went viral, the Musashis were signed by an outfit called Stardust Promotion. "They didn't sign us , they signed them ," Hideo says. He means the cats. Rebecca and I laugh. Hideo doesn't laugh. "No," he says. "They paid in fish." I look to Rebecca for a cue about how Japanese etiquette might encourage us to react here. She looks at me defencelessly. Hideo says, "They presented Musashi with a whole fish. Musashi put his paw print on the contract." They laugh now, so we do too. Manaho returns to one of the two laptops on the table, browses her blog, and turns the screen back toward us to show a video. In it, two men come around the back of an unmarked minivan, open the double doors, and gingerly lift a silver fish on a stretcher. Hideo narrates. "Those are the Stardust guys, getting the fish." They bring it inside. "They brought it inside." Musashi sits propped against the sofa like the sultan of Brunei. "That's Musashi," Hideo says, as if there is any other known cat that takes up a third of a sofa, and as if he isn't still sleeping in my lap. The men present Musashi with the fish. Musashi remains expressionless; whatever avarice the cat was feeling remained concealed behind his aldermanic composure. They zoom in. Musashi doesn't flinch. He doesn't notice. "He's thinking about it," Hideo says. "Now he agrees." Musashi puts his red paw print on the contract, then scuds off, blotting the