I was in my mid 20s, and quickly became the heir apparent, as the agency founder took an immediate liking to me. 

Example: We drove three to four hours for a pitch and he ended up locking the pitch materials in the backseat of the rental car.  The client's people in their workshop saved the day with a crowbar.

Those mad men guys were truly mad. Just a more extreme version of most agency heads from the 80s, a good bit of fun and more than a good bit on the quirky side.  And he was a mastermind when it came to making money, or should I say "extracting" money from clients, done in a variety of ways that were more creative than the creative department.

One client happily paid us a 30% commission, because our patriarch had convinced them that we were delivering such top-flight service.  But the real money-maker was our largest client. And that was because of a double billing scheme, which apparently involved a printer who was dating our head of client services.

The account person in question also had a cozy relationship with the client CEO, which began a chain reaction of dominos resulting in the death of the agency during the short six-month tenure in which I was employed.

The printer -- a.k.a. head of client services' boyfriend -- became jealous over her relationship with the client CEO, and in an act of self-destructive rage, spilled the beans on the double billing scheme.  There went more than half the agency billings, and 100% of the profits, right out the door.  The bankruptcy clock was now ticking and the agency needed a big, new client. Fast.

It was our founder. Snoring. No problem, our head of client services leans over and wacks him on the cheek, which immediately jolts him to full attention. Nothing fatal yet -- only a flesh wound.

The Swedes looked at each other, then imagining this as some sort of American custom, and all tossed their glasses against the wall, as well.  More glasses arrive. More shots. More glass shards. On it went. I'm not sure if we ever did get around to showing the creative.