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stomach flops with a dramatic flourish on to the deck, the survivor of an ocean disaster. The next problem is how to board without his stomach in full view of the world’s press. There’s only one possibility other than time travel. He must swimround to the seaward side of the yacht, which, owing to its vastness, will take precious minutes.
    â€˜Boss, the call must start now,’ shouts his aide in desperation.
    â€˜Improvise, fuck you,’ comes the reply as he sets off on his journey, unsupported by the dirigible ballast of his belly.
    Moments later, the aide is in a video-conference room addressing a screen of smart-looking American bankers.
    â€˜Gentlemen, good afternoon,’ he begins. ‘We’re having some technical problems at this end. The camera’s been knocked by the pitch of the boat and you’ll only be able to see part of the Boss.’
    â€˜No problem,’ the chief banker replies.
    â€˜Also,’ continues the aide, ‘we’ll lose sound in a few moments, so he’ll signal his wishes to you by way of bodily movement.’
    â€˜OK, no problem.’
    The aide steps to one side and the bankers recognise Boss Olgarv’s stomach propped up in a chair at the conference table. It fills the screen impressively.
    â€˜Boss Olgarv, good afternoon to you,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ve been studying the acquisition opportunity and feel it makes a lot of sense; it’s a good fit. We advise you to go ahead; our fee will be two per cent of the deal.’
    The aide breaths a sigh of relief. A few years ago, the Boss acquired for nothing a big-scale retailer in Russia catering for teenage girls. Now it’s magically worth billions. The bankers have recommended that he buys a complementary business. He sneaks behind the stomach and wobbles it to signal assent.
    â€˜That’s great news, Boss,’ says the chief banker. ‘We’ll start the paperwork. Just a moment, please, we need to go offline for a minute.’
    Again the stomach wobbles.
    The chief banker pushes the mute on his conference phone and turns to his team. ‘Boys, there’s something going on here. Back me up.’
    â€˜Sorry about that, Boss,’ he continues. ‘We’d like your take on another good fit. It’s … er … a slaughter business, countrywide, with dozens of processing units. We’ve been thinking – say a teenage girl buys a pink skirt, matching jacket and some pretty accessories, she gets a coupon at the sales counter for one of the slaughterhouses. She goes to the nearest one, hands in her coupon and gets a big chunk of bloody meat or – we don’t want to overdo it on the giveaways – maybe some intestines or stinking offal. She takes the bonus gift home along with her pretty pink outfit and everyone’s a winner. The slaughter business is a steal and we’ll only charge you a ten-per-cent fee. What do you think?’
    Panic rises in the aide’s chest. He shakes the stomach from behind. But is this a ‘yes’ shake or a ‘no’ shake? And isn’t it reasonable for the bankers to assume that any shake is a ‘yes’ shake, since the stomach has already given the first deal its vibrating assent?
    â€˜Fantastic, Boss,’ says the senior banker. ‘We’ll take that as a yes – legally recorded on video, of course – and get on with the paperwork. If you don’t mind, Hank has another pitch for you.’
    The aide attempts another shake as if to convey a ‘no’but the banking pack is in its stride, closing fast on its disembodied prey.
    â€˜This one’s a bit left of centre, Boss,’ starts Hank, ‘but hear me out … What we do is go along to some waste-processing plants and buy a whole lot of raw sewage – just as much as we can get our hands on. Then we send off to plants in other countries for their shit. After that, we do some