Franchise

"Well, gentlemen! And ladies, of course!" Dutch declared, a mischievous glint in his eye as he gestured broadly, "The floor is now yours!!"

His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over the dozen or so merchants arrayed before him. Oh, there were hundreds of smaller fish in the sea, all clamoring for a taste of the 'VDL' pie. But Dutch, ever the connoisseur of influence, had handpicked this exclusive dozen – the true whales, the ones with the real muscle to propel his fashion empire to stratospheric heights.

The little guys? The ones with a mere shop or two? For them, there was no need for such theatrical negotiation. A simple twenty-dollar wholesale price for his garments, and they were ecstatic, clinging to the promise of increased foot traffic, however paltry their profit margins. It was a symbiotic relationship, really: they got customers, and Dutch got… well, he got to be Dutch.

But these, these were the chosen few. This handpicked dozen, with their grand ambitions and deeper pockets, wouldn't dream of settling for a meager twenty-dollar wholesale.

Why, for some of their larger operations, the shipping costs alone would swallow that meager profit whole! No, their eyes were firmly fixed on the grander prizes: the full franchise, or, even better, the outright purchase of the design blueprints and a slice of future genius.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde," a merchant began, wringing his hands slightly, his face a picture of agonizing indecision, "could you possibly… perhaps… grant us a smidgen more time for… contemplation? My poor brain feels like a squirrel trapped in a walnut!"

"Indeed, Mr. Van der Linde!" another piped up, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief, "This is not a decision to be made lightly, you understand. One must, after all, meticulously weigh the potential… benefits!" He puffed out his chest, as if the sheer weight of his calculation might cause him to topple over.

Dutch, however, was a portrait of serene, almost unnerving, calm. He simply offered a charming, unhurried smile. "Of course, my dear friends, take all the time your calculating hearts desire! The night, as you can plainly see," he gestured to the inky darkness beyond the ship's opulent windows, "is still gloriously young, isn't it? However," he added, his voice dropping ever so slightly, a hint of steel entering the honeyed tone, "I must, with deepest apologies, inform you that I shall be compelled to excuse myself in precisely one hour. I have… other engagements. Rather pressing engagements, you understand."

He gave a little, almost imperceptible shrug, as if lamenting his packed schedule. The message, however, landed with the impact of a cannonball: one hour, gentlemen, or miss your chance. Not only did they need to think, they needed their accountants to perform miracles of rapid-fire financial prognostication.

Indeed, after Dutch laid out his three tantalizing options, the room descended into a flurry of frantic whispers and furrowed brows. Each merchant became a living embodiment of internal conflict.

The ten-thousand-dollar sales rights and low-price wholesale option? That was the safe bet, the guaranteed winner. The 'VDL' Clothing Store's brand name alone was worth that, and more! Given its meteoric rise in popularity, they could recoup that investment within a month, even accounting for the time it took for the clothes to be manufactured and shipped. It was, frankly, a no-brainer.

But… and here was the rub, the bitter tang in the otherwise sweet deal… it felt like merely picking up scraps, albeit very large scraps, from Dutch's overflowing table. They would still be living off someone else's ingenuity, merely reselling.

(That's what franchising is folkes, that's why not every KFC restaurant tastes the same, quality is relative)

Then there was the fifty-thousand-dollar option: the tantalizing prospect of owning every new design blueprint, of producing the garments themselves! This was the siren song that truly tugged at their avaricious hearts.

Self-production? In this era, intellectual property rights were as nebulous as a politician's promise. Anyone could pirate Dutch's designs; the only consequence was a lack of official 'VDL' recognition from Dutch himself. But acquiring the latest blueprints? That, my friends, was a temptation as potent as a forbidden fruit.

It meant perpetual first-mover advantage, a constant flow of fresh, cutting-edge styles. The brand recognition, the sheer, unadulterated profit from being the first to market… that was the ultimate prize.

However, it also meant gambling a hefty fifty thousand dollars. What if, heaven forbid, the brilliant wellspring of Dutch's design ideas suddenly ran dry? What if the 'VDL' brand, currently soaring, abruptly deflated like a punctured dirigible? This, undoubtedly, was the gnawing risk that made their collective stomachs churn.

Their agonizing indecision, however, proved to be mercifully short-lived. The 'VDL' Clothing Store's dazzling performance over the past few months had unequivocally demonstrated that the risk was, in reality, as negligible as a whisper in a hurricane.

And so, after a surprisingly brief and frantic consultation amongst themselves, the first domino fell.

A middle-aged man, impeccably dressed, his attire so meticulously tailored he looked as if he'd been ironed, stepped forward. His expression was one of intense, almost fanatical, seriousness, like a man who demanded perfection from every thread. He extended a hand to Dutch, his grip firm and precise.

His gaze, sharp and discerning, swept over Dutch's infectious grin and his own distinctively tailored, almost audacious, clothing. A distinct gleam – part admiration, part calculation – flashed in his eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Van der Linde," he began, his voice crisp and clear. "I am Henry Kent, representing the Kent family of Ohio."

