Chapter Text
tough_it_out: MAXN is a flunk
tough_it_out: you wouldn’t catch me buying shares of that dump with my worst enemy’s cash
$Riddle$: Formation says it’s headed up
tough_it_out: the ascending triangle? be serious. their financials look like my tp after I wipe post-taco bell
$Riddle$: Hasn’t burned me yet
tough_it_out: it’s about to. drop that bag. you’re about to get creamed, bitch
$Riddle$: No can do. I know a spring-loaded stock when I see one.
Minute by minute, Tom watches MAXN’s price zig-zag. Each dip cuts less shallow, and each pop hits the same line of resistance. It’s ready to fly.
To his dismay, the next candlestick hits the line of resistance and takes a steep plunge. He waits for the stock to change its mind, but it’s going so steep it’ll be hitting hell in a second here, and this is client cash he’s playing with, so he unloads his shares and thanks his lucky stars he’d been keeping a sharp eye out.
A new message pops up on his other window.
tough_it_out: lol
Five AM, his alarm goes off. Pacific time.
Cardio. Not for the weight loss, but for keeping his heart from stagnating while he spends all day in a computer chair. That, and it’s a real stress-killer.
If your body thinks you’ve just run for your life and succeeded, it’s going to spend each day feeling cozy as a jackrabbit tucked into its hole.
Five-forty-five, it’s mouthfuls of chicken and yogurt standing at the kitchen counter staring dead at the stove clock until the numbers burn into his eyes.
Six-twenty, he fills a 68 oz thermos up with diet coke and heads to his cave. The computer’s on a timer and it’s already up and running with the usual startup windows at attention. Ten minutes to sip his coke and weigh the industry movers in the pre-market.
Today it’s Christmas. A candlestick on the way up turns green, and one on the way down turns red. Very mixed this morning, nothing blasting into the stratosphere.
Tom takes a long inhale from his vape and points his mouth towards the credenza so the cloud doesn’t block out his charts.
By six-thirty on the dot, he’s already selected his early movers. When in doubt, cling to tech, so he snags a handful and loads them up. Mixed days, it’s best to spread out.
An email from a client. The word is…Have you heard of it?...See I got this tip…Company does good work…Honest…Friend of a friend…Never mind the name, but do you mind…
Penny stock. Pink slip. Clients are idiots, and that’s why they give Tom their money.
One monitor blistering with peaks and troughs, he sends a very polite, very professional email with a light thank you for the friendly advice. I’ll be sure to have a look and incorporate it into my strategy.
That piddly little pink slip lurks near $3 a share and only went public a week ago. Most clients don’t know what a failed IPO looks like.
The information is highly appreciated. Pass the thanks along to your friend.
Tom lets out a long belch and sucks up a few more mouthfuls of coke. Idiot. He swears his clients only make friends with saboteurs. They do it on purpose, sniff them out and wheedle them for shitty advice, because they just have too damned much money and by golly, can’t he give some to a dinky charity stock? Do some good in the world?
He doesn’t get paid unless his clients get paid. He tosses the pink slip stock from his screen and wishes them a merry fuck you.
On his third monitor mounted higher on the wall, a message pops up. He hasn’t caught up on the boards yet. That’s for after the morning rush, when he’s looking for hot leads.
But this is a private message, so with another drag on his vape, he indulges it.
tough_it_out: pull out of ASI
He checks. It’s a third-rate healthcare provider for doctors who want to make some extra cash on nights and weekends videochatting with some pedestrian’s mole. Currently its stock is winding down a particularly bullish flag formation, and he’s got it locked in for a good chunk.
$Riddle$: No can do. About to break out of its tight collar.
tough_it_out: wrong. you should give your mother a smack next time for raising you so stupid. that stock’s gonna rot your wallet.
$Riddle$: Wow, can I borrow your crystal ball, pretty please?
tough_it_out: it’s just basic fundamental analysis a-wipe
$Riddle$: Do I look like I’m in this buy for the long haul? Fundamentals are a waste of time for daytrading.
tough_it_out: oh yeah, you’re big into reading palms n patterns in the pretty lines on the screen
tough_it_out: watching a few min of news will tell you more about the movers than your stock bro astrology ever will
$Riddle$: R&D doesn’t mean shit in the short term. I’m surfing waves, not crossing the fucking ocean. Your strat’s a waste of time.
tough_it_out: lol ok
tough_it_out: last chance
The price inches up to a notch a couple dollars higher than what he’d bought at. He can feel the loaded spring in his bones.
Tom stares at this minute’s candlestick teetering around the same ten-cent mark, then fills his lungs with tobacco-flavored vapor and sells it all. Every share.
A quick search on the company name pulls a smattering of ads, a few half-hearted articles from months ago. Nothing exciting. Well, at least he made some pocket change from the deal before he pulled out. This is why you don’t trust idiots online.
It’s nearly a half hour later when the fat flurry of BREAKING NEWS-style stories hits the outlets.
