It’s the quick swipe to grab some cash by million-dollar Ph.D.s who sold out to pick stocks like oracles in the dark.
It’s the little guys who churn books to make rent.
It’s the wide eyes of the ones who see it all through the smoke of a big gun barrel shoved at the market, or through the fuzz of Bloomberg’s hairy numbers and early editions of the blood-shot morning news.
It’s the edgy souls, who take the tick for granted and sell short, who wait impatiently for a spin on the index, and make wealth a bad investment of sorts.
It’s the trigger-happy Day Traders, who make runs, flipping IPO’s, but tend to trip when the alphas hit the floor.
It’s the technicians, who pivot and tilt and balance, like spiders in the data, and find signals in an avalanche of math, just to beat The Street by a basis point.
It’s the strategist, who brings flame to the sons of money, while the fed picks fat from a pile of bones and tracks a bear through the market forest.
It’s the insiders, who gorge themselves on free lunches and know what a tip is worth.
It’s the sharks, who count on tributaries of interest to keep their water deep, who float in assets, but can never stop swimming to relax.
And it’s the piggy banks, flush and fat cheeked, who know when the yields are burning and the short squeeze is on, and let it all fly on the SWIFT, before the closing bell takes its toll.