5007

A billion billionaires sit at a million tables in one room at the top of the Wagonblast hotel in New Swashbuttle.  They chitter chatter in moneyspeak and swap companies and holiday homes in exotic locations.  Champagne is delivered to their tables through a series of pipes with mouse trap-esque levels of complexity.  All to titillate and tantalise.  Security is strict, monitored on 180mph doper-computers.

In the kitchen we cut bacon with diamonds and bananas with stainless steel steak knives.

“We’ve got to make a lot of sandwiches,” my assistant notes, snapping a banana open at the top like a chicken neck.  “Are these people worth a lot?”

In sandwich terms.  “Well, the sandwiches are five pounds each.  So, they’re each worth 200 million sandwiches.  At least.”

“So we need to make…”

“They’ll only eat a couple each at most.  So, two billion then.”

Two billion bacon and banana sandwiches coming up.  It was a lot to make and we paced ourselves, working steadily and taking breaks to play with the special set of top trumps cards issued to celebrate the conference.

“I’ll go with the category ‘cat dowry’ six and a half million.”

“Twelve million.”

I threw him my card noting that it would take a long time for one of us to collect all billion cards in the pack.  Back to the sandwiches.  I kept a close eye on the clock and the calendar, trying to time our food just right.  Bacon and banana sandwiches was course number 476,283,109.  Straight after spring seaweed rolls and before stout jelly.

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