"Ah, Mr. Kent! A true pleasure to finally meet you!" Dutch exclaimed, his smile widening as he clasped Kent's hand. His eyes, ever observant, quickly took in Kent's almost obsessively neat attire.

One glance, and Dutch knew this was a man who appreciated precision. With such an individual, pleasantries were a mere waste of precious breath; directness was the only language that mattered.

And indeed, Mr. Kent wasted no time.

"The pleasure, Mr. Van der Linde, is entirely mine. My family, you see, has been in the garment-making business for over a century; we were tailors in England, a long and distinguished lineage." Mr. Kent paused, then continued, "Now, Mr. Van der Linde, purely from a professional perspective, I must confess, certain… anatomical considerations in your designs are, shall we say, not entirely optimized. However," he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "the overall design philosophy, the sheer, audacious spirit of your garments, is nothing short of revolutionary! The pure ingenuity behind these concepts alone is, without a shadow of a doubt, worth every single one of those fifty thousand dollars. Your designs, sir, have ignited a firestorm of inspiration within me! Some of the wild, imaginative leaps… they are truly the marks of genius! Therefore, even if it were solely for the privilege of acquiring your future blueprints, I am prepared to invest the full fifty thousand. However, I do have one exceedingly small, perhaps even trivial, request."

Mr. Kent, with the air of a true connoisseur, had delivered his praise, meticulously seasoned with a professional critique. This was, of course, entirely expected; Dutch, after all, was no Savile Row-trained designer. He merely conceived of ideas, and Arthur, with his nimble fingers and surprising artistic flair, brought them to life, usually with charming accuracy, though minor quirks were inevitable.

Listening to Kent's earnest words, Dutch's interest was genuinely piqued. He leaned forward, his expression one of intrigued amusement. "Please, Mr. Kent, speak your mind. The floor, and my undivided attention, are entirely yours."

"Mr. Van der Linde," Kent pleaded, a frantic glint in his eye, almost a desperate tic, "I implore you, allow me the artistic liberty to make minor, almost imperceptible adjustments to your magnificent blueprints! For a fashion designer, sir, to gaze upon such exquisite creations and to be forced to ignore the merest… unconventionality… it is a torment! A psychological agony akin to an artist witnessing a masterpiece with a single, misplaced brushstroke! Of course," he quickly added, his voice regaining its professional tone, "you are perfectly at liberty to utilize my corrected blueprints directly. I merely… I simply must correct those exquisite little imperfections!" His eyes, now wide with almost obsessive zeal, betrayed a man suffering from an acute case of aesthetic OCD. He looked like someone staring at a crooked picture on a wall, his entire being screaming for it to be straightened.

Dutch burst into a booming, hearty laugh, a sound of pure delight. "Hahahaha! Of course, Mr. Kent! Of course! Oh, my dear, meticulous sir, how about this, a truly magnificent proposition! From this moment forth, our future blueprints shall be provided to you absolutely free of charge! Consider it our profound gratitude for your invaluable corrections and for saving my precious Arthur from a lifetime of slightly misaligned seams!" He even gestured dramatically with his hand, as if signing a grand, invisible contract.

Of course, this 'free' came with a very Dutch-esque asterisk: the money for future blueprints would be waived, but that initial, splendid fifty-thousand-dollar investment? Not a single cent would be reduced. That was the entry fee to Dutch's exclusive club of genius.

Mr. Kent, seemingly oblivious to the nuanced semantics, was utterly ecstatic. He nodded vigorously, his entire body bobbing with enthusiastic agreement, a wide, almost goofy grin replacing his earlier seriousness. With a final, eager handshake, he became the first to seal the deal with Dutch.

For now, of course, it was a handshake and a promise. The true, legally binding agreement would only take effect when the fifty thousand dollars exchanged hands at Hope Happiness Ranch within the next three days, and the papers were formally signed.

But with Mr. Kent, the meticulous trailblazer, leading the charge, the remaining dozen or so merchants, their earlier hesitancy vanishing like smoke, also made up their minds.

Every single one of them chose the fifty-thousand-dollar blueprint version. Why? Because it was a gamble, yes, but a gamble with the dazzling promise of turning their fortunes around, of transforming their entire existence.

The ability to self-produce, to possess the sacred blueprints, to be the first to capture the fleeting tide of fashion and profit… this was not just a huge profit; it was a veritable goldmine.

If Dutch's subsequent blueprints yielded even two designs with the same transformative power as his current clothing line, they would be guaranteed to recoup their investment and then some. If he produced five such masterpieces? They would be swimming in wealth.

So, truly, no sane merchant could refuse such an opportunity. Especially now, with a legitimate, century-old garment-making family like the Kents, with their obsessive dedication to perfection, willing to refine and optimize the blueprints for free! It was like having profit spoon-fed directly into their eager mouths.