The Long, Slow Death of Don Draper

by Dan Sickles

For years he'd played the game, selling his soul a little bit at a time. Then one day Don Draper just snapped. He'd seen something happen, something vile. And instead of trying to stop it he'd done nothing. Nothing at all! This is an ugly and painful story, so be warned. Rated T for brutal violence, rape, and suicide. Also racial prejudice and hopeless despair.

THE LONG, SLOW DEATH OF DON DRAPER

I do not own the amazing characters and story lines of MAD MEN. Please comment nicely!

As he put the pistol in his mouth and prepared to pull the trigger, Don Draper realized that it was only his body he was about to destroy. His soul had been dead for a very long time.

"States Rights Tobacco is our most important account, Don. Make sure your pitch is even more brilliant than usual." Silver haired Roger Stirling downed another shot of Scotch. "God, I love getting plastered."

Inside the conference room, Don confidently unveiled his latest tobacco ad: "Here it is, gentlemen. A big banner of the Confederate battle flag, the Stars and Bars. And a bunch of cigarettes made by your company right in front of the flag. And the writing says, 'Never Surrender and Never Change.'"

"Ah like it," said States Rights Vice President Robert E. Lee Jackson III. "Ah like it jest fine. Roger, pour me some Scotch and let's get plastered!"

Everything would have been fine if that repulsive brown-nosing suck-up Pete Campbell hadn't lunged for the bottle of Scotch before senior partner Roger Stirling could get to it. Pete was so anxious to pour Lee Jackson III a drink that he ended up spilling the whiskey all over the wealthy tobacco man's expensive suit and tie.

"Campbell, I'll rip your guts out!" Roger Stirling snarled. Immediately the veteran accounts man pasted on an oily smile. "Please, Lee, feel free to beat and rape Pete Campbell for hours. We'll hold him down and take pictures!"

"Shoot, boy, that ain't necessary." Lee Jackson looked outside the conference room window, and caught sight of a full-breasted young Negro secretary passing by. "Say, ah reckon that little ol' gal knows a thing or two about stains."

Don Draper felt a faint sense of unease. "Lee, technically speaking, rape is against the law in New York state."

"Shut up, you freak!" Roger Stirling barked. Again the instant smile for the important client. "Lee, I'll see if we can get you a broom closet for a few minutes, so you and the girl can work on your, uh, stain removal project."

The whole office could hear the screams and cries that continued without interruption for the next half hour. Pete Campbell and Roger Stirling both became sexually aroused. Peggy Olsen and Joan Holloway wept softly. The millionaire tobacco man finally emerged with his shirt and tie spattered with blood.

"Jesus, what next?" Don Draper was disgusted.

"Now we bury the body, of course." Roger Stirling rolled his eyes, ladling out wisdom with a sadistic leer. "Draper, when will you Creative types figure out that ninety percent of this business is keeping the client happy? Campbell, Crane, take that dusky gal's body down to the basement . . . with the rest of the trash!"

Now, with the police sirens wailing, and his wife and children dead at his feet, Don Draper stuck the long black barrel of the pistol into his mouth. This wasn't about justice, or Civil Rights. Roger Stirling was right. This was about getting rid of the trash . . . all of the trash. This was the quick end to a long, slow death.