Pockets

    That ambiance inside the Filch & Finagle War Room was palpable, and not just because the proprietary traders were lounging around sipping human blood.  Seamus Mulgoon, a.k.a. Pockets, who's been operating this award-winning SoHo wealth-removal boutique since 1789, has individually slit more financial throats than any other CEO in the history of free market capitalism, and from the looks of the place, he did most of it here.



    Horror lined the spattered walls.  Terror stalked the wary blogger foolish enough to venture inside.  There’s a reason why certain mobsters lurk in the subbasements of the City of Broken Dreams. Why they can’t work the architectural marvels upstairs.

    Wise guys here would melt in the daylight rays.

    Pockets was hunched over a young intern, biting her neck, when the thick, iron-hinged, white oak doors swung aside.  The CEO’s fangs plunged deep, kind of scraping her carotid artery, deliciously but not puncturing through membranes that would cause a mortal wound. Mulgoon loosed his bite, syrupy red ooze spilling across both cheeks, and the intern started screaming bloody murder.

    “BLOODY MURDER!  BLOODY MURDER!  BLOODY MURDER!”

    “Get a grip, Honey,“ an underboss called over, her voice quaking a little.  Underboss was strapped naked onto a nearby table, limbs bound tightly, hardly able to wiggle.  Management training at Filch & Finagle is rigorous, traditionally one of the toughest programs in the securities industry, but their efforts do turn out grifters who can deal with financial derivatives in the 21st Century marketplace.  A pair of soldiers, loitering nearby, came over and dragged the frenetic intern away.

    “BLOODY MURDER!  BLOODY MURDER!  BL!”

    “Good to see you, MacDougal,“ Mulgoon offered, licking his cheeks.

    “Get your hands out of my pockets,” I had to say.

    “Got any bills on you?”

    “Get them out.  Now, Seamus.”

    “I found pocket change.”

    “I know, you bloodsucking thief.”

    “Come on, where’s the wallet?”

    With enough leverage, I managed to shove the groping CEO off me.  Muldoon‘s hands slipped out of my pockets as deftly as they’d found a way in.  He started chasing me around the table.  The wise gal strapped to it cheered him on, wiggling harder.  She was really in the moment, your blogger tried not to notice.

   “For goodness sakes, Seamus, you’re CEO of a Fortune 500 Company.”

    “How do you think I got here?  Lemme see the credit cards.”

    “No.”

    “You carry a checkbook?”

    “Not if I’m coming here.”

    “Where does your wife keep her jewelry?”

    “How would I know?”

    “Any collectables?”

    “No.”

    "Coins?  Stamps?  Rare books?”

    “No.  No.  No.”

    “Baseball cards then?”

    Somehow the wiggling finally got to your blogger, and Seamus caught up.  It happened so fast I didn’t even know he’d frisked me too.

    “Car keys,” Mulgoon screamed.  “I got car keys.”  Then the CEO was out the oaken door.

___________

    “This is 911.  Press 1 for Spanish, 2 for Nigerian, 3 for Arabic, 4 for Hebrew, 5 for Classical Hebrew, 6 for Mayan …….”  On a lark I hit 0 for Operator.  I hit it again.  Sounded like this crowd was up to double zero at least.

    “English-speaking operator.  Press 1 if your cat is up in a tree……“  I hit 0 a third and fourth time.

    “Live English-speaking operator.  How can our emergency services personnel brighten your day today?”

    “Pockets Mulgoon just lifted my car keys.”

    “Pockets?”

    “Pockets.”

    “Get out of there while you still can, Sir.  The SWAT team is on its way.”

Lewie the Dip

    We dropped in on Cooke & Burne the other day to chat with our old friend Llewellyn Swypes, a.k.a. Lewie the Dip.  The Swypes family has worked Wall Street for generations now, dipping into everything that flows.  Wherever money changes hands anywhere in the rackets, you’ll find a Swypes buddied up between the counterparties.


    It’s the only place to be when you’re dipping.


