The Wolf of Wall Street

CHAPTER 5

THE MOST POWERFUL DRUG

The investment-banking firm of Stratton Oakmont occupied the first floor of a sprawling black-glass office building that rose up four stories from out of the muddy marrow of an old Long Island swamp pit. In truth, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Most of the old pit had been reclaimed back in the early 1980s, and it now sported a first-class office complex with an enormous parking lot and a three-level underground parking garage, where Stratton brokers would take mid-afternoon coffee breaks and get laid by a happy hit squad of prostitutes.

Today, as on every day, as we pulled up to the office building I found myself welling up with pride. The mirrored black glass gleamed brilliantly in the morning sunshine, reminding me of just how far I’d come in the last five years. It was hard to imagine that I’d actually started Stratton from out of the electrical closet of a used-car dealership. And now…this!

On the west side of the building there was a grand entranceway meant to dazzle all those who walked through it. But not a soul from Stratton ever did. It was too far out of the way, and time, after all, was money. Instead, everyone, including me, used a concrete ramp on the south side of the building, which led directly to the boardroom.

I climbed out of the back of the limousine, said my parting farewells to George (who nodded without speaking), and then made my way up that very concrete ramp. As I passed through the steel doors, I could already make out the faint echoes of the mighty roar, which sounded like the roar of a mob. It was music to my ears. I headed right for it, with a vengeance.

After a dozen steps, I turned the corner and there it was: the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont. It was a massive space, more than a football field long and nearly half as wide. It was an open space, with no partitions and a very low ceiling. Tightly packed rows of maple-colored desks were arranged classroom style, and an endless sea of crisp white dress shirts moved about furiously. The brokers had their suit jackets off, and they were shouting into black telephones, which created the roar. It was the sound of polite young men using logic and reason to convince business owners across America to invest their savings with Stratton Oakmont:

“Jesus Christ, Bill! Pick up your skirt, grab your balls, and make a goddamn decision!” screamed Bobby Koch, a chubby, twenty-two-year-old Irishman with a high-school diploma, a raging coke habit, and an adjusted gross income of $1.2 million. He was berating some wealthy business owner named Bill who lived somewhere in America’s heartland. Each desk had a gray-colored computer on it, and green-diode numbers and letters came flashing across, bringing real-time stock quotes to the Strattonites. But hardly a soul ever glanced at them. They were too busy sweating profusely and screaming into black telephones, which looked like giant eggplants growing out of their ears.

“I need a decision—Bill!—I need a decision right now!” snapped Bobby. “Steve Madden is the hottest new issue on Wall Street, and there’s nothing to think about! By this afternoon it’ll be a fucking dinosaur!” Bobby was two weeks out of the Hazelden Clinic and had already begun to relapse. His eyes seemed to be popping right out of his beefy Irish skull. You could literally feel the cocaine crystals oozing from his sweat glands. It was 9:30 a.m.

A young Strattonite with slicked-back hair, a square jaw, and a neck the size of Rhode Island was in a crouch position, trying to explain to a client the pros and cons of including his wife in the decision-making process. “Tawk to ya wife? Waddaya, crazy a sumthin’?” He was only vaguely aware that his New York accent was so thick it sounded like sludge. “I mean, ya think your wife tawkstaya when she goes out and buys a new pair of shoes?”

Three rows back, a young Strattonite with curly brown hair and an active case of teenage acne was standing stiff as a ramrod with his black telephone wedged between his cheek and collarbone. His arms were extended like airplane wings, and he had giant sweat stains under his armpits. As he shouted into his telephone, Anthony Gilberto, the firm’s custom tailor, fit him for a custom-made suit. All day long Gilberto would go from desk to desk taking measurements of young Strattonites and make suits for them at $2,000 a pop. Just then the young Strattonite tilted his head all the way back and stretched his arms out as wide as they could possibly go, as if he were about to do a swan dive off a ten-meter board. Then he said, in a tone you use when you’re at your wits’ end: “Jesus, will you do yourself a favor, Mr. Kilgore, and pick up ten thousand shares? Please, you’re killing me here…you’re killing me. I mean, do I have to fly down to Texas to twist your arm, because if I have to I will!”

