This man , this executive , this head of the board , he walks up to the podium with a grin on his face like he just lifted a bus with hi...

    This man, this executive, this head of the board, he walks up to the podium with a grin on his face like he just lifted a bus with his dick. This chair of the meeting, he struts up to a wooden cuboid emblazoned with a big metal company logo, with a smile on his face like the entire room just sucked him off one by one. We didn't, but that's how he looks. Straightening his tie, widening his smile, adjusting the position of his feet on the soft carpeted floor of the auditorium in our swanky, shiny London offices, he spells out a sentence like a children's TV presenter, drawing out each word as if it tastes like warm cookies fresh from the oven. 

    "We'll just wait for everyone to join us," he says.

    Me, I wouldn't be here if I had a choice. I'm here as a favour to my boss, who owes a favour to some other guy, who owes a favour to the speaker. I'm just making notes, scribbling doodles, carving out a half-price record of history with an HB pencil. This is our monthly Town Hall meeting, a presentation given by some fat cat who rose up the ranks so long ago that he hasn't had any real interaction with the business since 9/11 was breaking news. Some big shot who probably hasn't done a job like yours or mine since Noel's House Party was still on television. As people file in, I prepare myself mentally for the unending stream of shit that is about to fall out of this man. This script about how well the company's doing, all written by some P.A. paid to blindly follow orders from this dribbling tycoon.

    And then it begins.

   "The merger is one of the hardest hurdles the company has had to cross," he drones, "but we're making it a cakewalk." The backdrop behind him is grey curtain, spread across the wall and coated in dust. The company colour: grey. The company theme: grey. This big wig's personality: non-existent. Slides that a nameless intern prepared earlier are projected on the centre of the curtain, and he clicks through them at yawn-inducing speed and talks about profit forecasts and quarterly performances and yearly targets.

    All the while, I imagine him losing consciousness, passing out and hitting his head on the corner of the podium on the way down, bleeding a pool of scarlet into the soft grey carpet. 

    The blood, it glugs out into the shape of our company logo.

    "I would advise you to reach out to your manager," he drools, "because we're all in it together. Touch base with a member of the leadership team, because you'll need them around in the next paradigm shift." Around me, some people are sighing and checking their watches but some people are more interested than if their lives had depended on them taking in every byte of information that slides from this VIP's mouth hole. Bloody apple polishers. Fresh-faced, bright-eyed arselickers.

    I look back and forth from this big cheese to his enthralled audience, and imagine a moment where every suit in the room disintegrates instantaneously. All these fat fuckers, their tremendous, horrifying naked bodies, they fall out and offend the eyes of the head honcho at the front. The heavy-hitter, his balls and piece fall out and the podium collapses in front of him, exposing his fiscal stimulus to the room.

    "The next twelve months will be an exciting time," he drawls, "because we're in a position of strength. Our risk is low, our profitability is high, our..." and I drift out. My phone vibrates in my pocket, a snippet of contact from the outside world, that light at the end of this eternal tunnel; but I don't check it. Someone behind taps me on the shoulder, whispers psssst, but I ignore them. My eyes burn a hole in this go-getter's head, while he vomits lies that might be true or might be false but either way they're lies. He grins and you notice his teeth have been professionally whitened, professionally straightened, professionally cleaned. His head shakes with enthusiasm and you notice plugs where his hair is thinning but his wallet is saving him. His hands clench the air and wave with excitement and you notice that he doesn't have a ring on his wedding finger. You wonder if he's gay, then you wonder if you care. A clue: you don't.

    All the while, I'm imagining gravity suddenly reversing, and everyone in the room falling against the ceiling. They fall head first, and because the drop is so small they don't have time to hold their hands out. Some necks break, some eardrums burst, some craniums crack, and the ceiling is soaked in blood, and I sit still on the floor, looking up at the mess they've created. The blood fills every inch of the ceiling, except for a tiny spot where our company logo resides. A logo constructed out of dry ceiling.

    These imaginary situations cycle through my head, changing and developing at blistering pace, until I can't make out the sentences that the heavyweight at the front is saying. "Buy low sell high facilitate change navigation legacy impossible odds," he slurs, and I imagine a train crashing into the room and I imagine everyone in the room spontaneously combusting and I imagine him losing the ability to speak, "but I believe we can really turn a corn..." and then, something weird happens. He stops, his face suddenly splattered with the surprised face of one unexpectedly punched hard in the chest. He meets eyes with me, for a second we connect, and his eyes tighten as if he's saying fuck you very much. He looks right through into my soul, just for a beat, and all I receive is hatred. And this is happening in real life.

    Then it happens. The seat of his trousers explodes, bursting aggressively and spraying the back curtain with fecal matter. He screams, with pain and confusion, as a gush of shit streams from his anus with such force that the entire stage, his slides, the curtain, even the podium, are covered in excrement. And before they have time to react, the same happens to every single audience member. Their chairs collapse, they soil the floor, they scream and cry and beg for it all to stop. The floor is soaked in a good few inches of hot wet shit and all I can do is sit here and laugh. My ankles swim in stinking, lumpy, deep brown feculence, and I'm tickled pink. Everyone's in pain, and all I feel is pleasure.

    This is the day I realise I have a power.

    The power of bowel control.