Gemotions

"Impossible," thought Ronan, staring at the screen. The commercial. His song, or a hideous facsimile of it, was hawking dog food. He felt a cold wash over him, as if someone had poured icy water down his spine.

He slammed his laptop shut, the sound echoing in his small apartment. He fumbled for his phone. He needed to make a call.

"Get me the agency," he growled into the receiver. "And tell them I need to see the account exec who signed off on the… misappropriation."

He was going to enjoy this.