Such dedication! I thought. The pimply-faced kid was pitching stock even while he was clothes shopping! My office was on the other side of the boardroom, and as I made my way through the writhing sea of humanity I felt like Moses in cowboy boots. Brokers parted this way and that as they cleared a path for me. Each broker I passed offered me a wink or a smile as a way of showing their appreciation for this little slice of heaven on earth I’d created. Yes, these were my people. They came to me for hope, love, advice, and direction, and I was ten times crazier than all of them. Yet one thing we all shared equally was an undying love for the mighty roar. In fact, we couldn’t get enough of it:

“Pick up the fucking phone, please!” screamed a little blond sales assistant.

“You pick up the fucking phone! It’s your fucking job.”

“I’m only asking for one shot!”

“—twenty thousand at eight and a half—”

“—pick up a hundred thousand shares—”

“The stock’s going through the roof!”

“For Chrissake, Steve Madden’s the hottest deal on Wall Street!”

“Fuck Merrill Lynch! We eat those cockroaches for breakfast.”

“Your local broker? Fuck your local broker! He’s busy reading yesterday’s Wall Street Journal!”

“—I got twenty thousand B warrants at four—”

“Fuck that, they’re a piece of shit!”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too, and the piece-a-shit Volkswagen you drove here!”

Fuck this and fuck that! Shit here and shit there! It was the language of Wall Street. It was the essence of the mighty roar, and it cut through everything. It intoxicated you. It seduced you! It fucking liberated you! It helped you achieve goals you never dreamed yourself capable of! And it swept everyone away, especially me.

Out of the thousand souls in the boardroom there was scarcely a warm body over thirty; most were in their early twenties. It was a handsome crowd, exploding with vanity, and the sexual tension was so thick you could literally smell it. The dress code for men—boys!—was a custom-made suit, white dress shirt, silk necktie, and solid gold wristwatch. For the women, who were outnumbered ten to one, it was go-to-hell skirts, plunging necklines, push-up bras, and spike heels, the higher the better. It was the very sort of attire strictly forbidden in Stratton’s human-resources manual yet heavily encouraged by management (yours truly).

Things had gotten so out of hand that young Strattonites were rutting away under desks, in bathroom stalls, in coat closets, in the underground parking garage, and, of course, the building’s glass elevator. Eventually, to maintain some semblance of order, we passed out a memorandum declaring the building a Fuck Free Zone between the hours of eight a.m. and seven p.m. On the top of the memo were those very words, Fuck Free Zone, and beneath them were two anatomically correct stick figures, doing it doggy-style. Surrounding the stick figures was a thick red circle with a diagonal line running through its center: a Ghostbusters sign. (Certainly a Wall Street first.) But, alas, no one took it seriously.

It was all good, though, and it all made perfect sense. Everyone was young and beautiful, and they were seizing the moment. Seize the moment—it was this very corporate mantra that burned like fire in the heart and soul of every young Strattonite and vibrated in the overactive pleasure centers of all thousand of their barely postadolescent brains.

And who could argue with such success? The amount of money being made was staggering. A rookie stockbroker was expected to make $250,000 his first year. Anything less and he was suspect. By year two you were making $500,000 or you were considered weak and worthless. And by year three you’d better be making a million or more or you were a complete fucking laughingstock. And those were only the minimums; big producers made triple that.

And from there the wealth trickled down. Sales assistants, who were really glorified secretaries, were making over $100,000 a year. Even the girl at the front switchboard made $80,000 a year, just for answering the phones. It was nothing short of a good old-fashioned gold rush, and Lake Success had become a boomtown. Young Strattonites, the children that they were, began calling the place Broker Disneyland, and each one of them knew that if they were ever thrown out of the amusement park they would never make this much money again. And such was the great fear that lived at the base of the skull of every young Strattonite—that one day you would lose your job. Then what would they do? After all, when you were a Strattonite you were expected to live the Life—driving the fanciest car, eating at the hottest restaurants, giving the biggest tips, wearing the finest clothes, and residing in a mansion in Long Island’s fabulous Gold Coast. And even if you were just getting started and you didn’t have a dime to your name, then you would borrow money from any bank insane enough to lend it to you—regardless of the interest rate—and start living the Life, whether you were ready for it or not.

