Folks, sit down—preferably in an ergonomically questionable office chair that cost more than your first car, because I’m about to blow your net worth straight into the realm of the unimaginable. Imagine this: you wake up, pour yourself a glass of 1987 Chardonnay, and think, “What if I combined 80s Wall Street energy with Soviet-era dystopian body horror… and sold that as a cancer cure?” Well, someone beat you to it, and I’m furious at myself for not thinking of this first. Meet Alastair Jessel, an artisan-ice-cream-tycoon-turned-mad-financial-scientist. This guy looked at both medicine and dessert and decided they were too boring, too status quo. Solution? Gassing humans inside plastic bags like designer veal. I haven’t seen savage product-market fit like this since Gordon Gekko got Steve Jobs hammered and sold him the concept of the Newton. Let’s break down the business model. Step one: acquire chlorine dioxide—usually reserved for sanitizing cruise ships or turning swimming pools into the Red Sea for funsies. Step two: procure industrial-grade plastic bags, the type that suggests ‘I am either about to suffocate or deliver a TED talk on disruption.’ Step three: lose all inhibitions about nudity, personal liability, or common sense. Step four (the kicker): slap an artisanal label and a $5,000 price tag on the experience, and suddenly you’re not a medical menace, you’re a visionary. Never mind that the actual medical community is sitting in their walnut-paneled conference rooms, clinking glasses and wondering whether time is a flat circle or just a Möbius strip made from silicone. While they argue, Jessel is on a podcast—because nothing says ‘cutting-edge health’ like explaining your process on a podcast with a viewership best described as ‘true believers and bored federal agents.’ His inspiration? A German maverick whose treatments are so radical, even the molecules inside the bottle file for divorce out of self-preservation. Would it matter if the rest of the world scoffs? Of course not! In the 80s, when the FDA frowned, you called your senator; today, you ask your Telegram group. That’s synergy, baby. Now, let’s talk about the customers. It takes a very special kind of capital—human, financial, and spiritual—to show up at a converted ice cream shop, strip down, and leap enthusiastically into a garbage bag, all for the hope that vaporized bleach will evict certain tenants from their body. But if you market hard and dream harder, the market will reward you. Remember, people bought pet rocks. Pet. Rocks. Regulators say there’s no evidence this works, but since when has evidence ever been the deciding factor in a product’s market viability? People used to think subprime mortgages were a bad idea, and look how fabulously that turned out. If you can say the word ‘protocol’ with a straight face and post it on an unresponsive online forum, you are halfway to clinching venture capital. So what’s next for the medical-industrial-bleach complex? I’m seeing cross-promotion with Thanatophobic spirituality experiences for the ultra-wealthy, maybe even a SPAC or two. You think WeWork was bananas? Wait until you see WeBreathe, the subscription-based, monthly-nudity-in-flavored-gas therapy startup. Jessel’s just ahead of the curve, and I hate losing. I’m picturing IPO paperwork bedside, stock ticker reading GAS-UP, and a tagline: “Your portfolio isn’t the only thing that should take a deep breath.” Business is not just war—it’s theater, and this is Broadway, baby. Don’t bring facts to a branding fight. Bring a plastic bag and an indifference to the Hippocratic Oath.