“It was supposed to be a joyous occasion—a very happy birthday,” said broadcaster Tina Staples, “Tiny Tim was turning seven, and all he wanted was his favourite dish. What he didn’t ask for—what no child should ever have to endure—was a meal laced with vape juice. A meal supplied by none other than our supposed saviours, Fish Direct?.”

  “Just a warning, the following footage is extremely disturbing to any parent who actually loves their children.”

  On screen, Tiny Tim is crying.

  “And in a fair use of juxtaposition, here’s recently knighted Fish Direct? founder, Sir Gary Graves, clinking a champagne glass, while winking suggestively.”

  The outrage was immediate. Gary’s phone lit up with calls.

  “Gary, it’s the New Zealand Government speaking.”

  “Hello, Malcolm.”

  “What’s this I’m hearing about tainted shipments? About fish doused to the gills in vape juice? Tell me this isn’t happening.”

  “Malcolm, this is the first I’m hearing about it, I swear.”

  “Gary, this is a disaster. I’ve got an entire Facebook group of concerned mums outside my window, and they’re baying for blood. They’re organising online petitions, Gary. Make them stop!”

  “Malcolm, we can get through this. Trust me.”

  “The Prime Minister has personally requested a solution. And by ‘solution’, I mean a sacrificial head on a platter.”

  “A scapegoat?”

  “A big one. Someone high-profile. Someone the public can hate.”

  “Leave it with me,” said Gary, hanging up the phone.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “SHIT!” he screamed. “SHIT! FUCK! SHIT!”

  The PING of notifications was constant. Frightening. There were petitions. Complaints. And then, an email from Crawford Thorne.

  The subject: Better Luck Next Month

  The email featured two simple statistics. Units sold and Gross Revenue. Thorne Oceanic was dwarfing them in both.

  Fish Direct – 200,000 units sold. Gross Revenue $4 million.

  Thorne Oceanic – 50 million units sold. Gross Revenue $750 million

  After the figures, there was one simple and cutting phrase:

  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

  Gary’s hands clenched. His knuckles whitened. “Oh, so you’re laughing, are you?” His breath came short. Fast. “Well, let’s see how much you’re laughing when I spin the scandal on you?”

  Gary didn’t waste another second. “Trenton. Get here. Now.”

  Ten minutes later, Trenton Veneer arrived to deal with the crisis.

  They worked the narrative, massaged it, spun it like a web. Two hours later, Gary had his story.

  “Malcolm,” said Gary. “I’ve cracked it. The vape juice was a deliberate act of sabotage by none other than global fishing giant Thorne Oceanic. They knew they couldn’t compete with our ethical model, so they poisoned our fish to discredit us. A massive foreign entity trying to destroy New Zealand’s future.”

  “Do you have any evidence?” asked Malcolm Fairweather. “Some grainy footage maybe? Doesn’t have to be too plausible. But we need something.”

  “I’m on it,” said Gary, and immediately, he was.

  ***

  Jim followed the tyre tracks—the steamrolled bushes and trees.

  There it was. Jock’s crumpled truck, smoking in the afternoon sun. Detailed Government records had told Jim “The Money” Devereaux exactly where to look. Particularly useful was The Great Book of Bullshit. Between the mileage logs and Jock’s existential haikus, it wasn’t hard to work out his route—or his state of mind at the time.

  Depressed. Desperate.

  As Jim approached, he saw the money.

  At first, he mistook it for trash—debris from the accident. But as he stumbled closer, Jim recognised his first love. His instinct was to grab it. See money, take money. But it couldn’t be that simple, could it? This wasn’t an episode of Beast Games. And this free money probably came with a side of criminal charges—charges he’d rather avoid.

  Anyway, Thorne would pay handsomely for the information.

  Jim reached for his camera. Pressed record. There was only one question remaining.

  Where was Jock?

  The front window was shattered. The cab? Empty.

  After a moment’s pause, Jim extended the search. Something odd about that tree, he thought. His brain didn’t quite process what he was seeing. A shape—twisted. Wrong. Stranger still, that shape had a boot. The boot, a leg. And that leg led to, you guessed it, Jock McGinty—his face buried in the roots of the tree, his poison-filled vape loyally clasped in his cold, dead hand.