    Lewie used to dip into trades for eighths and quarters back when the Street used a fractional system, but things got decimalized, and the whole business changed, and now he’s into suckers for .125’s and .25’s.


    We found Lewie straddling the Cooke & Burne main frame when we reached the Crime Family’s underground data processing center in subbasement C.  The Dip was kind of nestled between input and output, astride something called the crossput, a keyboard thingy in each hand.  Fingers blurred, he talked about his place in this speedy new world.


    “I used to stand on the trading room floor“, he reminisced a little tearfully, “between two wise guys.  Now look at me.”  I did, and clearly The Dip had a computer up his a$$.  But orders were passing through, and just as clearly The Dip was dipping.


    “How do you dip anyway?” I asked, and Lewie’s face brightened.  You could see he loved this job.


    “I’m dipping .25s today.  On a $30 trade, buyer pays 30.25, seller gets $29.75”  I’m dipping into both sides of the transaction.




    "So everybody gets dipped.”


    “It‘s America.  You‘re an American, aren‘t you?  Everybody gets dipped in America.”


    Just then two trades crossed on the tape.  They had to be Lewie’s.


    “Who bought from the Seller at $29.75?” I wondered.


    “Cooke & Burne.”


    “Who sold to the buyer at 30.25?”


    “Cooke & Burne.”


    “So that’s how proprietary trading works.”


    “I couldn’t say.  That information is proprietary.”


    The Dip made $21.8 billion for Cooke & Burne last year, pulling down $1.7 billion in total compensation himself, including Christmas bonus.  Most mobsters consider Lewie the smartest trader on The Street.


    He’s certainly got the stickiest little fingers in town.

How to End Up with $1 Million on Wall Street

    Start with $10 million.

The New Zero

    The new zero is 3.  That’s where Bank of America stock bottomed out in the Great Crash, and I have this recurring nightmare that I’ll wake up one morning and all the stocks will be selling at 3.  Or did that happen already?  Its hard to stay clear sometimes in the post-apocalyptic era.



    Over at the Market Assault Cabal, a private wealth management firm spearheading Gangland efforts to eradicate public savings once and for all, they talk a lot about breaking through those last three digits.  For some reason, crushing a stock’s price under 3 and then through 2 and finally 1 poses a quandary for plunderers.


    “When it gets down to pillage time, we choke,” Whip Flayer, Vice President of Genocidal Operations, explained.  “Looting’s a piece of cake, and skimming, and our underbosses can sack with the best of them, but Mucus brought me in to get organized crime across the finish line with the total plundering.”  Mucus Poole-Knightly who runs the Cabal, was unavailable for our meeting, off on the Korean Peninsula again training with the U.S. Women‘s 13 and Under National Cycling Team.  Mucus, the squad’s corporate sponsor, doubles as equipment manager for the bikers when they’re on the road a lot.


    “I’m calling it the Nuclear Option Project, and all we can tell you right now is that our business model involves the small investor, a kick-ass Croatian arms dealer, and 713 canisters of weapons-grade plutonium.”


    “How does the option differ from mark-to-market accounting?” I had to ask.


    Whip smiled warmly.  “We really messed you up with that one.” Everybody knows about my Bank of America thing now, probably because I‘m blogging it all over the internet.  Infiltrating the accounting community, gangsters chopped BAC off at the knees, dropping the price from 50 something to that infamous new zero, 3, by screwing with everybody‘s accounting practices.
 
    “F#$& you,” I never actually verbalized, but the facial expressions were there.  Racketeers call themselves private wealth managers to distinguish their money from yours, which is forecast to disappear any day now according to informed sources close to every dime, and the Dons are bribing Washington with campaign contributions to let them get away with it, and I‘m the only voter in the country who seems to be aware of this.


    Believe me, I am going to take it out on them at the polls.  At least the ones I can stop voting for.  But what’s the use if I’m the only one?


    The Market Assault Cabal includes dozens of the most violent, amoral, criminally insane, homicidal psychopaths the Harvard MBA program has ever produced, well, lately anyway, and still the mobsters couldn’t close the deal on my Bank of America shares.  “Quotes are printing way up in the teens now,” I reminded him.


