The PET scan didn’t lie. Theo knew a losing trade when he saw one. Sometimes all you could do was eat it and try to make it up on the next one. But this time there would be no next one. He trudged home from the oncologist and considered his exit interview with the planet.
He had been one of the more productive portfolio managers at Darwin Capital,
Nobody named Darwin launched the firm. Rather it was named for the famous evolutionist from whom the founders had adopted their kill-or-be-killed management approach. Make no mistake, the old Brit may have sailed on a boat named for a floppy-eared pup, and dabbled with adorable turtles, but the man was a stone-cold killer, philosophically at least.
Theo consistently made money for the firm’s clients and, more importantly to his bosses, its proprietary book, i.e., its own loot. But he was a bit of a loner. An oddball. Never dragged along when the office kingpins hit the town for single malts or, God forbid, the strip bar, the “ballet” as they called it.
And he was assigned mostly charitable organizations as accounts. The Boys and Girls Club. The First Responders Family and Survivors Fund. Sleepier mandates with limited approved investments. He was boxed out of the sexier high-flying investments the other PMs were allowed to tango with, as they strapped in and battled the best and brightest on Wall Street from behind their terminals like F14 pilots.
He arrived at work the next morning as usual. He did not share his cataclysmic news with anyone. Why would he, he barely shared hellos.
He sat silently through the morning all-hands meeting where the lowly analysts pitched their best ideas to the bigwig traders. Today’s consensus seemed to favor the sleepy old baked goods company American Biscuit Corp. The venerable Hartford, CT concern was rumored to be on the verge of a monumental windfall. Apparently, its in-house lab had cracked the chemical code of the holy grail of sugary snacks – a wafer that not only was calorie free but actually caused weight loss. This scoop may or may not have been illegal inside information but hey, survival of the fittest and all that.
Theo returned to his office, logged on and went to work. He had a lot to do and not a lot of time.
First, he unplugged from the Darwin compliance and surveillance system that tracked his trades. By the time he was discovered, he reasoned, he would be wormfood. He conducted intensive research for a quick hour on the production details of the soon-to-be world famous cookie, learning all he could about everything from the talismanic shortbread’s manufacturing facility to the recipe and ingredients. He then, with a few quick keystrokes, loaded up on American Biscuit stock in the Darwin company account. A seemingly sensible purchase but at fifty times his usual volume on even his biggest buy. For his final trade he put on gargantuan short positions in the cookie company for all of his charitable accounts. Giant bets that would amass a colossal fortune, but only if the stock, and the investments he just made for his employer, went down. These were wildly inconsistent with his massive proprietary position and the prevailing view of his firm. He then left his desk for the last time.
After a quick shopping trip he began the last phase of his plan. The short Metro North train ride from midtown New York to the Connecticut capital was a time of peaceful contemplation for the dying trader, who had muted the dozens of frantic calls and texts from his erstwhile employer eager to unpack and try to understand his mind boggling, and irreversible, investments.
When he got to the ABC factory just after the final lunch bell, he was surprised how easily he could enter the production area, wearing plain white coveralls and knit ski cap. He climbed a series of unmanned stairs to a high metal platform that overlooked various huge vats of boiling confectionery ingredients. He propped his phone on a nearby ledge facing the factory floor, opened his new Tik Tok account and hit the button for live broadcast. He then executed a perfect swan dive into the inferno of delicious, dietetic slurry.
The next day the corporate press release about a revolutionary sweet treat was no match for tens of millions of crazed phone jockeys sharing a can’t-look-away video testament to carnage and contamination at that very same baker. American Biscuit stock tanked.
To Darwin’s competitors it no doubt felt like the long overdue karma of natural selection. In any event there would be a little extra under the tree for some widows and orphans at Christmas.
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