Yes, my balls and everything that goes with them: even when the shark is not in evidence, it seems I cannot make a wrong choice. My own wealth increases almost as mightily as my cyborg erection. If I had known that alcohol poisoning, insomnia and the ineradicable scent of sex on my upper lip would do this to my professional skills, I would have debauched myself into a coma years ago. Fortunately I am now mature enough to handle my mutant power responsibly, so I do not have a heart attack or turn up to work without my trousers or anything like that. I run five funds now, all at once. They have differing imperatives, differing instructions and priorities, and in fact Megalos is the only large institutional client remaining in the original one. All the others have upgraded, moved on to my new, notionally riskier funds. Megalos is bound by some standing orders which require him to avoid such investments, so he and a smattering of smaller investors whom he introduced are the only ones still playing it safe. For the others, I dance between the flashing blades of economics like the girl from Cirque du Soleil. Nothing can stop me. The room—the whole bank—knows what I’m doing to myself, but for as long as I’m on this streak they won’t get in the way. You don’t mess with a man on a tear. In fact in a weird way they’re my safety net. For as long as I’m up, they’ll let me roll, and as soon as they sense weakness they’ll move me out and send me on a Kur, which is what the Germans call it when you go to a nice hotel with raw carrots on the menu to dry out and remember your own name.