20 lasts for 2 minutes and 16 seconds. For the first 2 minutes and 1 second, The Announcer makes the following speech (a.k.a. the 20 speech) after which there are 15 seconds of silence until the end:
"It is impossible to shirk their deft appraisals. Do they answer phones? Neither has taken a day off in weeks. Their drawers are filled with papers, but the papers aren't important. And leftover food. And stacks of dollars. A bond. An envelope. A silo. Do they let the phones ring? They drive without headlights. Windows down and seatbelts off. The radio on static, as loud as it will go. They say whatever they need to or want to.
Over lunch they scream through food at distant adversaries. They attend a ball each night, after the close. The representatives are there. Each on a pillar. Elegantly posed. Lean and untouchable. With bored expressions. The staff run between tables and pillars, putting out fires, delivering courses of quail and cubed ham.
The DJ puts on a new vinyl of a friend's spoken word piece, with a durable italo-disco backing. A viscous blue substance ruins a socialite's dress, and she presses a button on her bracelet. A table collapses under the weight of an iron punch bowl. A publisher covers her mouth as she whispers the results of next year's spring to a wealthy ear.
They walk through the grand hall in the same suits they wore to the office, unwound for the first time all day. "Do we answer phones?" one says to the other, laughing. They try some quail. They frustrate the masseuses with their smiles. They organize. They wash their faces. They shake hands, or at least nod, promising that tomorrow they'll wear different clothes. They are naked and they know it. They live like dollars in a tip jar.
Something is going to happen ... in 20 days."
The line "A publisher covers her mouth as she whispers the results of next year's spring to a wealthy ear" is a reference to Don, who writes each suceeding year's futures before they happen & publishes them.