It was so out of control that kids still sporting teenage acne and only recently acquainted with a razor blade were going out and buying mansions. Some of them were so young they never even moved in; they still felt more comfortable sleeping at home, with their parents. In the summers they rented lavish homes in the Hamptons, with heated swimming pools and spectacular views of the Atlantic Ocean. On weekends they threw wild parties that were so decadent they were invariably broken up by the police. Live bands played; DJs spun records; young Stratton girls danced topless; strippers and hookers were considered honored guests; and, inevitably, at some point along the way, young Strattonites would get naked and start rutting away right under the clear blue sky, like barnyard animals, happy to put on a show for an ever-expanding live audience.

But what was wrong with that? They were drunk on youth, fueled by greed, and higher than kites. And day by day the gravy train grew longer, as more and more people made fortunes providing the crucial elements young Strattonites needed to live the Life. There were the real estate brokers who sold them the mansions; the mortgage brokers who secured the financing; the interior decorators who stuffed the mansions with overpriced furniture; the landscapers who tended to the grounds (any Strattonite caught mowing his own lawn would be stoned to death); the exotic car dealers who sold the Porsches and Mercedes and Ferraris and Lamborghinis (if you drove anything less you were considered a total fucking embarrassment); there were the maître d’s who reserved tables at the hottest restaurants; there were the ticket scalpers who got front-row seats to sold-out sporting events and rock concerts and Broadway shows; and there were the jewelers and watchmakers and clothiers and shoemakers and florists and caterers and haircutters and pet groomers and masseuses and chiropractors and car detailers and all the other niche-service providers (especially the hookers and the drug dealers) who showed up at the boardroom and delivered their services right to the feet of young Strattonites so they wouldn’t have to take even one second out of their busy day or, for that matter, engage in any extracurricular activity that didn’t directly enhance their ability to commit one single act: dial the telephone. That was it. You smiled and dialed from the second you came in to the office until the second you left. And if you weren’t motivated enough to do it or you couldn’t take the constant rejection of secretaries from all fifty states slamming the phone down in your ear three hundred times a day, then there were ten people right behind you who were more than willing to do the job. And then you were out—permanently.

And what secret formula had Stratton discovered that allowed all these obscenely young kids to make such obscene amounts of money? For the most part, it was based on two simple truths: first, that a majority of the richest one percent of Americans are closet degenerate gamblers, who can’t withstand the temptation to keep rolling the dice again and again, even if they know the dice are loaded against them; and, second, that contrary to previous assumptions, young men and women who possess the collective social graces of a herd of sex-crazed water buffalo and have an intelligence quotient in the range of Forrest Gump on three hits of acid, can be taught to sound like Wall Street wizards, as long as you write every last word down for them and then keep drilling it into their heads again and again—every day, twice a day—for a year straight.

And as word of this little secret began to spread throughout Long Island—that there was this wild office, in Lake Success, where all you had to do was show up, follow orders, swear your undying loyalty to the owner, and he would make you rich—young kids started showing up at the boardroom unannounced. At first they trickled in; then they poured in. It started with kids from the middle-class suburbs of Queens and Long Island and then quickly spread to all five boroughs of New York City. Before I knew it they were coming from all across America, begging me for jobs. Mere kids would travel halfway across the country to the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont and swear their undying loyalty to the Wolf of Wall Street. And the rest, as they say, is Wall Street history.