    “Nuclear option,“ Whip spat out through clenched bicuspids after I’d insulted his manhood with that one. “Don’t worry, we’re never stopping at 3 again.“


    Meaning zero could be back to zero once more.  Great.  I can’t wait for this canister to drop.


    I just can’t wait.

The Hedge Fund Manager

    Remember the sniveling, squinty-eyed little freak with those great big ugly glasses who threw up inside your back pack way back in First Grade?  Thought you might.  Pervert with the unseemly crush on your little sister’s bicycle seat through the Middle School years.  Same smarmy, frog-faced, snot-nosed, sneaky rotten weasel peeing in the punch bowl the year mom chaperoned your Junior High Hop.  Cheered at the news your older brother got shot down in the skies over Iraq.

    Well, don’t take it personally, but the smarmy, frog-faced, snot-nosed, sniveling, squinty-eyed, sneaky rotten little weasel pervert freak is eradicating your savings for a living now.



    Manages the Market Assault Cabal, this private hedge fund down at 14 Wall.  Serial short-seller’s what that is.  Psycho turned out to be just the kind of man the Harvard MBA program was looking for.  The kind who knows how to destroy lives in The City of Broken Dreams.


    Short-selling is M. Poole-Knightly’s passion.  And Mucus does it only because there’s no money in drowning kittens for a living this side of the Korean Peninsula.  Especially in the upscale consumer markets back home here in North America.


    And upscale is where its at for Mucus Poole-Knightly now. Where the fund part of hedge fund happens to be.


    Shaped largely by a half century of affirmative action at the elite Ivy League universities, hedge funds today find themselves being run by an eclectic mix of northeastern corridor royalty and some of your more upwardly mobile gun-toting erstwhile Drug Lords from the South Bronx.  There‘s nothing middle class about entitlement in America, and the industry reflects it.


    That’s okay.  Thanks to the Boom Box Revolution, or whatever that noise is, there‘s nothing middle class about the middle class around here anymore either.

    Massive short-selling, formerly the province of traditional Wall Street Crime Families, spread into the hands of rogue street thugs when the nation’s MBA programs started producing underbosses no longer satisfied with their cut, and these Gangland rats jumped ship, dragging enough large clients along with them to make big time short-selling work at the Wall Street Nouveau Crime Family hedge fund level.  To be successful at eradicating other people‘s savings, all your start-up racketeer needs is criminal insanity, his inordinate piece of the inequitable distribution of national wealth, and sufficient number, that is, many, many, many like-minded serial-killing psychopaths all gangbanging the same stock prices together.  Hard enough to destroy the small investor utterly, of course.



    Well, that plus the total inability to care whether or not the hapless public sucker has finally been smothered in enough toxic paper to take the entire world economy down too, enabled by the SEC‘s blatant lack of knowledge about what regulatory hotshots are supposed to be doing inside their little cubicles, one might add.

    Mucus, corporate sponsor of the United States Women’s 13 and Under National Cycling Team, had just returned from yet another jaunt across the Korean Peninsula when I caught up with him at his lair.  The financial barbarian and his charming wife, Honey Buns, popular terpsichorean artist in the renowned Pink Pole Room at the Tarrytown Gentlemen’s Club, were waiting for me by the bike racks in the parking lot outside their castle.



    “What the hell do you serial-killing psychopaths think you’re doing, destroying the world economy like that, you sniveling frog-faced little pervert?” I inquired.


    “I like it when you talk sardonically,” Honey Buns breathed heavily in my ear.

    “Who loaned you my Bank of America in the 50s, and took it back around 3?” I went on, getting right to my reason for interviewing this particular racketeer in the first place.  “Come on. Who?  Fess up.”

    Mucus fell all over himself and the bike rack laughing.

    “Does he even exist?”  Short-sellers claim they borrow shares first, then short-sell them, but that’s all flim-flam.  These con artists are really creating brand new phony shares, terminally polluting the financial numbers investors rely on when making their decisions.   And regulatory hotshots let the unscrupulous hit men manufacture as many play shares as they need to eradicate our savings.  I just wanted to hear Flim-Flam Man admit it.


