After the coronation, the fishmen were on cloud nine—high on consumer power and the visceral thrill of owning cheap plastic tiaras.

  “One more store,” they kept saying, leaving legions of terrorised staff in their wake.

  Still, all good things must come to an end. And at five o’clock, the retail employees breathed a sigh of relief, cried, “Fuck this shit!” and collectively went home.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Greg, already planning round two.

  For the comedown, Gary suggested a nearby beach, leaving the creatures lolling about happily in the ocean.

  With the fishmen gone, he was free to concentrate on the real business of building an empire. It was time to think BIG PICTURE… and immediately realise he didn’t have one.

  Gary gazed at the company registration form. Name: Blank. Industry: Also blank. Although at least for industry, there was a drop-down menu. He took a cursory glance at the options. The first choice was Agriculture, Forestry, and Fishing, which he immediately ruled out.

  From an egotistical perspective, the title of Fisherman wasn’t going to cut it. He wasn’t some chump in gumboots. Gary was a goddamn visionary! Granted he had no vision to speak of, but a true visionary knows that actually having one is completely irrelevant. You could be waiting weeks, months, years to have a real vision and honestly—who’s got the time?

  Modern visionaries know that the best strategy is to steal someone else’s. But whose vision should Gary steal? Again, he had no inclination. No thoughts of his own. Nothing but the power of Google, and luckily, that was enough.

  Best business models to steal, Gary typed. The first five articles were discouraging, unhelpful. Too much reading. Too many words. But Gary was determined. A real visionary doesn’t give up after five seconds—he can persevere for ten—fifteen at a stretch.

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  So, he scrolled. And he scrolled. And then—bingo! The perfect article.

  How Uber disrupted an entire industry.

  It was right there on the page. The vision! You don’t enter an existing market—you create a new one. That was how Uber took the taxi business and flipped it on its head, and the key to the head flipping? The disruption? The inevitable rise of Gary? The key to it all was an app.

  With an app you could do anything. ANYTHING. You could call yourself a technology company to avoid industry regulations! And those pesky laws? With an app you could break them with impunity.

  They weren’t here to do fishing the old way—the slow way. No sirree! Because Gary Graves was about to change the game forever.

  Forget boats. Forget quotas. Forget standing in line at the supermarket, staring at a sad, overpriced fillet. Forget the entire seafood industry! You’d simply tap the app, and the fish would come to you. Fish without the hassle, delivered directly to your door!

  All Gary needed now was a name.

  Can you suggest a good name for a fish delivery service? he typed into ChatGPT.

  There were ten suggestions offered, but only one that caught Gary’s eye. Fish Direct! It was simple. Clean. Almost competent. Everything he aspired to be.

  His heart pounded as he returned to the form, fingers flying over the keyboard.

  Company Name: Fish Direct?.

  Industry: Technology.

  Gary sat back, relishing his victory. He had done it. Named a soon-to-be empire! Well, ChatGPT had, although that’s not how he’d portray the moment in the inevitable biopic. Creative licence could make him look like quite the ideas man!

  Unfortunately, the form was far from finished. Gary pressed “Next” and immediately recoiled. This wasn’t a registration form. This was a test of endurance.

  Please upload the following (laughed the form):

  □ Primary form of ID

  □ Secondary form of ID

  □ Tertiary form of ID (lol, good luck with that!)

  □ Quaternary form of ID (You didn’t think we’d make this easy, did you?)

  □ Proof of address (x9) (As many as nine? Yes. God yes.)

  □ Bank statements dating back to your birth (Pre-existence records may also be checked if necessary.)

  Gary squinted at the screen. What was a quaternary ID? And who the hell even had one?

  He kept scrolling. The list wasn’t finished yet.

  □ Letter of consent from a parent or legal guardian

  This only served to remind him that he no longer had one.

  A tear formed in his eye as Gary read the final requirement.

  □ Signed approval from a genuine, crown approved hermit (Applicants are responsible for locating said hermit. No further assistance will be provided.)

  He slammed his laptop shut. This was gonna be a nightmare.