As always, my ultraloyal personal assistant, Janet,^*1 was sitting before her own desk, anxiously awaiting my arrival. At this particular moment she was tapping her right index finger on her desktop and shaking her head in a way that said, “Why the fuck does my whole day revolve around when my crazy boss decides to show up for work?” Or perhaps that was just my imagination and she was simply bored. Either way, Janet’s desk was positioned just in front of my door, as if she were an offensive lineman protecting a quarterback. That was no accident. Among her many functions, Janet was my gatekeeper. If you wanted to see me or even speak to me, you first had to get through Janet. That was no simple task. She protected me the way a lioness protects her cubs, having no problem unleashing her sometimes righteous wrath on any living soul who tried breaching the gauntlet.

As soon as Janet saw me she flashed a warm smile, and I took a moment to regard her. She was in her late twenties but looked a few years older. She had a thick mane of dark brown hair, fair white skin, and a tight little body. She had beautiful blue eyes, but there was a certain sadness to them, as if they’d seen too much heartache for someone so young. Perhaps that was why Janet showed up for work each day dressed like Death. Yes, from head to toe, she always wore black, and today was no exception.

“Good morning,” said Janet, with a bright smile and slight hint of annoyance in her tone. “Why are you so late?”

I smiled warmly at my ultraloyal assistant. In fact, in spite of Janet’s funeral ensemble and her undying urge to know every last ounce of my personal gossip, I found the sight of her immensely pleasing. She was Gwynne’s counterpart in the office. Whether it was paying my bills, managing my brokerage accounts, keeping my schedule, arranging my travel, paying my hookers, running interference with my drug dealers, or lying to whichever wife I was currently married to, there was no task either too great or too small that Janet wouldn’t gladly jump through a hoop to accomplish. She was incredibly competent and never made a mistake.

Janet had also grown up in Bayside, but her parents had both died when she was young. Her mother had been a good lady, but her father had mistreated her, a total scumbag. I did my best to make her feel loved, to feel wanted. And I protected her in the same way she protected me.

When Janet got married last month, I threw her a glorious wedding and walked her down the aisle with great pride. On that day she wore a snow-white Vera Wang wedding dress—paid for by me and picked out by the Duchess, who also spent two hours doing Janet’s makeup. (Yes, the Duchess was also an aspiring makeover artist.) And Janet looked absolutely gorgeous.

“Good morning,” I replied with a warm smile. “The room sounds good today, right?”

Tonelessly: “It always sounds good, but you didn’t answer me. Why are you so late?”

A pushy little broad, she was, and damn nosy too. I let out a deep sigh and said, “Did Nadine call, by any chance?”

“No. Why? What happened?” They were rapid-fire questions. Apparently she sensed a juicy piece of gossip.

“Nothing happened, Janet. I got home late, and Nadine got pissed and threw a glass of water at me. That’s it; although, actually, it was three glasses, but who’s counting? Anyway, the rest of it is too bizarre for words, but I need to send her flowers right now or else I might be hunting for wife number three before the day is out.”

“How much should I send?” she asked, picking up a spiral pad and Montblanc pen.

“I don’t know…three or four thousand worth. Just tell them to send the whole fucking truck. And make sure they send lots of lilies. She likes lilies.”

Janet narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, as if to say, “You’re breaching our silent understanding that as part of my compensation package it’s my right to know all the gory details, no matter how gory they might be!” But being a professional, driven by her sense of duty, all she said was, “Fine, you’ll tell me the story later.”

I nodded unconvincingly. “Maybe, Janet, we’ll see. So tell me what’s going on.”

“Well—Steve Madden’s floating around here somewhere, and he seems kind of nervous. I don’t think he’s gonna do such a good job today.”

An immediate surge of adrenaline. Steve Madden! How ironic it was that with all the chaos and insanity this morning it had actually slipped my mind that Steve Madden Shoes was going public today. In fact, before the day was out I’d be ringing the register to the tune of twenty million bucks. Not too shabby! And Steve had to stand up in front of the boardroom and give a little speech, a so-called dog-and-pony show. Now, that would be interesting! I wasn’t sure if Steve was the sort who could look into the wild eyes of all those crazy young Strattonites and not completely choke.

