through the room.

DON: That's good. Who are the customers?

PEGGY: Women. Mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, wives--

DON: It's not cosmic enough. More inclusive. If everyone can play, then we should see everyone playing. I want to see Roger with a card in his hand, making a decision. Burger King: Have it your way, emphasis on the "your."

PEGGY: Of course.

ROGER: You wouldn't catch me dead at a Burger King.

DON: OK, so Bert. Harry. Me. Whoever.

PEGGY: Bobby.

DON: Bobby. And mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts and wives -- as many as they'll pay for. (Pauses) Who'll direct?

HARRY: I will.

DON: It needs to be funny. Light. You're neither.

HARRY: I'm not funny?

DON: I'm sorry, Harry.

PEGGY: I can do it.

DON: No.

PEGGY: It's my idea. Why shouldn't I direct?

DON: It's out of the question.

HARRY: We could call Sal Romano.

ROGER: Not a chance.

DON: Sal would be good. Fast, proven. Right frame of mind, so to speak.

ROGER: A proven liability.

DON: We should talk it over. Joan, do you still have Sal's number?

JOAN: (Thumbing through Rolodex) I do, indeed.

DON: See if he'll meet me after work. Six. Downstairs bar. Tell him it's urgent.

JOAN: Yes, Mr. Draper.

DON: Harry, you come too.

PEGGY: What about me?

Don crosses toward the bedroom. Peggy stands with her sketchbook, glowering and forsaken. Don stops and leans over her.

DON: Playtex. Yesterday.

He exits.

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