Story 184: Reza Shadey and the Everything-Counts Empire
Settle in, my sleepy little ones. Tonight we have a tale about a certain brown-and-black Persian cat who possessed more confidence than the entire Catford Chamber of Commerce put together... and who heard a song about handshakes, graphs and grabbing hands, then immediately decided it was a personal tribute to his own towering business genius.
It was a grey Tuesday afternoon in Catford. Mrs Higgins was pottering in the kitchen with the radio on, humming along to something rather old and rather British. Reza Shadey was stretched across the windowsill like a particularly expensive cushion, conducting what he called a "Strategic Ambient Scan".
Which was really just a very important way of doing absolutely nothing.
Then the song began.
A deep, thoughtful voice sang about contracts that could never be broken, graphs on the wall that told the whole story, and grabbing hands that grabbed all they could... because everything counts in large amounts.
Reza's emerald eyes snapped open.
His magnificent brown-and-black fur slowly expanded.
"Penelope", he whispered, though she was three gardens away, "the market has finally spoken."
He slid off the windowsill, marched through the cat flap, and summoned the board with three sharp taps of his tail against the birdbath.
Tiger arrived first, bouncing so hard a daisy flew off his ear.
"Is it chaos? Please say it's chaos!"
Ginger Tom wandered over, already chewing something crunchy.
"This better involve biscuits. I've got a schedule to maintain."
Penelope arrived last, looking elegant and already tired.
"Rezzi... why do I feel a long speech coming?"
Reza climbed onto an upturned flowerpot and struck his most important pose.
"Friends. Colleagues. Future shareholders. I have just received confirmation from the highest possible source."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"A song. A masterwork of corporate analysis. It speaks of handshakes that seal contracts. Of graphs that reveal the truth. Of grabbing hands that secure value. And the core message..."
He drew himself up to his full, formidable height, looking every inch the distinguished feline executive.
"...everything counts in large amounts."
Tiger gasped.
"That sounds brilliant!"
"Precisely", said Reza. "It is a direct endorsement of my entire operating model. Every tiny optimised decision, every strategic nibble, every carefully timed paw-tap... multiplies into greatness."
Penelope closed her eyes.
"Oh dear."
"Therefore", Reza continued, "we launch Operation Everything Counts. Phase One: the Contract Protocol. Phase Two: the Graph Wall. Phase Three: the Grabbing Hands Initiative."
He produced a scrap of cereal-box cardboard and a tiny stub of pencil.
"All stakeholders will now sign binding agreements. No turning back."
Tiger signed so enthusiastically the cardboard tore.
"BET!"
Ginger Tom squinted.
"What's in it for me?"
"Performance-related snack multipliers", Reza replied smoothly.
Tom signed immediately.
Penelope signed last, with a sigh that could have powered a small wind turbine.
Next came the Graph Wall.
Reza spent the entire afternoon stretching pieces of string across the garden fence, the compost bin, two gnomes and Mrs Higgins's washing line. He labelled each line with great care:
REVENUE
SNACK ACQUISITION
LEADERSHIP IMPACT
TIGER-RELATED CHAOS (NEGATIVE)
PENELOPE'S PATIENCE
GINGER TOM'S NAP HOURS
"Observe", he told the others. "The graph on the wall tells the story of it all. Currently we are tracking strongly upward... except for the Tiger line, which is, frankly, concerning."
Tiger peered at the zigzagging line.
"Is that the one that goes all over the place?"
"Yes."
"I like that one."
Then came the Grabbing Hands Initiative.
Reza explained it carefully.
"In a competitive world, one must secure resources before others do. Everything counts. Therefore... we grab."
He demonstrated by gently tapping a leaf, then declaring it "acquired corporate stationery".
Tiger took the instruction rather more literally.
Within ten minutes he had "grabbed" a clothes peg, half a tennis ball, three bottle tops, Mrs Higgins's gardening glove, and one very surprised woodlouse, who was later released with a formal apology from Penelope.
Ginger Tom simply walked up to the treat tin, opened it with one practised paw, and ate three Dreamies in a row.
"Logistics", he said.
Reza nodded approvingly.
"Excellent volume metrics."
By late afternoon the garden looked like a very confused office that had been hit by a small tornado.
String everywhere.
Cardboard contracts fluttering in the breeze.
Tiger wearing the gardening glove on his head like a crown.
And Reza standing proudly in the middle of it all, his milk-bottle-ring monocle perfectly balanced, declaring:
"The empire is scaling!"
That was when Mrs Higgins opened the back door.
She stopped.
She looked at the string.
She looked at the glove.
She looked at her very fluffy, very self-satisfied Persian cat.
"Oh, Reza", she said. "What on earth have you been doing now, you silly sausage?"
Reza turned with great dignity.
"Beatrice. You are witnessing a live demonstration of competitive resource optimisation. Everything counts in large amounts."
Mrs Higgins gently gathered up the string, rescued her glove, and scooped Reza into her arms.
"Everything counts", she agreed, "especially the bits that belong back in the shed."
That evening, freshly brushed and smelling of lavender, Reza lounged on his favourite cushion while the others gathered round.
"So", said Penelope carefully, "the Everything-Counts Empire..."
"A resounding success", Reza replied at once.
"You got your string confiscated."
"Strategic change of direction. The physical assets were merely the first iteration."
"Tiger ate three of the contracts."
"Proof of demand. The market literally consumed our offerings."
"Ginger Tom just took the biscuits and left."
"Perfectly rational stakeholder behaviour."
Tiger bounced once.
"Still counts as winning!"
Reza closed his eyes and purred the deep, contented purr of a cat who had once again proved — to himself — that he had been right all along.
"Tomorrow", he murmured sleepily, "we expand into vinyl. Possibly involving larger amounts."
Mrs Higgins scratched gently behind his ears.
"Whatever you say, my silly sausage."
And so Reza Shadey — Chief Executive of Absolutely Everything, Master of the Grabbing Paw, and the only cat in Catford who believed a 1980s song was secretly about him — drifted off to sleep dreaming of graphs that only ever went up, contracts that never expired, and a world where every single biscuit truly did count in large amounts.
A very important message from Mrs Higgins:
Songs can be fun to listen to, but they don't mean you should grab things that aren't yours or turn the garden into an office. Sharing, taking turns, and putting things back where they belong count in the largest amounts of all. And if you hear a song that makes you feel very important... maybe just dance instead.
Night night. Sleep tight.