Still, dog-and-pony shows were a Wall Street tradition: Just before a new issue came to market, the CEO would stand before a friendly crowd of stockbrokers and give a canned speech, focusing on how glorious his company’s future was. It was a friendly sort of encounter with a lot of mutual back-scratching and phony palm-pressing.

And then there was Stratton, where things got pretty ugly sometimes. The problem was that the Strattonites weren’t the least bit interested; they just wanted to sell the stock and make money. So if the guest speaker didn’t captivate them from the moment he began speaking, the Strattonites would quickly grow bored. Then they would start booing and catcalling—and then spewing out profanities. Eventually, they would throw things at the speaker, starting with balled-up paper and then quickly moving to food products like rotten tomatoes, half-eaten chicken legs, and half-consumed apples.

I couldn’t let such a terrible fate befall Steve Madden. First and foremost, he was a childhood friend of Danny Porush, my second-in-command. And, second, I personally owned more than half of Steve’s company, so I was basically taking my own deal public. I had given Steve $500,000 in start-up capital about sixteen months ago, which made me the company’s single largest shareholder, with an eighty-five percent stake. A few months later I sold off thirty-five percent of my stock for a little over $500,000, recouping my original investment. Now I owned fifty percent for free! Talk about your good deals!

In point of fact, it was this very process of buying stakes in private companies and then reselling a portion of my original investment (and recouping my money) that had turned Stratton into even more of a printing press than it already was. And, as I used the power of the boardroom to take my own companies public, my net worth soared and soared. On Wall Street this process was called “merchant banking,” but to me it was like hitting the lotto every four weeks.

I said to Janet, “He should do fine, but if he doesn’t, I’ll go up there and bail him out. Anyway, what else is going on?”

With a shrug: “Your father’s looking for you, and he seems pissed.”

“Eh, shit!” I muttered. My father, Max, was Stratton’s de facto Chief Financial Officer and also the self-appointed Chief of the Gestapo. He was so tightly wound that at nine a.m. he was walking around the boardroom with a Styrofoam cup filled with Stolichnaya vodka, smoking his twentieth cigarette. In the trunk of his car he kept a forty-two-ounce Louisville Slugger, autographed by Mickey Mantle, so he could smash the “fucking windows” of any stockbroker who was insane enough to park in his glorious parking spot. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nope!” said my loyal assistant. “I asked him, and he growled at me, like a dog. He’s definitely pissed about something, and if I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s the November American Express bill.”

I grimaced. “You think?” All at once the number half a million came bubbling up, uninvited, into my own brain.

Janet nodded her head. “He was holding the bill in his hand and it was about yea thick.” The gap between her thumb and forefinger was a good three inches.

“Hmmmmm…” I took a moment to ponder the American Express bill, but something caught my eye from way out in the distance. It was floating…floating…what in the hell was it? I squinted. Jesus Christ—someone had brought a red, white, and blue plastic beach ball into the office! It was as if the corporate headquarters of Stratton Oakmont were a stadium, the floor of the boardroom was the orchestra section, and the Rolling Stones were about to give a concert.

“…of all this he’s cleaning his fucking fishbowl!” said Janet. “It’s hard to believe!”

I’d only caught the tail end of what Janet was saying, so I mumbled, “Yeah, well, I know whatya mean—”

“You didn’t hear a word I said,” she muttered, “so don’t pretend you did.”

Jesus! Who else besides my father would speak to me that way! Well, maybe my wife, but in her case I usually deserved it. Still, I loved Janet, in spite of her poisonous tongue. “Very funny. Now tell me what you said.”

“What I said is that I can’t believe that kid over there”—she pointed to a desk about twenty yards away—“what’s his name, Robert something or other, is cleaning his fishbowl in the middle of all this. I mean, it’s new-issue day! Don’t you think that’s kinda weird?”

