Wall Street Babylon

Wall Street Employees, PR Machines Spout Differing Messages On Occupy

A lot of the people who work in finance aren’t responsible for anything these people are talking about and come from humble roots.

What a crock of shit.

They may be from “humble roots” (cheap Long Islanders with no books, no depth, and little education) but they were — and still are — the foot soldiers who brought us this mess.

What to know the truth? Go read The Wolf Of Wall Street.

No, I’m not providing any eBook link. Don’t give that fuck Belfort any of your money. Borrow it from the library or steal it from some bookshelf of a banker!

It’s just one of many books like it that shows what depraved shits we allowed to ruin the worldwide economy.

Here are some quotes from it:

You look like a kid, and Wall Street’s no place for kids. It’s a place for killers.


People don’t buy stock; it gets sold to them. Don’t ever forget that.


By ten o’clock, Mark Hanna had made three trips to the support column, and he was about to make another. He was so smooth on the phone that it literally boggled my mind. It was as if he were apologizing to his clients as he ripped their eyeballs out.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


It’s a fucked-up racket, being a stockbroker. I mean, don’t get me wrong: The money’s great and everything, but you’re not creating anything, you’re not building anything. So after a while it gets kinda monotonous. The truth is we’re nothing more than sleazoid salesmen. None of us has any idea what stocks are going up! We’re all just throwing darts at a board and, you know, churning and burning.


After all, it was the nature of twentieth-century capitalism that everyone should scam everyone, and he who scammed the most ultimately won the game. On that basis, I was the undefeated world champ.


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?

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


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.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


But the way we were using nominees — to secretly buy large blocks of Stratton new issues — violated so many securities laws that the SEC was trying to invent new ones to stop us. The problem was that the laws currently on the books had more holes than Swiss cheese. Of course, we weren’t the only ones on Wall Street taking advantage of this; in fact, everyone was. It was just that we were doing it with a bit more panache — and brazenness.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


As Steve Madden’s dominant market maker, virtually all the buying and selling would occur within the four walls of Stratton’s boardroom — which would afford me the opportunity to move the stock up and down as I saw fit. So if Steve didn’t play ball, I could literally crush the price of his stock until it was trading in pennies.

It was this very ax, in fact, that hung over the heads of all Stratton Oakmont’s investment-banking clients. And I used it to ensure that they stayed loyal to the Stratton cause, which was: to issue me new shares, below the prevailing market price, which I could then sell at an enormous profit, using the power of the boardroom.

Of course, I wasn’t the one who’d thought up this clever game of financial extortion. In fact, this very process was occurring at the most prestigious firms on Wall Street—firms like Merrill Lynch and Morgan Stanley and Dean Witter and Salomon Brothers and dozens of others — none of whom had the slightest compunction about beating a billion-dollar company over the head if they chose not to play ball with them.

It was ironic, I thought, how America’s finest and supposedly most legitimate financial institutions had rigged the treasury market (Salomon Brothers); bankrupted Orange County, California (Merrill Lynch); and ripped off grandmas and grandpas to the tune of $300 million (Prudential-Bache). Yet they were all still in business — still thriving, in fact, under the protection of a WASPy umbrella.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


… while the average Strattonite had no education whatsoever and was about as smart as a box of rocks.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


Yet, on the other hand, we might just be depraved maniacs — a self-contained society that had spiraled completely out of control. We Strattonites thrived on acts of depravity. We counted on them, in fact; I mean, we needed them to survive!

It was for this very reason that, after becoming completely desensitized to basic acts of depravity, the powers that be (namely, me) felt compelled to form an unofficial team of Strattonites — with Danny Porush as its proud leader — to fill the void. The team acted like a twisted version of the Knights Templar — whose never-ending quest to find the Holy Grail was the stuff of legend. But unlike the Knights Templar, the Stratton knights spent their time scouring the four corners of the earth for increasingly depraved acts, so the rest of the Strattonites could continue to get off. It wasn’t like we were heroin junkies or anything as tawdry as that; we were unadulterated adrenaline junkies, who needed higher and higher cliffs to dive off and shallower and shallower pools to land in.

The process had officially gotten under way in October 1989, when twenty-one-year-old Peter Galletta, one of the initial eight Strattonites, christened the building’s glass elevator with a quick blow job and an even quicker rear entry into the luscious loins of a seventeen-year-old sales assistant. She was Stratton’s first sales assistant, and, for better or worse, she was blond, beautiful, and wildly promiscuous.

At first I was shocked and had even considered firing Peter, for dipping his pen into the company inkwell. But within a week the young girl had proven to be a real team player — blowing all eight Strattonites, most of them in the glass elevator, and me under my desk. And she had a strange way of doing it, which became legendary among Strattonites. We called it the twist and jerk — where she’d use both hands at once, while she transformed her tongue into a whirling dervish. Anyway, about a month later, after a tiny bit of urging, Danny convinced me that it would be good if we both did her at the same time, which we did, on a Saturday afternoon while our wives were out shopping for Christmas dresses. Ironically, three years later, after bedding God only knew how many Strattonites, she finally married one. He was one of the original eight Strattonites and had seen her ply her trade countless times. But he didn’t care. Perhaps it was the twist and jerk that had got him! Whatever the case, he’d been only sixteen when he first came to work for me. He dropped out of high school to become a Strattonite — to live the Life. But after a short marriage, he became depressed and committed suicide. It would be Stratton’s first but not last suicide.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.


We brought a half dozen NYPD cops along for the ride, the very cops I had been paying off with Stratton new issues. And once there, the NYPD cops quickly hooked up with local Vegas cops, so we hired a few of them too.

Boldfaced emphasis added by me.

Drugs, breaking the law, suicides, paid-off cops.

All for money.

And not honest money. No, that’s for suckers — the kind of people whose money they took under the pretense of offering value.

And it’s the same damned thing to this day.

Facebook IPO? FaceBubble.

They’ll keep doing it until they’re stopped.

This is why Occupy Wall Street exists. And needs to exist.

So all you financiers who snort and spit on OWS? Hey, we know what kind of shits you are. The same kind from the last round.

You’re all a pack of sociopaths who’d kill all of us just so you can buy some slick car to shield your limp dick, some big-screen TV that you barely use — any otherwise meaningless trinket that your kind uses to signal to each other that you belong to the same club of crooks.

Shits: The Next Generation.

Do us all a favor: Rip your own eyes out and faces off.


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