Headlines: Blah blah, ASI’s CEO just lost a major lawsuit. Guess some of those “doctors” aren’t so accredited, and the app’s screenrecord protections weren’t quite as secure as they’d proclaimed.
That halfhearted climb turns into a dollar drop, then ten, then fifteen.
$Riddle$: Are you at the actual press conference right now?
tough_it_out: i saved your bacon and now you’re interrogating me. some bro you are
He gives that smug bastard’s username a grimace. One eye still on the plunging stock, he checks dates and times. Every single article and eyepopping news clip was published after the guy had already advised him to sell. He couldn’t have known.
Another strong hit of nicotine cuts his vision clear as glass.
It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, playing with the lingering carbonation of his coke. Insider trading.
Maybe tough_it_out really does have a crystal ball, but the FTC wouldn’t accept that, nope. He must be playing a nasty game over there. Probably held a big bagful of puts on ASI and now he’s raking in the profits as the stock plunges lower and lower.
Tom checks the guy’s profile history, but finds nothing besides a few snarky comments made in the last day. He must wipe his profile regularly.
That afternoon, with the last of his daily movers trickling to a close, Tom builds himself a spreadsheet. He’s got ASI and MAXN on there, and for each he lists out the names of every executive on the board, every major partner, all high-profile touters, all celebrities with a brand deal.
No overlap.
They say no good deed goes unpunished, but he’s not in the punishing mood. Just curious.
Today his coke’s the tiniest bit flat. Still bites at the soft tissues of his throat, but there’s no fury behind it. He’ll have to wait until his lunch break to dump the bad litre into the sink and fill his thermos from a new bottle.
On the forum, he posts about TWLT. It’s some gushy company that makes baby monitors you clip to your newborn’s ankle like they’re a damn criminal.
gainz6969: yea I’m riding that rocket on TWLT. Already at 10% profit and growing.
trenchpockets: hope ur using a condom
mill3mial: shorting DAV I think I’ve got until close at least until it flattens
hodlfordays: you’re a fucking terrorist if you’re shorting DAV
throwaway49930239584320: Buy CLMD! Buy, buy, buy. It’ll never be this cheap again!
gainz6969: bot
lobstersaur: gtfo bot
bluechooser: got assfucked by the oil industry this morning. pray for my loins
tough_it_out: TTP looking like a ripe peach.
mill3mial: drink that juice and report back bruh
Tom lunges for the search engine. Between pages loading, he’s hammering data into his spreadsheet and scanning the recent formations on the stock price.
Tech. Something to do with a private messaging service for businesses. TTP’s stock is twiddling its thumbs right now towards the end of a reverse cup and handle. Only masochists and gamblers would feed a limping animal like this, and Tom’s neither.
The CEO’s got the same award-winning smile that they all have photoshopped onto their ABOUT US page, but he’s still a brand new name on the spreadsheet. Major stockholders, executive assistants, the CFO’s mom and pop, Tom lists them all out as connections.
Then he turns back to the forum and shoots tough_it_out a DM.
$Riddle$: What’s going on with TTP?
tough_it_out: see there’s the website called www.google.com
$Riddle$: Thanks, smartass.
$Riddle$: Not a single scrap of news published about this straggler for three months. What’s so ripe about this peach?
tough_it_out: just following my growling gut, idk.
Tom’s got a brokerage full of his clients’ money and his clients’ profits, most of which they haven’t seen final numbers on yet. He skims a little off each plate and loads up ten grand in TTP shares just as the stock nears the end of the handle.
tough_it_out’s gut might be growling for profit, but Tom’s is telling him he’s about to lighten his pockets when TTP’s downward trend turns into a downward plummet.
$Riddle$: How long do I have on this one?
tough_it_out: when do you eat lunch
$Riddle$: Two hrs + fifteen minutes from now
tough_it_out: yeah I wouldn’t let it marinate over lunch. sell before you chow down on that sad caesar you’ve got tucked away
He’s a little off. Tom sells at 11:25, just five minutes before his lunch, with two grand in pocket change to show for it. Turns out he could’ve held through lunch just fine, because TTP’s pop doesn’t turn into a cold drop until a half hour before the market closes.
But boy howdy, when it drops, it does so heavy as a stone.
He’s in his kitchen doing shots of B12 and taking a new portrait for his LinkedIn with a white wall for a backdrop.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s hammering his clients’ wallets into stocks that might not live to see another day, but at least they’ll live for another four hours.
The numbers go up, or they go sideways, or they—rarely—dip downward.
tough_it_out doesn’t pop into his DMs every day, but once or twice a week, he drops a hint. This one’s in a good mood, better release that one, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that double-bottom.
Every single time, though, Tom makes it big. And every single time, it’s a tech company. Always tech, big or small, flunking or flying financials.
Tom’s got his eyes on the major investors now. He spends his nights tracking them down, them and their wives and their business partners. Anyone who might have access to all this insider info.
He notes peculiar facial moles. This guy cuts his sideburns too long. This guy needs a good tube of Chapstick. This guy doesn’t know how to use a nose trimmer. This guy’s false canine is just a shade darker than the rest of his teeth, the moron.
