GREED IS GOOD

With Gordon Gekko’s famous phrase serving as his morning workout mantra, Mark was the youngest trader on Wall Street, his rise to fame and fortune paved by hard work, long hours and above average sacrifice. His former partner, and best friend from childhood, was holding him back. So was the love of his life from college. They both said he was selfish and had an issue with nose candy.

His success coach, Mo Loch, was right. Mark couldn’t pass the opportunity to take sole control of Crossroads Incorporated. Before the dripping red ink was dry, his master plan was set in motion.

His one-time mentor, Jacob Peterson, cursed Mark, right before taking the Wall Street express, the shortcut to street level. Peterson couldn’t handle the pressure. Most would have lost themselves in his collection of Single Malts, but Mark was too focused for PTSD to ruin his plans.

In recent months, Mark secretly stockpiled cash for the coming Iblis International IPO. By the time Peterson or anyone else uncovered his maneuvers, they were out the door – or window, as was the fitting end for Jacob Peterson. That day, Mark’s personal net value tripled, leveraging every asset from his entire client list.

That night, his penthouse condo was a party zone for one. Seven years of sacrifice paid off. The next morning Mark would dump the stock, double and triple his bottom line and then he was out. He did not love the man he had become.

He paid his dues.

Tomorrow, he turns twenty-seven and he will have the cash to retire, a future philanthropic saint, or perhaps become a reclusive ex pat, or just buy a tropical island of his own. After tomorrow there will be nothing he can’t buy – probably no one he can’t buy. President Mark Mamon had a nice ring to it.

“Sir! Sir! Are you in there?” The building’s doorman was banging on his door. The few left paying attention, mostly because it was their job, half expected any day now, to find Mark dead from an overdose, or as a result of his thrill seeking romps.

“What the… ” the alarm never rang. The electricy was off. Mark popped out of his waterbed. The shiny black floors were flooded. His waterbed was leaking. Flat on his back, Mark’s fingers were red, his hair wet from more than just water. There was a ringing in his head. Concussion? Never mind. No time. He’ll go to the doctor after trading closes.

“Clark, why is the electricity off?”

“Sorry, sir, we’re working on it.” Clark hated kissing the ass of someone half his age, but that’s the job. “Looks like the entire building is down now. The elevator died just as I got off on your level. Should be fixed by 10am”

“Wait, what? What time is it now?” Mark’s watch said 5:17am but the sun was blaring. He never drew the curtains. He never slept in. He rarely saw the sun from his private perch.

“Just after 9am, sir. Shouldn’t be long, now.”

“NINE! The morning ding, markets open, in less than…” Why is he explaining himself to this peon? Mark, still wearing his clothes from yesterday, tucked in his shirt, threw some water in his hair and busted out the door, knocking Clark to the ground.

“Out of my way you clumsy fool. Ten million dollars should get one a working elevator at all times.”

“Sorry, sir, won’t let it happen again.” Clarks words drifted uncaring, knowingly falling on deaf ears as Mark hit the stairs, taking two and three at a time. Training for that marathon was going to pay off, finally.

His state of the art, top of the line watch, normally over stocked with useless apps, was now totally useless. A late-night text from his private driver said Mark was on his own today.

As he hit the street, a new text came through.  Was this overpriced trash finally working?

“Angra Mainyu was arrested this morning. Insider trading. Apparently, the Feds want to talk to you.”

Mainyu was the Iblis CFO. There were conversations but no way any record of insider trading.

Mark was spinning out of control. There was not a single cab in sight. His watch didn’t work long enough to call a car. That guy over there, is he laughing at me?

“It’s your time to go down” Hard to tell through the crowd, but Mark swore he saw Jacob Peterson.

Barbara, his building’s concierge, reached for his hand, “Mr. Mamon, sir, are you OK? A little tip. You’re better off walking today. The entire city is locked down. Some terrorist task force drill.” A little tip? Huh, as if this shmuck ever tipped.

“Oh, Christ,” Mark thought he heard a YOU WISH in a crowd of laughs. Mark took off down Church Street. He’d never make it down through the crowds on Broadway.

“Hey, watch it,” The e-bike shouldn’t have been on the sidewalk, but they thought they owned the city now.

“Repent, for the end is nigh!” Mark despised these amateur fortune tellers begging for his hard-earned change.

The delivery guy stopped at the corner to double check his directions.

“Screw you!” Mark grabbed the guy and threw him into the street. What was this guy’s minimum wage job compared to the billions on the line today? He’ll find him, buy him a fleet of bikes and tip him a million in cash later.

Mark hopped on the bike and took off, weaving in and out of cabs and delivery trucks that hadn’t moved in thirty minutes. He blew through three red lights before a massive crowd was crossing, forcing him up Liberty. Barely avoiding New York’s strongest, making their morning rounds, Mark tried to hop to the curb. He tried and failed, flying over the handlebars, rolling onto the steps of Zuccotti Park.

Bruised and bleeding, Mark picked himself up and ran up Cedar Street, barreling through tourists and across Broadway and back down, turning south onto Nassau.

“It’s me, you morons!”

“Sorry, Mr. Mamon, go right ahead,” Security didn’t recognize the young hot shot at first. They half wanted to keep pretending they didn’t recognize the spoiled brat.