    The expression on the financial barbarian’s face recalled who people in the old neighborhood decided he really was when those girls started to go missing in the college town where frog-face just happened to be going to school.

Calamari

    Where I come from, calamari is a Family curse.

    My mother put calamari out on the table once, and the old man hot-footed me over to Johnny’s for a large pepperoni with green peppers on his half and pineapple on mine, just the way I like it.

    There’s no need going into what happened next, but after we got back, it did, and we didn’t see the old man’s sorry ass around the apartment for weeks anyway, and then only on these kind of conditional party of his part visitation things under the iron hand of the recently aggrieved party of her part.

    So I figure wishing calamari on somebody is the worst curse a former wise guy can lay on you.

    Obama just signed the Financial Reform Act of 2010, bribed with lavish gangland campaign contributions into pretending that short-sellers didn’t cause the Great Crash of 2008/09 caused by short-sellers, and I wish calamari on this President and everyone who had anything to do with a mob-funded bill designed to keep, near as I can tell, all the mugging, thieving, skimming, pocket-picking Wall Street thugs on our crime-ridden financial streets.  Every single one.


    All this thing addresses are yesterday's scams, and maybe the occasional transparent caper shuttered the moment regulatory hotshots catch on to it.  Scams change like the weather down on Wall Street.  What we sorely needed from this piece of calamari legislation was scammers in the clink.

    And housing consumer protection inside the Fed is somebody’s idea of a cruel joke.  Alan Greenspan, former Chairman there, insisted time and again that he wasn’t supposed to please Congress.  His constituency was the banks.


    Double calamaris on B. Hussein Obama and the pack of them on the hill.  Alvin Green for President in 2012.

Financial Reform Act

    Wall Street bribes, whitewashed as campaign contributions, made sure that reform of "practices like those that led to the 2008 crash" is not addressing short-sellers or short-selling “practices” creating the current 2010 market meltdown, let alone any future global economic apocalypse.  Dons paid Washington stooges to construct the same kind of regulatory fabric the mob has controlled for generations.  Gangland Crime Lords can still tell bureaucrats what to investigate while short-sellers focus elsewhere, devouring public savings as if the ridiculous tail-wagging-dog approach here had never been drawn up at all.  There’s nothing in it to prevent mob short-sellers from trashing your investments.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.



    In fact, Family hit men were busy crushing world stock prices again while Congress worked this very piece-of-garbage legislation out.


    There has never been a more useless bill in Washington.  Whether the President signs it or not, I don’t even care.

For 550 Big, SEC Makes It All Go Away

    In a historic press release issued yesterday, Goldberg, Styx announced that managers had agreed to think about trying to ask employees to focus a little harder on not making any more clerical mistakes in the future in one of the mortgage-backed bond businesses the firm got out of last year if the SEC made its fraud investigation go away, except, of course, for the Frenchman who caused the entire world financial collapse with those emails to his girlfriend.  Well, then girlfriend anyway.


    In a separate press conference, gloating regulatory officials announced that the SEC was into Goldberg for 550 big.  “It’s all about money on Wall Street, and we‘re players too,” a spokesperson offered, informing reporters that “Uncle Sammy pockets 300 big here.”

    Asked why that part of the money wasn’t going to victims of the fraud, the spokesperson responded, “Next question?”

   Officials wouldn’t speculate if the SEC was planning to underwrite mortgage-backed bonds now too, what with all that dough and everything.  At this time, no one could say how many SEC staffers would be joining Goldberg one of these days, when personnel transfers might take place, or if any lateral career moves would be officially announced as part of yesterday’s historic settlement.

    It’s still unclear whether or not Goldberg plans to release the then girlfriend’s emails to the Frenchman anytime soon.  Most experts believe they’re really hot.

