It should have been the perfect meal—a reminder of better times. Times when Gary wasn’t being humiliated in front of the entire world by ungrateful, traitorous, and fame-hungry fishmen. Times when he was being lauded simply for existing—when that was enough.

  These days, all he had was the ritual. It calmed him, sustained him.

  First, he laid out two plates: one for egg, one for flour. He sliced the fillet in two, dunking each section in the egg before rolling it carefully in the flour. With the fish battered, he added a sprinkle of panko crumbs and two pinches of salt.

  Then, it was into the pan. Two minutes a side, no more, no less, and you better believe Gary counted every second. That was how he achieved the perfect sear, even in spite of the hotel’s less-than-adequate kitchen.

  Gary flipped his perfect snapper from pan to plate, inhaling the comforting aroma. Then, as he raised a fork full of fish to his salivating mouth—

  BAM!

  The door burst open.

  And the fishmen returned.

  “What is that god-awful stench?” asked Gideon—then he saw the fish. Then Gary saw him seeing the fish. Then Greg saw the fish, too.

  Gorbachev saw nothing and felt nothing, but even without seeing the fish, he managed to careen drunkenly toward it with eerie precision. Gary was slow to react, crabbing backwards as the fishman/homing missile locked in on its target. It was Gorbachev’s rapidly descending head that broke the plate in two as he crash-landed in a face full of snapper.

  “What the fuck, bros?” cried a visibly upset Gary.

  “We could ask you the same question,” said Greg. “We’re gone five minutes, and you’re already gobbling down a fish.”

  “I’m not gobbling down anything, except hot bloody air. Anyway, you’ve all eaten a bunch of fish in a bunch of disgusting ways.”

  “Says the monster who burns his food first,” said Greg. “At least, have the decency to eat it raw the way nature intended!”

  Gorbachev wheezed in the background.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Is he alright?” Gideon inquired.

  “Fine,” said Gorbachev through a mouthful of floor-infused snapper.

  “Well, thanks for ruining the one thing I was actually looking forward to,” said Gary.

  “It’s not totally ruined,” said Gideon. “There are still some good bits.”

  “The bits in his mouth? Or the bits on the floor?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “I think they’re all equally disappointing.”

  “You know what’s really disappointing,” said Greg, “is you humans.”

  “Okay.”

  “First the Seal of Kings? debacle. And now? The bald-headed cheek of that bloody Rogan.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had a high-stakes wrestling match for control of The Joe Rogan Experience, which I won, obviously—”

  “I’m sensing a but coming.”

  “But then he broke his word—went back on the deal!”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t trust anyone these days,” said Gary, clearly meaning the fishmen.

  “That’s what we’ve been saying,” roared Greg. “Gideon even made up one of your human sayings. What was it Gid?”

  “Better the Gary you know, than the Rogan you don’t!”

  Only they didn’t know Gary as well as perhaps they thought. He had a vengeful side, a side that wouldn’t forget the slight.

  Gary wasn’t about to forgive the fishmen, but he was about to help them, and in doing so, finally help himself.

  “You know you don’t need Joe or that stupid show,” said Gary.

  “We don’t?”

  “You don’t even know how famous you are or what that means.”

  Gary glanced at his phone. His email was exploding. The YouTube channel had a million new followers.

  “What does it mean again?” asked Gideon.

  Gary smirked. The fishmen had no idea what kind of power they had.

  “It means you’ve completed Phase One of the Standard Influencer Playbook!” he said.

  And everyone knows there are two distinct phases.

  Phase One: Claw your way into relevance by any means necessary. Film a dead guy in a forest if you have to – just get a reaction. Negative heat is still heat, so get out there and piss people off. It doesn’t matter how you get them clicks. Just get them! Get them! What are you waiting for? Go and get them!

  Phase Two: Capitalise! Now that you’re good and famous. Sell people some horrific shit and sell it relentlessly. Every single piece of content you appear in is a chance to hawk your unsafe-for-consumption energy drink, your sweatshop merch range or your uninspiring and overpriced online course.

  “I’m sensing there’s a phase two,” said Gorbachev, propping himself up to listen.

  “In phase two we leverage your fame to Sell! Sell! Sell! But what are we selling, bros? T-shirts? Hoodies? Or what about—"

  “FISH!” declared Greg.

  “Seriously, you want to sell fish?”

  Gary blinked. Wait. This was actually brilliant. They controlled the ocean, after all. The least they could do was profit from it.

  “Apparently, the seafood industry is worth over $400 billy!” said Greg.

  “400 billy?” mouthed Gary. Where had they heard that?

  “And we have a competitive advantage,” said Gorbachev.

  “Oh, is that right?” Gary narrowed his eyes. “Did Rogan put you up to this?”

  Gideon’s guilty expression told him everything. Did it irk Gary that selling fish was Rogan’s idea? Absolutely. But like Gary Vee once famously said, “Ideas are shit! It’s all about execution.”

  “Fuck it,” said Gary, throwing his hand out to the creatures.

  “You want to sell fish? Let’s sell some fish!”