I looked in the direction of the alleged perpetrator: a young Strattonite—no, definitely not a Strattonite—a young misfit, with a ferocious mop of curly brown hair and a bow tie. The mere fact that he had a fishbowl on his desk wasn’t all that surprising. Strattonites were allowed to have pets in the office. There were iguanas, ferrets, gerbils, parakeets, turtles, tarantulas, snakes, mongooses, and whatever else these young maniacs could procure with their inflated paychecks. In fact, there was even a macaw with a vocabulary of over fifty English words, who would tell you to go fuck yourself when he wasn’t busy mimicking the young Strattonites pitching stock. The only time I’d put my foot down with the whole pet thing was when a young Strattonite had brought in a chimpanzee wearing roller skates and a diaper.

“Go get Danny,” I snapped. “I want him to get a load of this fucking kid.”

Janet nodded and went to fetch Danny, while I stood there in utter shock. How could this bow-tied dweeb commit an act so…fucking heinous? An act that went against the grain of everything the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont stood for! It was sacrilege! Not against God, of course, but against the Life! It was a breach of the Stratton code of ethics of the most egregious sort. And the punishment was…what was the punishment? Well, I would leave that up to Danny Porush, my junior partner, who had a terrific knack for disciplining wayward Strattonites. In fact, he relished it.

Just then I saw Danny walking toward me, with Janet trailing two steps behind. Danny looked pissed, which is to say the bow-tied broker was in deep shit. As he drew nearer, I took a moment to regard him, and I couldn’t help but snicker at how normal he actually looked. It was really quite ironic. In fact, dressed the way he was, in a gray pin-striped suit, crisp white dress shirt, and red silk necktie, you would have never guessed that he was closing in on his publicly stated goal of banging every last sales assistant in the boardroom.

Danny Porush was a Jew of the ultrasavage variety. He was of average height and weight, about five-nine, one-seventy, and he had absolutely no defining features that would peg him out to be a member of the Tribe. Even those steel-blue eyes of his, which generated about as much warmth as an iceberg, hadn’t the slightest bit of Yid in them.

And that was appropriate, at least from Danny’s perspective. After all, like many a Jew before him, Danny burned with the secret desire to be mistaken for a WASP and did everything possible to cloak himself in complete and utter WASPiness—starting with those incredibly boiling teeth of his, which had been bleached and bonded until they were so big and white they looked almost radioactive, to those brown tortoiseshell glasses with their clear lenses (Danny had twenty-twenty vision), and all the way down to those black leather shoes with their custom-fitted insteps and fancy toe caps, the latter of which had been polished into mirrors.

And what a grim joke that was—considering by the ripe age of thirty-four, Danny had given new meaning to the term abnormal psychology. Perhaps I should have suspected as much six years ago, when I’d first met him. It was before I’d started Stratton, and Danny was working for me as a stockbroker trainee. It was sometime in the spring, and I had asked him to take a quick ride with me into Manhattan, to see my accountant. Once there, he convinced me to make a quick stop at a Harlem crack den, where he told me his life’s story—explaining how his last two businesses, a messenger service and an ambulette service, had been sucked up his nose. He further explained how he’d married his own first cousin, Nancy, because she was a real piece of ass. When I asked him if he was concerned about inbreeding, he casually replied that if they had a child who ended up being a retard he would simply leave it on the institution steps, and that would be that.

Perhaps I should have run the other way right then and there, realizing that a guy like this might bring out the worst in me. Instead, I made Danny a personal loan to help him get back on his feet, and then I trained him to become a stockbroker. A year later I started Stratton and let Danny slowly buy in and become a partner. Over the last five years Danny had proven himself to be a mighty warrior—squeezing out anyone in his way and securing his position as Stratton’s number two. And in spite of it all, in spite of his very insanity, there was no denying that he was smart as a whip, cunning as a fox, ruthless as a Hun, and, above all else, loyal as a dog. Nowadays, in fact, I counted on him to do almost all my dirty work, a job he relished more than you can imagine.

Danny greeted me Mafia style, with a warm hug and a kiss on either cheek. It was a sign of loyalty and respect, and in the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont it was a greatly appreciated gesture. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I saw Janet, the cynic, rolling her eyes in the oh-brother mode, as if to mock Danny’s display of loyalty and affection.