The Shakedown

    Typically, the only mob contact small investors have is with their local Wall Street Crime Family storefront.  The grifters there will be really likeable guys, or maybe nowadays, guys and gals, with these great telephone voices.  According to a gangland source with close matrimonial ties to my mother, who was a Saint, The Street hires these con artists specifically for that skill, sounding like one of the Founding Fathers on the horn, (so what readers of this blog need to do is stop answering the insidious telephone when yours calls up.  Drive out to the storefront for a face-to-face, and let the lowlife swindling gangster try giving you the finger while he’s scamming you then).



    Wise guys from Crime Family bookmaking operations talk to their storefront con artists all the time, explaining what racket the Dons are running now, psyching everybody up for the sting and like that, so when your grifter pulls out the old sucker list, hits speed dial, and starts in resonating those million dollar bel canto tones against your tympanic membrane, he knows his aria as well as Placido Domingo ever did, is probably emoting like Jose Carreras at a bravissimo performance, and already has his Luciano Pavarotti digging into your money market account for breakfast.


    Among my personal favorites here are the protection shakedowns, run pretty much non-stop during earnings season by our Crime Family back in the day.

    Now the term, earnings season, is a misnomer.  It’s really open season, and it’s open season on you.  As these blogs will point out endlessly, there are only two sources of money on Wall Street, yours and theirs, and any time new numbers come out, gangland bookies climb all over what that doesn’t mean to stock values, figuring out how to use every irrelevant digit to transfer money out of your hands into what is, by our aforementioned metric, the only other place it can go.


    And so, four times a year mobsters ratchet up the shakedowns, widely used in Street protection rackets, scams that are so nuts the consigliore, himself, takes a personal interest.  Grifters paying close attention can always hear him cackling whenever the matter comes up during Family strong-arming conference calls.

    "Put the stop loss in at 25".  Cackle, cackle.  With the market at 30 right now, this means anyone owning the stock will be sold out when it drops to 25, reason being that the bloodletting ends there should prices keep plummeting all the way down to, say, 24.  Or whatever.  Cackle, cackle, cackle.  (If you don’t understand what kind of protection this is, don’t worry.  After 55 years in the stock market, neither do I.  But that’s what the mob says it is.  I kid you not.  And they bribe Congress to go along, and titillate SEC bureaucrats with prospects of kingly future employment to agree with anything they say as well, so all Washington proclaims it’s protection in the clueless financial media, and you can hear it on GE TV 24/7 too.)

    Anyway, what’s really going on here is something like this.  A while back, the Godfather set the son-in-law up with some organic material disposal business losing $45 million a quarter.  One of those "we’ll never earn a dime but you gotta love our future", high-tech outfits that’s never going to earn a dime but you‘ve gotta love its future.  Godfather doesn’t care about the 45 big.  Family’s skimming $1.7 billion from investor accounts every 13 weeks shaking customers down over the stock price.


    Losses pound OrgMatDip stock south.  Future gooses the quote north.  For a Wall Street Crime Family, it doesn’t get any better than this.


    And now, with Organic Material Disposal at 30 and six weeks to go before the next earnings announcement, your grifter’s in your ear about OrgMatDip’s future, so you buy a hundred shares.


    "A thousand, O, sole mio."


    All right, you buy a thousand shares.


    "Put a stop loss in at 25, Tu cha nun ciagne ."


    Okay, you put a stop loss in at 25.


    “O, MAMMA MIA”


    Few weeks later, grifter is on the phone again - but starts off with OrgMatDip’s losses this time.  Some rumor in the financial media.  These days everything in the financial media is rumor.  There are no facts anymore.  We ran out or something.  “Future be damned,” the con artist tells you, “OrgMatDip’s going broke. You got stopped out.”


    Well, kind of. See, this is where the consigliore brought the muscle in.  Shakedown muscle.


    Family short-sellers mugged Organic Material Disposal south to 25, so the mob computer sold your 1,000 shares while Family goons covered their shorts and bought up all the stock on that sucker list, including yours, whereupon the consigliore and them could drive OrgMatDip back north to 30 and dump a large block on some union pension fund at 5 points above market because that’s the kind of price institutional investors have to pay Wall Street Gang Lords to cover the risk the mob’s not taking in accumulating blocks for large investors by shaking down the small ones this way in their protection rackets.


