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.