During the day Tom’s jerking himself off with one hand on the mouse to flip through stock prices. At night he’s combing through connections using his sock puppet social media accounts, checking who went with who to Cabo.
With every new hint dropped at the top of his inbox, he’s narrowing it down.
tough_it_out: idk what your strat is but if I were you I’d try buying low and selling high
$Riddle$: Okay, smartass. Better log off, your shift at Wendy’s is coming up quick. They need you at that fryer.
tough_it_out: I’ll bathe in burger grease until I can use gravel as a slip n slide if it means my portfolio stays flowing
tough_it_out: I’d catch the train on PNPT before lunch, btw.
tough_it_out: that track’s good for a few hours at least.
Another pipsqueak tech mouse, but the stock’s already flickering up in a hesitant pattern. Tom loads a neat fifty grand into it and heads to the kitchen.
A few more buys, and then he’ll quit with the probably-definitely-insider-knowledge. It’s not like any authorities have come knocking down his door, but it’s only a matter of time before somebody in this transaction gets busted, and it’s not going to be Tom.
Just a few more. He needs to know who this guy is, if only so he recognizes that cheating face in the news when he’s finally tracked down by the FTC.
Instead of letting the numbers on the stove clock burn into his eyes, he putters around on his phone and searches up the usual.
CEO. CFO. CTO. Major investors. The face of their dinky YouTube ads. PNPT’s managing hands are populated by the usual botox-plush white guys with a healing golf sunburn on their necks. Like snowflakes: no two are alike, but all are equally dull to look at.
Wait.
There—there, in a paparazzi-style photoshoot of the CFO walking to the office (as if he didn’t get his driver to drop him a block off just for the sake of the picture). A coffee in one hand with the brand turned outward and tagged, the other hand gesturing so you can see all his rings. He’s gabbing with an adorable smile so big you know every word he’s saying sounds like it’s coming out of a damn muppet.
And there, next to him. The listener, the fluffer, with a branded coffee cup of his own and a fake canine set into his smile.
Tom swallows an unchewed chunk of chicken.
The CFO even did the work for him, kind bastard. He tagged the mystery man with the false canine down in the description so Tom doesn’t have to go hunting through old research. How kind.
Business never stops, but the best make time for friendships! Thanks for always being there, my man @EliPaulson.
According to his bio, Mr. Paulson is a classically-trained but modern-day-influenced financial advisor, investor, and board member. He does it all.
A financial advisor.
Tom doesn’t need his spreadsheet. The other companies unfold at his fingertips, and now he’s digging with a sharp shovel and an X marks the spot, because there he is—there’s Eli Paulson nine months back on MAXN’s official LinkedIn. There he is in Italy, off to the left in a greased up photo opp with ASI’s President’s whole family.
There he is. Close enough to know all the secrets.
Tom digs until he finds the connection to every single company on his list. His chicken goes rubbery and once he’s dug up the last thread linking this guy to his list, he dumps the whole plate into the trash and heads to his office. He’s nearly a half hour past his usual lunch cutoff.
I’ve got you, tough_it_out. I know your secret.
He sits down, and he’s just weighing his options for how to flout this information in a way that’ll get the guy’s heart racing, when a long red ski slope catches his eye.
While Tom was chowing down on dirt, PNPT’s stock was plummeting.
He sells so fast that a fingernail nicks the edge of the space bar, sending the key tumbling into his lap.
Fifty grand of his clients’ cash. Fifty grand turned to twenty-seven over the course of an extra-long lunch hour.
On the other monitor, his DMs blink a new message at him.
tough_it_out: lol
Tom stares at the message, then at this week’s profits, now decimated—
—then at his phone. Eli Paulson’s false tooth stares back at him. Tom doesn’t know for sure, but he’d guess Eli doesn’t look a thing like his parents or grandparents, or even his siblings. Every aberrant bump and wrinkle and asymmetry has long since been razed off his face and life. He’s no movie star, no model. Just a flat plain face with a flat plain smile, marred by one single plastic hunk of a tooth.
His wife’s the same. She’s letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders, but she’s doing none of that happy-wife-lean-in, the cradle, the cuddle against the shoulder.
And then his daughter. One sweet little sixteen year old daughter with the shiniest hair you can get without a filter.
One by one, tough_it_out’s messages pop out of existence. Delete delete delete. The prank’s over, so he’s out. Idiot. As if Tom hasn’t backed up a whole paper trail of the conversation.
“I’m not going to turn you in, Mr. Paulson.”
Using both hands, he clicks his space bar back into place and starts sifting through today’s other purchases, cashing out a couple as he goes.
He can cover up the loss, no problem. Shuffle it in with the wins and no one’ll have to know the details. His clients rarely even open the detailed disclosures he sends them, anyway. Not one will notice if he forgets to send this month’s over.
One sweet little sixteen year old. The guy's only child.
“You’re safe from me, but your daughter isn’t.” Tom stretches the image until her face fills his phone screen. “And what’s worse, I’ll make her like it.”