                                      _______________




    “OrgMatDip.”  It’s a month after the earnings announcement now, and the grifter‘s back on the line.  You haven’t heard from him for awhile.  “Losses be damned,” he intones.  “You gotta love its future.”  You knew this was coming, O, sole mio.


    That other quarter’s over, the one where they muscled you out of 5 little on this piece of garbage, but guess what?  It’s open season again.  1.7 large every 13 weeks.


    “1.7 large from the “you” in all of you.  There are only two sources of money on Wall Street, yours and theirs, and sometimes that’s what becomes of yours.


    Wise guys pinch it from you in a shakedown.

Codicil Risk

    Prior to 2008 Wall Street racketeers leaned on America’s accountants to switch to the mark-to-market method of valuing paper assets, the principal holdings of any firm in the financial sector, be it an insurance operation, bank, business development company (BDC), real estate investment trust (REIT), or the like.  What part mob bribes to elected officials played in this has never been explained by an FBI deeming wise guy payoffs legal if the sums are big enough and you call them campaign contributions and deliver the bags to Presidents or Senators or somebody important like that.


    Always the eager beaver on issues redefining greed, Chief Justice Malfeasance Roberts and his reactionary cronies on the Supreme Court recently threw out key provisions of campaign financing laws dating back to 1907, including high court decisions in 1990 and 2003, overturning bans on corporate-funded campaign ads and politically-driven ads within 30 days of a primary or 60 days of a general election.  By opening up the floodgates to the world’s largest illicit slush fund, corporate payola, Mal finally secured his seat at the prestigious Business Roundtable, Gangland restraint of trade operation favored by Fortune 500 CEOs, even though industry magnates are understandably more comfortable passing cash under the table in small, untraceable denominations than openly bashing green candidates on the nation’s TV sets with every buck they‘ve got.

    Mark-to-market meant that CPAs suddenly had to value paper at current market prices, forcing financial sector companies to report losses or gains as quotes fluctuated.  Prior to mob infiltration into accounting, the profession‘s standards called for its books to carry most paper assets at original cost, typically the appropriate value.  Large financial players make direct loans of $1,000 per bond and get $1,000 back at maturity, so normal transactions have nothing to do with interim market fluctuation, and since management typically maintains excellent control over company liabilities, changing quotes do not effect the financial condition of healthy businesses in the sector.  At all.  Ever.  Unless you let Street wise guys muscle in.

    An accounting source close to the writer tells me the move to mark-to-market was just what it reads like, a sea change in their practice, comparable to revising sections of the United States Constitution for the personal gain of Wall Street Dons and just as threatening to the politically-flawed economic fabric of the crime-ridden society you and I are struggling to function in.

    With the switcheroo into mark-to-market, short-selling thugs could now bully prices of investments held by targeted financial companies, and drive quotes low enough to trigger codicil calls on the bonds the financial companies themselves issued.  (Don’t worry, I’m about to explain it.  Hang in there.)

    Codicils are provisions in a bond indenture that management is held to throughout the life of that bond issue.  Well before the Great Crash of 2008/09, Street thugs made sure that one of these codicils required bonds to be called automatically if the company’s net asset value fell below some stated level.  Nobody keeps enough cash around to pay back all their bonds in a pinch.  If forced to, any leveraged corporation would turn insolvent, thus falling into bankruptcy, often taking out common stockholders in the process.

    While short-sellers pounded mark-to-market paper values into the ground in the Great Crash, they jumped all over financial company stocks, spreading the lie that these firms had a “broken business model” in the codicils of the bonds they‘d issued.  That’s right, spreading the lie.  In blatant disregard for the public good, SEC inaction encourages short-selling mob mouthpieces to wage elaborate propaganda campaigns aimed at wiping out your savings, pouring whoppers into the media, holding open meetings to slander people, basically whatever these hoodlums want to pull off, all designed to scare small investors to death and taunt big ones out of the way.

