Chapter 6: The Poisoned Survey

The chaos Alex had sown in the Sterling Motors sales department was satisfying, but he knew it was a temporary burn. Todd and Barry would eventually realize their phantom client wasn't showing up. The real Kevin Vance, now thoroughly irritated, was a wild card, a loose cannon who might even inadvertently fix the problem by sheer force of his entitled rage. Alex had created a squall, but he was after a hurricane. He needed a way to attack the dealership's very nervous system, to leverage its own structure against itself in a way that was both permanent and painful.

His project had become about more than just teaching a lesson; it was now an intellectual exercise in weaponizing corporate bureaucracy. He was tidying his inbox, filtering the automated "Thank you for contacting us!" receipts from the dealership's CRM into his 'Project Vance' folder, when he saw it. A new category of email, sent automatically in the wake of his phone calls with the salesmen.

From: [email protected] Subject: Your Opinion Matters to Us, Kevin!

Alex felt a jolt, the kind a physicist feels upon discovering a new, fundamental particle. It wasn't a sales pitch. It wasn't a service reminder. It was a customer satisfaction survey. He opened it with the reverence of an arms dealer uncrating a new piece of high-tech weaponry.

The design was blandly corporate: the Sterling Motors logo, a five-star rating system, and a series of questions about his "recent interaction." He clicked the link, and a new tab opened to a survey page. He didn't just look at it; he studied its architecture. He saw the Net Promoter Score question—"How likely are you to recommend Sterling Motors to a friend or colleague?"—on a scale of 0 to 10. He saw the specific ratings for staff professionalism, product knowledge, and timeliness. He saw the open-ended comment boxes.

This, he realized, was beautiful.

Missed appointments and conflicting schedules created logistical headaches for the grunts on the floor. But this? This was a direct line to the spreadsheets and dashboards that ruled the lives of management. Men like Mr. Henderson didn't care if their employees were stressed. They cared about their quarterly NPS score. They lived and died by their customer satisfaction index. A bad score wasn't just feedback; it was a black mark on a performance review, a threat to a bonus, a stain on the pristine illusion of success they so carefully cultivated.

This was no longer a shotgun blast of chaos. This was a sniper rifle. And he had three phantom interactions to use as ammunition: the calls from Todd, Barry, and the nervous third salesman, Mark.

He set to work, his fingers moving with surgical precision. He would craft a narrative. He would become the ultimate nightmare customer, not through shouting or overt threats, but through the cold, hard data of a brutally honest—and completely fabricated—review.

First, the survey for Todd Carlisle, the "Senior Portfolio Advisor."

How would you rate your overall satisfaction? Alex selected 1 star out of 5.

On a scale of 0-10, how likely are you to recommend Sterling Motors? He clicked 0 - Not at all likely.

Then, he moved to the comment box, the place where he could inject the most potent poison. He channeled the persona of an entitled, meticulous, and deeply unimpressed millionaire.

The salesman who called, Todd, was glib and unprofessional. He referred to me as 'buddy' and seemed to be reading from a script. When I asked a specific question regarding the typical depreciation curve on the Sentinel versus its German competitors, he audibly scoffed and changed the subject. His only interest was getting me into the dealership. The entire experience felt cheap and transactional, more befitting a budget car lot than a luxury brand. Utterly disappointing.

Every word was chosen to sting. "Buddy" was a specific, unprofessional slight. The "depreciation curve" question painted his digital doppelgänger as a savvy, informed buyer, making the fabricated incompetence of the salesman seem even more egregious.

He hit submit and immediately opened the second survey link, the one tied to Barry's call. He repeated the process: rock-bottom scores across the board. Then, the comment box.

Shortly after my unpleasant call with Todd, I received another call from a different salesman named Barry. In a stunning display of unprofessionalism, he spent the first two minutes of the call disparaging his colleague. He promised 'insider numbers' and made it sound like he was doing me a special favor, which felt more like a high-pressure tactic from a bygone era. He could not, however, answer a simple question about how the dealership's certified pre-owned warranty is logged and tracked across the national system. It's clear the sales team is disorganized and more focused on competing with each other than serving the customer.

He was building a damning portrait of the dealership, a place of internal strife and external incompetence. He submitted the second survey and moved on to the third, for the cold call from Mark. He kept it short and sharp.

A third call, from a clearly inexperienced salesperson who seemed to have no idea what was going on. At this point, I can only assume my personal information is being passed around the showroom floor like a flyer. This is a severe breach of customer privacy. The harassment from your sales team is unacceptable.

He was about to submit the third and final survey when his eyes caught the last question on the page. It was a simple, unassuming checkbox, sitting below the final comment field. It was the most dangerous line of code in the entire system.

[ ] Yes, I would like a manager to contact me to discuss my experience.

Alex froze. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. This was it. This was the master key.

The low scores would poison the data stream. The comments would create a narrative of failure. But this single, tiny box? This was a formal demand. This was an escalation protocol. Checking this box would bypass the foot soldiers and the automated responses. It would trigger a red alert on a manager's dashboard. It would transform 'Kevin Vance' from a statistic into an active, escalating problem that required direct, personal intervention from the top.

It would bring him face-to-face—or at least voice-to-voice—with the king of this dysfunctional castle.

He could almost picture Mr. Henderson, the man from the dealership's website with the too-tight suit and the slicked-back hair, seeing his precious satisfaction scores plummet. He could imagine the vein in Henderson's temple throbbing as he read the scathing comments. And now, he could force that man to pick up the phone and personally call the source of his new-found misery.

With a final, deliberate click, Alex checked the box.

He hit "Submit."

The screen refreshed to a generic "Thank you for your feedback." But Alex knew what he had just done. He hadn't just submitted a survey. He had launched a guided missile aimed directly at the general manager's office.

He leaned back in his chair, the glow of the monitors illuminating his predatory smile. The phone line, his silent VoIP number, was no longer just a tool for deception. It was a fuse. And he had just lit the end of it. Now, he would simply wait for the explosion.