“That’s the idiot that bet his entire life on Iblis.”

“Jacob?” Mark WAS seeing things. Jacob was history, out of his way for weeks now.

Mark froze a moment when he saw the ticker. Iblis WAS down. WAY down.

“Iblis assets frozen amid fraud charges,” read the headline on the muted monitor showing his accomplice being hauled away in cuffs.

A lifetime of contemplation was just a few seconds for the rest of the world. He saw a path. He would lose the battle today, but he can save this. He was just a few short sales away from turning this ship around. He was the miracle kid on this block. He’ll bounce back bigger, faster. He won’t be back on the streets, but he knew that life too. Mark was a survivor, a fighter. His superpower was not fearing the greatest loss.

The other sharks and whales never truly had to fight for what they have. Their worst day was selling off a yacht or two when a bad bet came due.

Mark knew he was an urchin. His own father told him so often enough.

But he took advantage of the moment, every moment. Maybe he flew too close to the sun. Like before, he’ll study his mistakes, learn, adjust and build back stronger than before. The chaos and noise around him seemed to fade into the background. He was in the zone now.

SELL, SELL, SELL is today’s mantra. It’s go time!

“There it is. THE LOOK. He thinks he’s Rocky. The ‘Eye of the Tiger’, right. What a clown. They know you’re not one of them. They want you to fail.” It looked like Peterson, but that voice.

“Hey kid,” It was definitely – him. “It’s almost time. You really thought this would work. Were you going to buy ME out? Or did you really think hiding in some remote tiki hut, I wouldn’t find you?”

“I have a few hours left. I just wanted to go out on top.” Mark still thought he could play the game.

“By all means, take your time. I’m just here for the game. I paid extra for front row seats to this crap show.”

It was seven years to the day. He ran from his neighborhood, a dead man walking – and walking, and walking. He almost never went to Manhattan. Down through Inwood and Washington Heights, Morningside and Harlem.

He was born a hustler. He had to step up, only twelve, when his dad was gunned down before his eyes. Before he could drive, he avenged his father – not for that loser’s sake – and had his own team. In the next four years he made moves that put him next to the throne. He would have been king in the Bronx.

But kings know their power is fleeting. And he did not hide his ambitions well. In a kill or be killed moment of desperation, he flinched. The king was wounded but very much alive and scheming to end this revolution violently. Revenge was coming in hot.

“You were scuffed up pretty bad, eh, Marcus?”

“Don’t call me that.” He’d been Mark for seven years now. “You took advantage of me. I was broken, hurt and desperate when you sat down next to me on those Red Steps.”

“Ah, memory lane is so nostalgic. The crossroads of the world, my favorite intersection. All those New Year’s Resolutions certain to fail. Good times!”

“You ruined me.”

“I made you!” It was now Mo Loch’s face. “I even gave you a hot fiancé, childhood best friend, and a mentor. You ruined them, scared them all off, or worse. Talk about your high dives, right? You chose to go all in on junk stocks and ultimately failed on Wall Street today, but you’ll thrive down below, my adoptive son, a Prince.”

“Buy Iblis for pennies on the dollar.” Marcus – Mark, was screaming now. “Sally, when it bounces back, you’ll be the Queen. Ted, my man…”

Iblis was going to zero at record speeds.

Mark looked upstairs to some old reliable suckers. Hoping for a lifeline, all he got was three birds and a finger gun to the head.

Mark noticed some commotion at the floor entrance. His spinning head now focused on the security pointing in his direction and the police now working their way through the crowd.

“Ah, history repeating itself. The whole world wants you behind bars or dead, again.” It was Sasha now. Were any of these people real, or all him?

“Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Now, Marcus, you know I can’t do that. We have a contract. You bargained with the devil at THE crossroads of all crossroads. Poetic, no? And all those musicians assume you must go to some dusty remote spot down south? Save a bus ticket and meet me in midtown, baby!” He was back, in that perfectly cut suit and fedora.

“You can’t have me. I will go out on my terms!” Mark ran towards the cops, landing a fist on the first jaw he reached. Grabbing the officer’s piece, turned him around as a shield, yelling, “Get back! BACK! You think I won’t do it. What do I have to lose? NOTHING!”

“So dramatic! Are you actually foaming at the mouth?” This was always the most fun – the final spiral.

Mark saw more officers gathering at the entrance and blocking all emergency exits and the stairs to upper levels. Now a small army of Feds were filling into formation.

Mark reflected on the past 7 years, and the previous 20. He was a rock star, so it made sense to go out hard at 27. Hard as he tried, tears dripped down his cheeks.

“Real men don’t cry.” That bastard stood before him in his father’s skin.

So many words, expletives, caught in this throat, choked, Mark raised the gun to shoot the Devil, himself.

The young officer escaped his clutches just in time to avoid the NYPD and FBI joint onslaught.

“Ouch, how bad did that hurt?” The Fallen stood and watched the aftermath with his latest acquisition. “Could not have written your story any better.”

“So, what now?” Marcus, accepting his defeat, hated small talk.

“So, impatient,” How did Marcus ever trust THAT smile? “Now, the real work begins!”