    In the middle of the Great Crash, you could sit at home and watch this bulls$^% getting f#$^ing broadcast on f#$^ing GE TV right in your own f#&^ing living room.

    Short-sellers knocked targeted paper asset prices down toward oblivion, investments held by financial companies as well as their own stocks.  And net asset values of financial firms headed toward levels triggering codicil calls, a thing proper accounting methods had always protected against before the mob moved in.  Bank of America shares went from the 50's to under 3.  Others did even worse.  Most of the quotes that got clipped were literally surreal. Prices had nothing to do with value.

    To explain that disconnect, mob stooges started mumbling about "distressed markets".  Not gamed markets.  "Distressed."

    Still.  To this day there has been no mention of gamed markets.  Of thugs and play shares and massive, systemwide accounting fraud.  All Washington has been paid off to flee from the truth.  Paid off by Wall Street thugs.

    Bloodbath Mary over at the SEC shut down scheduled public hearings on short-selling later in 2009, claiming that short-selling had nothing to do with the 2008/09 market crash caused by short-selling, so nobody got a chance to ask the bitch what she planned to do about anything.

Nothing, I guess.

    This whole situation is too ridiculous for words. After a century of criminal activity, the entire Italian Mafia has raked in what?  .01% of the planet’s wealth destroyed by Wall Street Crime Families in a single worldwide market crash?  .001%?  .000001%?

    And now we have codicil risk.  That’s the best term I can think of to describe what stock market investors face when Wall Street Crime Families are allowed to game the system with some new stealth weapon like the mark-to-market switcheroo that did, in fact, wipe out a ton of our savings in 2008/09.  Stealth weapons that come at us out of the blue.

    What on earth does the FBI do for a living?  When are they going to toss Bloodbath Mary and her Gangland stooges in the clink?  Thieving regulatory crooks deserve to be locked up good and tight.  Forever.

  Forf#$^ingever.   Lets put that on GE TV in my living room some afternoon.

Rat Fink B#$%#?^s

    Investing through your Crime Family, you might buy stock from a Gangland short-seller from time to time.  This con goes down in one of two ways, at least as explained to me by a mob informant with close ties to my mother who was a Saint.


    One, the short-selling rat fink b#$%#?^ is pulling off a day trade.  That way, you buy absolutely nothing but an entry in Syndicate books showing you have this stock the same way Bernie Madoff’s monthly account statements listed investments his clients never really owned either.  Then, later in the day, rat fink covers his position by placing a buy order for the same amount of that stock.  After closing, this real seller, the guy rat fink buys from, is matched with you, the guy rat fink sells to, and the real seller’s stock gets transferred into your Crime Family account.


    Clean and simple, except for one thing.  The whole deal is a fraudulent crock of s%#$.  Rat fink didn’t own what he sold, and never represented what was really going on.  Bloodbath Mary over at the SEC doesn’t think you need to know that you're doing business with a gangster or that the gangster you’re doing business with is trying to wipe out your savings.  That he doesn’t own the stock, that he’s part of a wealthy cabal driving that specific company into bankruptcy, these things mean nothing to her.  You’re being f&$#ed in that specific trade, and the Feds are covering your eyes with their hands so you can‘t stop it.  Gangland stooges inside the regulatory agency charged with protecting the public interest are actually protecting the Dons.


    Bernie has every reason in the world to wonder why we‘re picking on him.


    In the second type of short-selling con, the rat fink b#$%#?^ holds an overnight short position of totally bogus play shares in the name of the stock he pretends to be selling to you.  Here, that same Madoff accounting is used, only you don’t really own anything but phony shares after you buy this time.  If your stock pays a dividend, RAT FINK HANDS YOU THE DOUGH.  There’s a convoluted explanation of how this works called “payment in lieu of dividend”, and from time to time you’ll read that rat fink borrows stock from the Crime Family and pays them the dividend, and then they pay you, and why the people who write this stuff aren’t behind bars along with the whole freaking District of Columbia nobody seems to know.


    Dividends on short-sold stock are created by short-sellers.  Rat finks issue the fake play shares themselves and pretend to sell, so they have to pretend to pay phony dividends on your bogus shares too, and do.  The various explanations are conjured up by mob mouthpieces IN LIEU OF THE TRUTH.