Danny released me from his Mafia embrace and muttered, “I’m gonna kill that fucking kid. I swear to God!”

“It’s a bad showing, Danny, especially today.” I shrugged. “I think you should tell him that if his fishbowl ain’t out of here by the end of the day, then the fishbowl is staying and he’s leaving. But it’s your call; do what you want.”

Janet the instigator: “Oh, my God! He’s wearing a bow tie! Can you imagine?”

“That rat fucking bastard!” said Danny, in a tone used to describe someone who’d just raped a nun and left her for dead. “I’m gonna take care of this kid once and for all, in my own way!” With a huff and a puff, Danny marched over to the broker’s desk and began exchanging words with him.

After a few seconds the broker started shaking his head no. Then more words were exchanged, and the broker began shaking his head no again. Now Danny began shaking his own head, the way a person does when they’re running out of patience.

Janet, with a pearl of wisdom: “I wonder what they’re saying? I wish I had bionic ears like the Six Million Dollar Woman. You know what I mean?”

I shook my head in disgust. “I won’t even dignify that with a response, Janet. But just for your information, there was no Six Million Dollar Woman. It was the Bionic Woman.”

Just then, Danny extended his palm toward the broker’s left hand, which held a fishnet, and began waving his fingers inward, as if to say, “Hand over the fucking net!” The broker responded by dropping his arm to the side—keeping the net out of Danny’s reach.

“What do you think he’s gonna do with the net?” asked the aspiring Bionic Woman.

I ran the possibilities through my mind. “I’m not really sure—Oh, shit, I know exactly what…”

All at once, faster than would seem possible, Danny ripped off his suit jacket, threw it on the floor, unbuttoned his shirtsleeve, pushed it up past his elbow, and plunged his hand into the fishbowl. His entire forearm was submerged. Then he began thrashing his arm in all directions, trying to catch an unsuspecting orange goldfish in the palm of his hand. His face was set in stone, with the look of a man possessed by pure evil.

A dozen young sales assistants seated close to the action jumped out of their seats and recoiled in horror at the very sight of Danny trying to capture the innocent goldfish.

“Oh…my…God,” said Janet. “He’s gonna kill it.”

Just then Danny’s eyes popped wide open and his jaw dropped down a good three inches. It was a face that so much as said, “Gotcha!” A split second later he yanked his arm out of the fishbowl, with the orange goldfish firmly in his grasp.

“He’s got it!” cried Janet, putting her fist to her mouth.

“Yeah, but the million-dollar question is, what’s he gonna do with it?” I paused for just an instant, then added, “But I’m willing to bet you a hundred to one on a thousand bucks that he eats it. Are we on?”

An instant reply: “A hundred to one? You’re on! He won’t do it! It’s too gross. I mean—”

Janet was cut off as Danny climbed on top of a desk and extended his arms out, as if he were Jesus Christ on the cross. He screamed, “This is what happens when you fuck with your pets on new-issue day!” As an afterthought, he added, “And no fucking bow ties in the boardroom! It’s fucking…ridiculous!”

Janet the welcher: “I want to cancel my bet right now!”

“Sorry, too late!”

“Come on! It’s not fair!”

“Neither is life, Janet.” I shrugged innocently. “You should know that.” And just like that, Danny opened up his mouth and dropped the orange goldfish down his gullet.

A hundred sales assistants let out a collective gasp, while ten times as many brokers began cheering in admiration—paying homage to Danny Porush, executioner of innocent marine life. Never one to miss an opportunity to ham it up, Danny responded with a formal bow, as if he were on a Broadway stage. Then he jumped off the desk into the arms of his admirers.

I started snickering at Janet. “Well, don’t worry about paying me. I’ll just take it out of your paycheck.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” she hissed.

“Fine, you can owe me, then!” I smiled and winked. “Now go order the flowers and bring me some coffee. I gotta start this fucking day already.” With a bounce in my step and a smile on my face, I walked into my office and closed the door—ready to take on anything the world could toss at me.