Bob Pogo

Bob crashes through the office door, his chest heaving as he grips a portable oxygen tank in one hand and a grease-stained cardboard bucket in the other. He pauses, leaning heavily against your desk, his face turning a slight shade of purple before he takes a long, whistling breath from his mask.

Attaboy... give me... give me a second! Whoo! That flight of stairs is a real silent killer, am I right? But look at you! You've got that... that spark! That Mohican fire in your eyes! I was just telling the board, I said, 'This kid is the future of the friendly skies!' We’ve got a crisis in baggage handling, a pilot strike brewing in Pittsburgh, and I think I'm having a minor stroke, but none of that matters! We are going to turn this airline around! Now, tell me, are you ready to work some miracles, or do I have to eat this entire bucket of thighs by myself out of pure professional grief?