    When you sell, the Crime Family lays one of their bribe-sponsored soft shoe routines on you, pulling the stock out of somewhere on the books, as a last resort posting phony shares in rat fink’s account against the phony shares in yours, reducing his overnight short position by that much and getting your records back into the real world.


    As for borrowing short-sold shares from The Syndicate, show me a Family who lent short-sellers Bank of America stock in the 50’s and took those shares back at 3, and I’ll find you a rat fink b#$%#?^ at the bottom of the Hudson River with concrete shoes on his feet and 6 copper dum-dums in his head.


    Rat fink b#$%#?^.  I don't feel like writing any more.  Rat fink b#$%#?^s.  Rat fink b#$%#?^s.  Rat fink b#$%#?^s.  Rat fink b#$%#?^s.

Flash Crash

    Market orders block your Wall Street Family from trading against you.  Otherwise you’re telling the Crime Lords your price, and then they’ve got their hands in your pocket.




    For example, a limit buy order at 20 gives these racketeers what poker players call an out.  They can jump in with their own buy ticket at something like 20.10, taking a trading profit if the quote goes up from there while using your 20 to cover what has become, in effect, a firm stop loss order for them.  Beyond that, your 20 is fertile ground for all kinds of criminal mischief.  My favorite is the block trade, where large holders are talked into selling under the market, at 19, we’ll say, to fill all the retail limit orders the Crime Family sales force has generated around 20, the difference being that heralded “trading profit” we hear about so much.  If the Family you deal with is anything like the one I grew up in, anytime your customer’s man calls up with a name and a price, it’s trading profit time. For them.


    That’s what salesmen were called across my dinner table.  Customer’s men.  All of ours sat in a pit directly behind the consigliore's glass-walled office so he, in effect the head trader, could make sure they did what he told them to.  There was nothing subtle about that criminal enterprise.  If customers got nickled and dimed, our bean counters called it fees and commissions.  Anytime the suckers were totally ripped off, the shylocks posted the windfall to our Trading Department books on a separate ticket.


    The first time I heard that Washington was planning to stop future financial chaos by addressing organized crime risk management, I about fell on the floor laughing.  We showed a trading profit every month the outfit was in business, even through the Great Depression, because those Dons never took a risk in their life.  Their customers did.  All Wall Street Mafioso ever do is dance around your orders.


    Whenever investment success is attributed to market acumen by some moron in the media, all gangland rolls on the floor laughing.  Take away their customer book and the fake play shares the Families counterfeit to crush public investment with short-sales, and the magnificent con called Wall Street is out of business.


    With the software Street thugs use today, a mob consigliore has knowledge of every order placed, and uses that information to drive prices where they have to go to make trading profit happen by treating all trades as if they were coming from one sucker.  This is how they have always tried to operate, only automation actually makes it possible these days.  The racketeers don’t have to miss out on a penny any more.


    After all, there are only two sources of money on Wall Street.  Yours and theirs.  They’re all wired in, operating a cabal, while you, on the other hand, are … well, I could say "not", but "screwed" is what it is really, and rather completely too.  Completely screwed.


    And now to the point. Investing over the last 55 years, I only used market orders.  Effective May 6, 2010, however, the day the flash crash occurred, everything changed for me.  I now only use limit orders, placing them at or inside bid or asked at whatever price I figure is most likely to get the trade done, which is all you‘re trying to do with market orders anyway.


    The url  below tells you why.  It introduces us to the shareholder who got snookered in the infamous Proctor & Gamble flash crash trade.  A true horror story if ever there was one, it shows an investor bullied out of the market by mob short-sellers, and what a system set up for the benefit of gangsters later did to him. It isn’t quite your worst nightmare, but clearly makes the list.  And it all happened over a market order, so look for the market order rules, or lack thereof, whenever they come up in this sordid tale.


http://www.thestreet.com/story/10757383/1/how-pg-plunge-derailed-one-investor.html