“The Fly” started off his day waking up to the music of the Gods. He jumped out of bed and dove head first into his shower.
Following his rinse, he went for breakfast, which consisted of 5 pancakes, 2 eggs, bacon, hash browns and three cups of hot hot coffee. Immediately following his morning snack, he went to his office to watch the employment data results on CNBC.
Much to his delight, almost everyone lost their job in November! The futures tanked and his positions increased greatly in value.
Dressed in an all white robe, leather sandals, holding a blue can of Monster Energy Soda, he sat down at his desk and blogged like the wind. He told stories of tragedy, while chuckling, but by no means was he ever laughing. He threatened complete strangers, exclaiming with fury: “fuck a ham sandwich goat lover. I will punch your mustache off.” His day was off to a glorious start, indeed.
He even made it onto Twitter, in order to inform the 600+ idiots “following” him that their money would be his, very, very shortly. By no means was he kidding.
All was going according to plan, his plan, until noon.
As noon approached, his short positions, in banks and Chinese things, started to work against him. Earlier that morning, he sort of hedged a little, buying some stocks; but he quickly sold them—betting the market would, as it always does, “shit the shower.”
Time passed on and soon enough his trader/servant began to annoy him, making noises at his desk, drinking soda pop or snorting cocaine. Quickly, “The Fly” threw an orange at him and yelled “fuck you asshole.”
In a rage, he went to the internets, where he made some more idle threats to complete strangers. Much to his chagrin, he kept getting interrupted by pesky business acquaintances, via telephone calls, wanting to know what the market might do in the final hours of trade.
“The Fly” was annoyed by these questions, as his positions started to work against him. Luckily, he had a few hedges, from a few days prior. But it was becoming obvious, as well as evident, Mother Market had it in for him, on this day, Friday, December the 5th, 2008.
The comments on his blog quickly became deranged and idiotic, authored by anonymous goat lovers and/or fish face fuckers.
His heart began to race. His palms became sweaty. For fucks sake, he saw the market reversing right in front of his face, starting with banks/Chinese things, then eventually infecting his oil shorts.
By 2pm, “The Fly” was in full fledged retreat.
From 2pm to 3pm, wild and disturbing things occurred at “The Fly’s” office. These events were so heinous, so egregious, they cannot be repeated to anyone, without penalty of death and/or torture. Just know this, as the losses started to pile up, his mood changed from joyously jubilant to demonically dangerous.
By 3pm, it was clear to “The Fly” that his position was an outrageous losing one, not so much different than how Napoleon must have felt at Waterloo, or for that matter, any Southern army watching their homes being torched by Union patriots, back in the good old Civil War days.
He threw a ham sandwich at his trader servant and said “sell those fucking bastards now!!!”
The bellicose nature of his voice made the office plants die and the mirrors shatter. Quickly, the trader/servant started to book losses, and restructured to eliminate risk.
The market was about to close when the lights went out. “The Fly’s” office was as dark and cold as the sunless side of the moon. Suddenly, the marble paperweights on his desk began to tremble, amidst thunderous noise just outside of his office. Afraid like a little bitch, “The Fly’s” trader/servant ran for cover, hiding behind a filthy, disgusting trash can.
“The Fly” stood up, sword in hand, lightening in his eyes and yelled: “who goes there”? Without pause, he darted for the door, opened it up, ready for confrontation. Within seconds, a hideous gray haired woman, at least 9 feet tall, wearing a black robe, approached “The Fly” and said: “Guess who, fuck face”?
Shocked and amazed at the sight of this monstrous creature, “The Fly” became stunned, in a very “deer in headlight” sort of way. Things began to move in slow motion, as he saw this woman pull something from her robe. It was shiny and gold, and it fit around her bony knuckles.
For the love of little babies and currency, they were brass knuckles!
The next thing he saw was her clenched, brass knuckled, fist touch the ceiling, just prior to it quickly making its way for his nose.
Bloodied and semi-conscious, the last thing he heard was some bitch of a whore on CNBC celebrate the markets glorious green close, as Mother Market left “The Fly’s” office— drinking one of his Monster Energy Soda’s, she said: “See you monday, asshole (burpp).”
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